Pieces of Hate by Ray Garton

supposed to compliment me, not disgust me!”
    “I didn’t mean to. But I meant that you look like you should be on the big screen. I’m not kidding. You’re beautiful.”
    Margaret saw the tears glistening on Lynda’s cheeks as she stared up at Margaret with an expression of awe.
    “All those years I told you that you were fat . . . and ugly . . . all those years I made you feel so horrible about yourself. Who would’ve thought . . .”
    “Oh, come on, Lynda, don’t cry. Please.”
    Margaret went to her, leaned down to embrace her, but Lynda put her hands on Margaret’s shoulders and held her back.
    “Don’t mess yourself up,” Lynda whispered. “I’m fine. I’m just feeling . . . some much deserved . . . pain and regret. Stand up. Straight. Don’t you dare mess that dress. I’ll kill you if you do.”
    Margaret stood up straight, but reached down and placed a hand on her sister’s cheek, smiling.
    Lynda said in a breath, “I was never . . . ever . . . as beautiful as you are right now.”
    “That’s the highest compliment I could ever receive,” Margaret said. “’Cause you are one hell of a dish.”
    “You’re not wearing underwear, are you?”
    “What?” Margaret pulled her hand away and blushed. She wasn’t.
    Lynda grinned. “You’re not! But that’s good! No lines, nothing, just that wonderfully smooth and curving figure.”
    “Well, that’s why I’m not. I tried, but . . . it didn’t look right.”
    “Of course it didn’t. And you can get away with it. I’m telling you, Margaret . . . tonight, you are a sex goddess. Tonight, you’re going to get all the lusty attention and adoration that Marilyn Monroe got for years. So sit back and enjoy every second of it, will you? For me? Please?”
    Lynda reached out a hand and Margaret took it. Then Margaret reached down for the other hand, so that she was holding both of them.
    “If you want me to be a sex goddess,” Margaret said, “I will. I’ll even sign autographs if anyone asks.”
    They both laughed.
    Lynda stood and they embraced — “Careful, careful,” Lynda said, “we don’t want to muss you.” — for a long moment, Margaret rubbing her hands slowly over Lynda’s back.
    “I’ll come back here afterward,” Margaret said when they separated.
    “Visiting hours end at eight o’clock,” Lynda said. “If anyone tries to stop you, feel free to beat the living shit out of them.”
    “I promise.” Margaret said, laughing . . .
     
    20
     
    The reunion was being held at the Royal House Hotel. It was the closest Harlie could come to posh. That was not to say it was not a very nice place. In fact, it seemed that the hotel was so conscious of being in a small town that it almost went overboard in trying to make up for it.
    A uniformed doorman greeted Margaret and held the door open for her, nodding with a smile as she went inside.
    In the lobby, to the right of the entrance, a long table had been set up with two nicely-dressed women sitting behind it. Margaret almost walked by it, until she saw the sign identifying it as REGISTRATION. Then she saw the nametag worn by one of the women behind the table.
    HI! I’M AMELIA, the tag read. Amelia Turner, formerly half of The Couple at school, the much-lusted after girl who had taken every opportunity to publicly humiliate Margaret with the help of her quarterback boyfriend, Daryl Cotch. She wasn’t immediately recognizable, though. There was more of her than there used to be. She wasn’t fat, but she had thickened to the point of shapelessness. She looked sturdy, hard . . . but like a tree trunk rather than an athlete. Large glasses rested on her nose. She wore a blue paisley outfit and her blond hair was short and wavy above her thick neck.
    The woman beside her didn’t look at all familiar and wasn’t wearing a nametag.
    Margaret approached the table, smiling.
    “I’d like to register for the reunion,” she said.
    Amelia looked up at her pleasantly and slid a nametag