When he yanked out the little orange bottle, he looked at me wide-eyed.
“What?” I asked—as if playing dumb might undo my mistake.
Mike crouched under the blinking red light to examine the label.
“Trileptal,” he read slowly. “Indications: nerve-damage relief and seizure prevention. Take one pill every six hours.” He squinted to read the fine print. “Seek medical attention upon missed dosage.”
“I thought they were fun pills,” I stammered. “I thought he’d never miss them.”
Mike glared at me as he stuffed the suit jacket into his backpack. Then he thrust the pill bottle into my sweaty, shaky palm.
In a voice lower than I’d ever heard him use, he said, “Lose these.”
CHAPTER Nine
THE FRUITLESS CROWN
“ N at, I swear, if you don’t stay still, I’ll never get this eyelash on, and then you’ll be all lopsided.”
How did I get here?
I was seated on a wicker pedestal facing the bulb-lit bridal vanity. The peach-toned ladies locker room of the Scot’s Glen Golf and Country Club was full of my ladies-in-waiting from school. Amy Jane hovered to my right, waiting to glue the last in a box of twenty individual fake eyelashes to the outer corners of my eye. Jenny stood over me, her seven-gauge ceramic curling iron poised in the air. Behind us, the gaggle of underclassmen handmaids slung over giant floor pillows, buffing their nails and begging me with their liquid-lined eyes to be given a job to do.
This was what I’d been waiting for. But . . .
It was Wednesday afternoon, just before the coronation ceremony for Palmetto Prince and Princess. By Tuesday morning, even before the vote, the whole school had known it was going to be a landslide, but since they’d left J.B.’s name on the ballot in memoriam, they waited until after the official day of mourning to announce our win. Even then, it wasn’t official until Principal Glass called us into his office yesterday to break the news with his killjoy bravado.
“Now just a quick acceptance speech from each of you tomorrow,” he said, his eyes looking past us like he was following a script. “Remember, the Ball is still ten days away, so kindly hold the party reins in until then. Tomorrow’s just a small, family-friendly affair.”
He cracked open a can of Coke and split it between three Styrofoam cups as if to drive home his crusade against substance abuse.
“To the Prince and Princess,” he said.
“Cheers,” I said, raising my cup and keeping my eyes on Principal Glass so I wouldn’t be able to tell if Mike’s hand shook.
“There,” Amy Jane now said, stepping back to view her masterpiece. She held a mirror up for me to see. “You’re fairer than a flower.”
“And deadlier than a snake.”
I spun around. The mirror tumbled out of my hand and shattered on the floor.
“Who said that?” I hissed.
For a moment, no one spoke. Then Darla Duke penitently got to her knees and clasped her hands.
“I didn’t I just,” she stammered. “It’s just something my grandmother used to say: ‘Look like a flower, act like a snake,’ or something. It’s supposed to be a good thing.”
The words tumbled from her mouth. Lies. Lies. Lies. Useless shrugs and lies.
“It means you know how to get what you want,” she kept blathering.
“Well, I don’t have to tell you what my grandmother told me about broken mirrors,” Jenny butted in crisply. “Someone clean this up.”
I looked at Darla, keeping my voice low so it would stay even. “Yes, we don’t want anyone getting hurt.”
While Darla and three other Bambies jumped up to scoop up the shards of glass, Kate stood up and leaned in to me. We hadn’t spoken since Monday when she clued me in about Baxter.
“You okay?” she asked. “You seem a little—”
“Just nervous,” I said. “About the acceptance speech.”
“Of course,” she nodded—even though Kate had seen me destroy last year’s finalists in Palmetto debate tournaments. Public speaking was
“What?” I asked—as if playing dumb might undo my mistake.
Mike crouched under the blinking red light to examine the label.
“Trileptal,” he read slowly. “Indications: nerve-damage relief and seizure prevention. Take one pill every six hours.” He squinted to read the fine print. “Seek medical attention upon missed dosage.”
“I thought they were fun pills,” I stammered. “I thought he’d never miss them.”
Mike glared at me as he stuffed the suit jacket into his backpack. Then he thrust the pill bottle into my sweaty, shaky palm.
In a voice lower than I’d ever heard him use, he said, “Lose these.”
CHAPTER Nine
THE FRUITLESS CROWN
“ N at, I swear, if you don’t stay still, I’ll never get this eyelash on, and then you’ll be all lopsided.”
How did I get here?
I was seated on a wicker pedestal facing the bulb-lit bridal vanity. The peach-toned ladies locker room of the Scot’s Glen Golf and Country Club was full of my ladies-in-waiting from school. Amy Jane hovered to my right, waiting to glue the last in a box of twenty individual fake eyelashes to the outer corners of my eye. Jenny stood over me, her seven-gauge ceramic curling iron poised in the air. Behind us, the gaggle of underclassmen handmaids slung over giant floor pillows, buffing their nails and begging me with their liquid-lined eyes to be given a job to do.
This was what I’d been waiting for. But . . .
It was Wednesday afternoon, just before the coronation ceremony for Palmetto Prince and Princess. By Tuesday morning, even before the vote, the whole school had known it was going to be a landslide, but since they’d left J.B.’s name on the ballot in memoriam, they waited until after the official day of mourning to announce our win. Even then, it wasn’t official until Principal Glass called us into his office yesterday to break the news with his killjoy bravado.
“Now just a quick acceptance speech from each of you tomorrow,” he said, his eyes looking past us like he was following a script. “Remember, the Ball is still ten days away, so kindly hold the party reins in until then. Tomorrow’s just a small, family-friendly affair.”
He cracked open a can of Coke and split it between three Styrofoam cups as if to drive home his crusade against substance abuse.
“To the Prince and Princess,” he said.
“Cheers,” I said, raising my cup and keeping my eyes on Principal Glass so I wouldn’t be able to tell if Mike’s hand shook.
“There,” Amy Jane now said, stepping back to view her masterpiece. She held a mirror up for me to see. “You’re fairer than a flower.”
“And deadlier than a snake.”
I spun around. The mirror tumbled out of my hand and shattered on the floor.
“Who said that?” I hissed.
For a moment, no one spoke. Then Darla Duke penitently got to her knees and clasped her hands.
“I didn’t I just,” she stammered. “It’s just something my grandmother used to say: ‘Look like a flower, act like a snake,’ or something. It’s supposed to be a good thing.”
The words tumbled from her mouth. Lies. Lies. Lies. Useless shrugs and lies.
“It means you know how to get what you want,” she kept blathering.
“Well, I don’t have to tell you what my grandmother told me about broken mirrors,” Jenny butted in crisply. “Someone clean this up.”
I looked at Darla, keeping my voice low so it would stay even. “Yes, we don’t want anyone getting hurt.”
While Darla and three other Bambies jumped up to scoop up the shards of glass, Kate stood up and leaned in to me. We hadn’t spoken since Monday when she clued me in about Baxter.
“You okay?” she asked. “You seem a little—”
“Just nervous,” I said. “About the acceptance speech.”
“Of course,” she nodded—even though Kate had seen me destroy last year’s finalists in Palmetto debate tournaments. Public speaking was
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