I should’ve known it was going to be really bad when Sloane called up for booze.
A new hot Irishman arrived with a pitcher of skinny margaritas sweetened with monk fruit and infused with the juice of limes and jalapeños grown from the garden outside. The glasses were rimmed with a fine dusting of pink Himalayan sea salt and garnished with a spiral curl of lime peel so long and perfectly formed, it must’ve taken extreme concentration and probably like ten tries to get it right.
Because yeah, that’s totally something one does.
The hot Irishman also brought warm tortilla chips and a delicious pineapple-mango salsa he said he made himself.
I was highly dubious of the claim and told him so. Imagine my surprise when he whipped out his cell phone and showed me a video as proof.
“Where do you find these guys?” I asked Sloane when he left.
She waved me off like I was being silly. “It’s a gift. Now go sit in the chair I put in front of the sink in the bathroom and be quiet. I’ll need to concentrate while I work.”
Red flag number two: she needed to “concentrate.” The last time that happened, a hole was ripped in the space-time continuum that still hasn’t been repaired.
But I was starving, and the salsa was delicious, so I was an obedient subject and allowed her to paint some kind of foul-smelling goop onto my head that I wrongly assumed was deep conditioner. I sat as docile as a lamb as she washed, cut, and styled my hair, urging me to drink another of the tasty margaritas every so often.
When she finally spun me around in the chair to face the mirror, I saw why she was trying to get me drunk.
I cried in horror, “What the fuck have you done?”
She actually had the nerve to say smugly, “Saved you from that tragedy you called a hairstyle. You’re welcome.”
Then she sauntered out of the bathroom, leaving me to have my mental breakdown all by myself.
“I am not wearing that.”
“Just put it on. You’ll thank me later.”
I stare indignantly at the tiny scrap of fabric Sloane is trying to pass off as the dress I should wear out to dinner. I’ve blown my nose into tissues with more substance than that.
“I’ll thank you to stop trying to make me look like a sex worker. You’ve already done enough damage with the platinum catastrophe on top of my head.”
“Are you kidding? Your hair is amazing!”
I say acidly, “Yes, if it’s three o’clock in the morning, and I’m working in a Reno cabaret as a Marilyn Monroe impersonator old enough to have gone on tour with Frank Sinatra, and everyone in the audience is sight impaired or drunk, it’s amazing. But in this dimension of reality, it’s not.”
Ignoring me, she turns to rummage deeper into the vault she calls a closet. “Do you still wear a size six shoe?”
I roll my eyes to the ceiling. “No. I wear a twelve now. I have this weird disease that causes massive foot growth.”
Ignoring my sarcasm, she says, “Good. These will go perfectly with the dress.”
She turns and tosses a pair of high heels at me. I refuse to catch them, so they bounce off my stomach and land onto the carpet near my feet. Next, she throws the dress. It lands on top of my head and hangs down in front of my face like a veil.
A miniscule, see-through veil with abdominal cutouts.
Sloane breezes past me out of the closet. “When you’re dressed, I’ll do your makeup.”
Seething, I yank the dress off my head and stare at it. I could literally fold it up and put it into the pocket of my sweats.
Honestly, how does she expect me to wear this thing? I might as well just put on a thong and some pasties and call it a day!
Sloane calls from the other room, “Hurry up, Smalls, I’m hungry!”
I mutter, “Oh, now it’s an emergency because she’s hungry. The queen is hungry, y’all! Everybody giddyap!”
“I can hear you in there.”
I holler over my shoulder, “How do you even fit into this thing? You couldn’t get one of your boobs into it, much less that booty!”
“There’s this interesting material called spandex. It’s highly stretchable. You would’ve heard of it before if you hadn’t been busy hoarding all that cotton fleece. Now get dressed, or I’ll lock you in that closet without dinner.”
I close my eyes and heave a sigh. Should’ve brought less candy and more drugs.
I spend five minutes wrestling with the stretchy nightmare of a dress, until finally it’s on. Barely covering my cooch, but on. Then I shove my feet into the stripper heels and wobble out of the closet.
When Sloane turns to look at me, I throw my arms in the air. “Here. Happy now? I’m Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman, only with a sluttier wardrobe and no happy ending.”
Sloane stares at me silently, her eyes wide.
I’d rip off the stupid dress, but I think I’ll need scissors to get out of it.
“Say something nice to me, Hollywood, or I swear to god, I’ll cut you.”
She says softly, “You look beautiful.”
“Oh, ho! Good one. Go big or go home, right?”
“No, I mean it. You look beautiful.”
I exhale hard in disgust. “Of course I do. I’m just a beautiful prostitute on her way out for an evening of romantic encounters in alleyways to earn fistfuls of sweaty dollar bills. Let’s get this over with and go eat. My blood sugar is dangerously low right now.” I glare at her. “I’m liable to stab the nearest person.”
She says hopefully, “Did you bring contact lenses with you?”
“The glasses stay on.”
She’s crestfallen, but quickly recovers. “Okay, but let me just…a little swipe of lipstick and mascara…”
I’m too starving to have another argument, so I relent. “You have exactly sixty seconds. And none of that goopy foundation shit!”
Sloane runs gleefully back into the bathroom, emerging in a flash with one purple tube and one silver tube in her hand. She works quickly, one small mercy, then hops up and down in front of me, clapping in delight.
I say flatly, “Sister, you have totally lost your mind.”
“So will every man who sets eyes on you tonight.”
“I’ll bet you a hundred bucks not even one man will look twice. Unless he’s in the market for a sad and degrading sexual experience with a paid stranger, but that doesn’t count.”
Sloane tilts her head and smiles. “I’d take that bet, but I doubt you could come up with the cash.”
“Fine. I’ll bet you two boxes of Twizzlers and a watermelon Sour Patch. But when I win, you owe me…”
I look around the room for inspiration, then point to a round side table that’s covered in expensive-looking baubles. “That cute little box with the peacock on top.”
“That’s a Swiss silver fusée singing bird box circa 1860. It’s worth more than eighty thousand dollars.”
I smile. “What’re you, chicken?”
She sticks out her hand. We shake on it.
Then I march purposefully behind her as we head out of the room.
Halfway down the hallway, she has to grab my arm so I don’t fall.
“When was the last time you wore heels?” she asks, steadying me.
“College graduation.”
“I’m shocked you didn’t fall flat onto your face on the stage when you went to accept your diploma.”
“Who says I didn’t?”
“God, you’re hopeless.”
“Please be quiet. My inner demons are demanding that I kill you, and I want to hear what they have to say.”
“Okay, but before I’m quiet, I just have to add this one thing.”
“Of course you do.”
“Thank you.”
She sounds so sincere, I have to shoot her a suspicious sideways glance so I can see what her face is doing. Surprisingly, she looks sincere, too.
“What’re you thanking me for?”
“I know you’re only doing this for me.” She looks at my lady-of-the-evening costume. “You could’ve refused and put on more of your hideous gray athletic wear, but you didn’t. So thank you.”
Grr. She’s being nice. I have no defense against my sister when she’s nice.
It’s like if Dracula took a moment before he ripped open your throat with his fangs and sucked out all your blood to say a few polite words about your lovely taste in interior design.
It’s disorienting.
We’re rounding the corner of the hallway and headed to the foyer when Sloane spots Spider, crossing the vast acreage of echoing marble she calls the “sitting room.” It’s so big, the weddings of future heirs to the throne of the House of Windsor could easily be held there in case Westminster Abbey burns down.
“Spider!” she calls. “Would you come here for a moment, please?”
He’s holding a can of soda in his hand. In the middle of taking a swig, he turns his head and glances in our direction.
He looks at me.
Liquid sprays abruptly from his mouth in a huge geyser, as if he’s just been punched hard in the gut. He stares at me, frozen and gaping, soda dripping from his chin.
Sloane stops and turns to me, smug. “You owe me two boxes of Twizzlers.”
Cheeks burning, I mutter, “Give me a break. That wasn’t a positive reaction. The poor man got such a fright, he nearly choked to death.”
“What you don’t know about men could fill all thirty-two volumes of the Encyclopedia Britannica.”
“They have that online now, Grandma.”
“Theory’s the same. You know jack shit about men. Let’s go eat.”
“Can you give me a sec? I need a moment alone to mentally prepare myself for my forthcoming public humiliation.”
Without waiting for her permission, I stalk off in the other direction, toward a set of open glass doors that lead to an outdoor patio.
I keep my gaze averted from Spider, who’s still standing right where he was when I turned him into a pillar of stone in a tight black suit, and walk outside into the balmy evening air, vowing to myself that I won’t let Sloane see me cry.
I’ve cried because of that heartless wench too many damn times in my life already.
