Page 52 of Fundamentals of Being a Good Girl
“Good,” she says. “People get real boners for conviction.”
“What about you?” I ask. “What are your convictions? I’m guessing your job isn’t rooted in loyalty.”
She laughs again. “I am convicted by money.” She wiggles her fingers. “Dirty fingers come with a high price tag. Even if they’re just a little bit dirty, dirt is dirt.”
THAT AFTERNOON,I pick up the twins and take them to their first gymnastics class. They’d begged Bram to sign them up after falling down a gymnastics rabbit hole on YouTube and we both had high hopes that it would serve to tire them out.
I sit on the bleachers and take a few videos to send to Bram while I replay my chat with Veronica Balentine. I know that I shouldn’t—Veronica practically advertised her red flags, after all, and I know she seems to live in the same universe as Penelope Pike—but I like her.
Being with Gentry and working with Penelope felt like I was being handled with kid gloves. They were constantly searching for gentle ways to say very harsh things. Even though I didn’t want to hear most of what was said to me, my stomach curdled at the way I was treated like I was fragile and that any word might be the one to break me.
But in my short time with Veronica, she spoke to me like an adult who could grasp the nuances of being both widely palatable and full of enough substance to actually stand for something.
When the twins and I get back home, there is a very nice red sports car in the driveway.
“Auntie Sloane!” Letty yells as they both barrel out of the back seat.
I follow them through the front door, and sitting there perched on the arm of the couch is a woman so stunning I have to stop myself from drooling over what a total mommy she is.
Fern is laying with her head resting against the woman’s thigh like a pillow while the woman smooths her dark hair.
“You must be Maddie,” the woman says as she gently lifts Fern’s head and stands to greet me.
She wears tailored trousers that nip in at the waist and hug the wide curve of her hips and a sleeveless mock turtleneck with no bra, showing off her perfectly sloped shoulders and the subtle tease of nipples under the fabric. She looks like old money and sex—the kind you have to beg for.
“And I’m guessing you’re Sloane.”
She nods as she returns to the arm of the sofa and continues to play with Fern’s hair. “I was just telling Fern here that it might be time for a makeover befitting a student body president.”
The twins’ feet pound overhead along with the sounds of Hester Prynne’s nails scraping against the floor after them.
I empty the contents of my pockets onto the coffee table. My keys, my phone, and Veronica’s card.
Sloane’s cool gaze sweeps over the card as I sit down. “Have you heard of her?” I ask. “Veronica Balentine?”
All she gives me is a noncommittalmmm.
“A makeover?” I ask Fern. “I can’t think of a better way to throw Simon off his game.”
She nods, her gaze falling past my shoulders as she concentrates on some hypothetical version of herself. “I need something that says powerful but not intimidating. At least that’s what Jules thinks.”
“I like where Jules’s head is at.” I run my fingers through my hair, remembering what Veronica said about my atrocious roots. “Honestly, I’ve got to do something with my hair too.”
Fern shoots up and bounces. “Oh my god, Maddie, you have to come with us. She can, right, Aunt Sloane?”
Sloane tilts her head toward me. “My hair guy doesn’t take new clients, but luckily I only trade in favors, so I think we can get Maddie in right after you, Fern.”
“Oh, that would be great.” Except that if Sloane’s hair guy is anything like I’m expecting, I definitely can’t afford him. But I don’t want to say no and reject her goodwill.
Besides, if I can’t take care of my hair, what does that say about my ability to take care of constituents?
If constituents were even a thing I was going to have...
But I can’t ignore how positively alive I feel at the prospect of this challenge. Right now, I am hungry in a way I haven’t been for years. It’s the kind of hunger that Gentry never left any room for. But without him or Penelope here to tell me I should shrink myself to fit the needs of his campaign, I let myself wonder: Someone’s got to run. Why the hell shouldn’t it be me?
Chapter Eighteen
Bram
