Page 170 of Wild Card 13

LUCY

THEN

By the time Naomi had burned herself with the curling iron for the third time, we had reached the portion of prom preparation where survival became more important than beauty.

“I’m fine,” she insisted, holding two fingers beneath the bathroom faucet while heat shimmered from the iron on my vanity like it had committed a felony and felt no remorse.

“You cried out ‘ow’ in three syllables.”

“That was for dramatic effect.”

“You threatened to throw the curling iron out my bedroom window.”

Naomi glanced at the open door behind us, then lowered her voice. “Because it knows what it did.”

I laughed, and for one small, sparkling second, everything felt normal.

My bedroom had been turned into the kind of disaster that would have made my mother pause in the doorway with one hand pressed to her chest and a quiet, helpless laugh slipping out before she tried to organize us. Makeup compacts sat open across my dresser. Bobby pins had scattered over the carpet like tiny metal insects.

Naomi’s pink floral dress hung from the back of my closet door, bright and cheerful and aggressively optimistic.

My own dress floated over the armchair in a spill of green chiffon, the bodice embroidered with pale lace and beadwork that caught the afternoon light whenever the ceiling fan shifted the air.

It was the prettiest thing I had ever owned. I had tried very hard not to feel guilty about that.

Dad had taken me dress shopping three weeks ago after my mother said she was too busy settling into the apartment to come with us. He had stood awkwardly outside the dressing room with his hands in the pockets of his wool coat while a saleswoman brought me gowns in colors I would never wear. Red. Silver. Pale blue. One alarming bright yellow gown that made Naomi whisper that I looked like a decorative lemon.

Then I had stepped out in the green one.

Dad had stopped breathing for half a second. “That one,” he had said quietly.

I had looked at myself in the mirror, at the soft skirt falling around my legs, at the sweetheart neckline and the delicate embroidered pattern across the bodice, and I had thought, absurdly, that my mother would have loved it.

Then I had hated myself a little for thinking it.

Now the dress waited for me in the corner of my room like proof that beautiful things could still happen inside a house that felt half-empty.

From downstairs, a cabinet closed too loudly.

Naomi’s eyes flicked toward the sound. “How’s your dad?” she asked.

“Probably pretending he isn’t emotional.”

“Arlo?”

“Probably pretending he isn’t completely wrecked.”

“Balanced household.”

“We do our best.”

She turned off the faucet and inspected her fingers. “No permanent damage. I remain available to fulfill my role as the devastatingly beautiful best friend.”

“That’s very brave of you.”

“I know. People don’t understand the burden.”

I smiled as she crossed back into my room and dropped onto the edge of my bed. She already had most of her makeup done, softpink gloss and shimmering eyeshadow that made her hazel-green eyes look brighter than usual. Her hair was half pinned up, loose pieces escaping around her face no matter how many clips she attacked them with. The pink dress behind her suited her completely. Shorter than mine. Sweet and bold at the same time, with white flowers scattered across the skirt and bodice like spring had gotten carried away.