Page 16 of Bitter’s Sweet

“Noted.”

A few women look up from a workstation where they are practicing finger waves on mannequin heads. One has purple hair, one has a shaved side and big gold hoops, and one is tiny, blond, and pregnant enough that her belly almost touches the edge of the counter.

“New girl?” the purple-haired one asks.

“Fresh meat,” Miss Mercy says.

I wave. “Hi.”

The pregnant one smiles. “She waves. That’s adorable.”

“I’m standing right here,” I say, still smiling.

“Standing right there and still adorable,” she answers.

Miss Mercy points at them one by one. “That’s Lark, Junie, and Petal. Students, part-time chaos, full-time gossip. Don’t believe anything they tell you unless I confirm it, and don’t let Lark mix whiskey into her coffee and start telling embalming room stories before ten in the morning.”

Lark salutes with a teasing grin. “Only happened twice.”

“It happened once with an inspector in the building.”

“He needed to know the truth about toe tags.”

“He fainted.”

“He was weak.”

I bite the inside of my cheek so I don’t laugh too loud in a school attached to an active funeral.

Miss Mercy sees me fighting it and looks pleased despite herself. “Come on, sugar. I’ll show you the rest.”

“Should I give you my paperwork?” I ask.

“You can give it to Plague after lunch.”

“Plague?”

“Our secretary.”

I wait for her to smile like she is kidding.

She doesn’t.

“All right,” I say. “Plague after lunch.”

“That brings me to lesson one.” Miss Mercy leads me past a supply room and lowers her voice. “Around bikers, it’s best not to use your government name until you know who is asking and why.”

I blink. “My government name?”

“The one on your birth certificate. The one bill collectors, cops, exes, and nosy men can use to find you.” She taps my folded acceptance letter peeking out of my purse. “You got a name on paper. You got another one for here.”

“I don’t have another one.”

“Sure you do. Everybody does. You just haven’t been handed it yet.”

“That sounds ominous.”

“It’s practical.” She looks me over again, slow and assessing. “You walked into a funeral with a dead biker on a Harley and smiled like somebody showed you Christmas lights.”