She puts my foot back down, and I draw in a breath, standing up and heading back to the riser again. The dress rubs against the sensitive skin of my legs, now bare, and it’s as if every inch of my body is alive and aware of itself.

Almost like I’m naked in my bed, only feeling the sheets.

Holding up my skirt, I look in the mirror, the gold heels with the thin, jeweled straps making my skin glow, and I fight not to smile, because they feel and look worlds better than the other shoes.

However…

“They don’t go with the dress,” I tell her.

But I’m hardly surprised she’s so bad at this, given the shit she wears.

I reach around my back, trying to untie the corset.

“You’re right,” she says. “You need a new dress now.”

I almost snort. Well, we agree on that.

Unable to reach the laces, because the corset is too tight for me to move, I twist around, planting my hands on my hips.

“Unlace it.”

She steps up, pulling the bow and loosening the corset, so I can push it down and off my body.

“Tell Lavinia to call me when the alterations are done,” I instruct, “and tell her to take it down a size.”

“It fits you perfectly.”

“To a four, please,” I snip as I pick the dress up off the floor. “And remove this flower.” I grab the one at the center of the bodice. “Are we repurposing wedding dresses from 1982 or something?”

But she’s not paying attention. She stands back and stares at me, and when she turns and checks my reflection in the mirror, I follow her gaze.

The simple hoop skirt wraps around me, thin and absent of bows and ruffles and lace, while the strapless white bustier hugs my breasts almost too tightly and covers my stomach, leaving an inch of skin between that and my skirt.

If it weren’t obvious that they were undergarments, they might be kind of hot.

“I could make it for you,” she says. “But better.”

She moves in, placing a hand on my tummy, and I ignore the skip in my heart.

“Maybe a little see-through here with some embroidery,” she explains, “piece them together, and add some layering to give it dimension. Tighten up the bodice with some light and subtle gold and pink accents to complement the shoes…”

I envision it in my head as we look at me in the mirror.

For some reason, I have no doubt she’ll pull it off if I let her, and I’d even love it.

If I let her.

She turns her eyes on me again, standing in front of me and looking up and down my attire. “We can keep it this same shade of white. It’s a perfect color, really.” She meets my eyes, looking at me dead-on. “You won’t even see the cum stain when he drunk-ejacs all over you in the back seat of the car after the ball,” she says.

The ever-present knot in my stomach pulls tighter, and I hold her gaze, unfaltering. Excuse me?

“Because ladies in your world don’t talk about those things.” A smile curls the corner of her mouth as she inches in, whispering, “You just go home in tears and do things with a pulsating showerhead that God didn’t intend for sweet, little southern girls to do, right?”

My blood runs ice cold, and I grit my teeth, the heat of her breath an inch away, falling across my lips as I curl my fingers into fists.

“Try it tonight,” she says, staring at my mouth. “You might like it.”

She snatches the dress out of my hand, and I suck in a breath as I watch her not miss a beat as she steps backward off the riser and leaves.

God, I hate her. I watch her disappear, no comeback or witty response spilling out of my mouth before she’s gone, and I’m left standing there and feeling stupid.

Drunk-ejacs... Is she serious? I don’t even have a detachable showerhead.

I raise my eyes to the mirror again, the excitement I want to feel for the ball or the prom or anything coming out as nothing but a hard beat in my chest that makes me sick instead. And it’s almost like she knows that. Like she knows something’s wrong.

Liv Jaeger has been a bloody nuisance since the day I met her, but sometimes I’m not even sure what bugs me so much about her. She stays in her lane, doesn’t she?

But I love pushing her. I love it like nothing else.

Tearing off the undergarments and kicking them to the side, I dig in my bag for the Valium and tap out two pills into my hand. Throwing my head back, I pop them into my mouth and dry swallow before quickly dressing.

I have to get out of here.

Pulling my gray hoodie out of my bag, I slip it on and take my gear, creeping out to the lobby. My mom stands out front on the sidewalk, conversing rather robustly on the phone still. Someone must not be down with the whole crêpe idea, I guess.

I sneak out through the back, pushing through the alley door and don’t see Lavinia or Liv as I make my escape.

Pulling out my Evian bottle, I finish off the rest of the vodka, tossing it into a dumpster as I pass.

I hate her. The ball will be special. I’ll have fun. This is who I am.

I’m lucky.

I inhale, filling my lungs as I pull my hood up and put my head down, moving through the dark streets. I turn off my phone, so my mom can’t track me, and tuck my hands in my center pocket.

I cross Bainbridge Park, spotting a couple of guys loitering by the bathrooms. The skateboarder who sells smack nods to me, and I nod back, passing him. I head down the hill to Edward Street.

Stopping in front of the large, cream-colored stucco house decorated like a cottage, I look around and see the empty, dim street, lit only by lamplight. No cars drive through the neighborhood. All the families inside their homes.

Pulling my hood lower, I sneak around the side of the house, see the basement light on, and squat down, pushing open one of the windows, slipping inside before I’m spotted.

I step down, the freezers cooling the room, making chills break out across my legs, and my nostrils instantly sting at the scent of the cleaning liquids used in here regularly.

I rub my thumb over the small tattoo on the inside of my finger, feeling like I’m exhaling for the first time all day. It’s weird how that smell has become a comfort. Thanks to fantastic ventilation and industrial strength deodorizers, I wouldn’t even know there was a ‘decomp’ in the cooler right now if I hadn’t been here when he arrived a couple days ago.

I walk over to the table at the end of the row, feeling my heart start to hammer in my chest. A girl lays on the slab, her mid-section covered with a sheet, and the puncture mark from embalming sits right below the rope burn around her neck. I’d read about her online today. Figured she’d be here by now.

Her wet, red hair mats to her head, and I grip the side of the table, brushing her fingers. Her nails are covered in chipped pink nail polish that looks like a cheap brand you get at the grocery store.

“Did you know her?” I hear someone ask.

I don’t have to turn around to recognize Sylvia Gates’ voice. Owner of Wind House, the only funeral home in town.

I gaze at the girl’s neck, swallowing the image of the moment she slipped the rope around it.

And what most likely drove her to it.

“She went to public school.” I force my voice firm. “But I’ve seen her around town.”

She’s almost my age—a year younger, I think. Did Liv know her?