Read My Lips(69)

I push through the glass doors and waltz into the black box for my acting class, zipping right past Ariel, whose blasé stare of condescension at what she likely just witnessed through the window is not missed.

And really, after how close Clayton and I have grown in just one glorious rollercoaster of a weekend followed by a couple of surprise-filled days, how can I let anything—or anyone—ruin it?

My good mood is invincible. Nina gives me a harsh yet instructive critique on my performance piece while Ariel watches from the back row, her arms crossed and her eyes narrowed. And how do I come out of that class?

Smiling like a cat with a bird in my pocket.

Fuck you, mermaid. You can’t touch me.

I find Sam in our usual spot in the UC food court, and I insist on buying lunch for her. Something tells me she’s made a habit of coming here at this precise time because she knows I do. Plus, inevitably, I always give her about half or more of whatever I eat.

“Take off your glasses,” I say over my teriyaki sub.

Sam lifts her blunt, horrific eyebrows. “Hmm?” she moans through a mouthful of potato wedges.

“Glasses,” I order with a smirk. “Off.”

With reluctance, she pulls off her glasses. Well, the bad news is, those thick frames do a good job of concealing how big and bulbous her nose really is. The good news is, beyond those smudgy lenses, she’s been hiding a set of soft hazel eyes I’ve never noticed before. I always mistakenly thought they were brown.

“Interesting,” I murmur, studying her.

“I can’t see your face,” she complains.

“Let’s get away from campus,” I suggest. “We don’t have any classes until tonight. I want to go shopping.”

She fumbles to get her glasses back on her face. “Shopping? I don’t—”

“You’ve worn that shirt three times since Friday.”

She glances down at her shirt, as if doubting it. When she looks back up at me, she surrenders with an unenthusiastic shrug. “I guess I could use a little shopping. I think there’s a thrift shop on Avenue D.”

A thrift shop is not what I have in mind for her.

An hour later finds us in a store on the high-dollar side of town, much to Sam’s dismay. I run my hand through the soft, colorful racks, feeling oddly like I’m back home on some errand in town with my sister when she was a little bit less of a nose-upturned diva. Cece would rush up to a pretty dress, gasping as she spun around and showed it to me held up to her neck and draped down her body. I’d pick a matching dress two sizes bigger and we’d try them on together, then burst out of the dressing rooms at the same time and surprise each other, laughing.

I miss the way she used to be.

Sam moans from within the changing room, complaining about how she looks. “Shush,” I tell her. “Get your booty out here and let me see you.”

The door opens. I get a good look.

“Alright, not your color. Try this.” I toss another one at her. “And please, posture. No one looks good when they’re bent into the shape of a coat hanger. Be the coat, Sam, not the hanger.”

I guess I’m the new Cece and Sam’s my little sister. When she comes out of the dressing room again, her face looks lighter, and I nod with my approval.

What I foretold to be an hour-long overdue outing with my roommate turns into three, and I’m taking her down the street with an armful of bags filled with dresses, shirts, new jeans, and some sexy-ass shoes. I even throw in a few for myself.

“I can’t let you pay for all this,” Sam complains at the counter of the next store.

“I’m not,” I tell her innocently. “My credit card is.”

Swipe. Cha-ching.

Soon, the front glass window of a beauty salon greets our eyes.

Sam scowls at me. “We’re not gonna have one of those moments where you push me in there and have them give me some swanky makeover and I come out looking like last year’s prom queen.”

“No,” I assure her. “You’ll come out looking like next year’s prom queen.”

Since each stylist’s area is hidden by big annoying bamboo walls, I don’t get to see Sam until the sun is setting the horizon on fire behind me and the haircut is completely finished. I literally don’t recognize her.

“That’s … not the cut we discussed,” I murmur, staring at her wide-eyed.

“It’s kinda the one I wanted,” she says, then rubs her eyes. “I can’t see how it looks. They made me take my glasses off.”

Her hair is about eighty percent gone. What’s left in its place is a short spread of talon-shaped spikes that sweep near the front into some sort of jet-colored tidal wave.