Chapter Fourteen. Sarah Lynn
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
SARAH LYNN
Hannah’s flopped on my bed, head dangling off the edge.
Olivia’s curled in my pink velvet armchair, knees tucked up under her giant T-shirt like she’s hiding out in a tent.
And I’m on the floor, blow-drying Hannah’s curls with a diffuser after an hour of washing, detangling, and loading her up with every curl product I could find in the shops on the square.
“I’m never going to do this myself,” Hannah yells over the blow-dryer. “It takes for-fucking-ever. I already got a job. I’m not looking to add hairstylist to the resume.”
I snap off the dryer, so she’s basically screaming the last of her sentence at us into dead air. With oil on my hands, I scrunch her curls to loosen them.
“Take a look,” I say, sitting back on my heels.
She hauls herself up and Olivia gasps so loud it makes Hannah whip around to her. “Does it look that bad?”
Olivia is covering her mouth with both hands. She shakes her head.
Hannah goes to my floor-length mirror. “Are you shitting me?” She turns her head, lets the waterfall of soft, bouncy ringlets fall over her shoulder. “You’re telling me I could have looked like this my whole life? I’m quitting Smoothie Palace. Fuck school too. I’m going full-time into hair care.”
I’m laughing, watching Hannah smelling herself, turning her head this way and that, fluffing up her hair and adjusting one curl and then another around her face.
I lean forward to stand. “Time to talk outfits.” Orientation might seem like no big deal. But it’s your first chance to make an impression on the board members, the judges, the competition. “Show me what you brought.”
Hannah hands me a sweet-looking red floral dress, white flowers scattered across the cherry fabric. “It’s my church dress, but it’s the only one I have,” she says. “Besides my homecoming dress.”
I hold it up in front of her. “It might work. Put it on.”
Olivia gets up and starts to study the clothes in my closet, giving Hannah privacy with her turned back.
Hannah wriggles her pants off, then pulls her shirt over her head. Instinctively, she wraps her arms around her belly.
Hannah, who lets her mouth run miles ahead of her brain, who is always saying something just for the sake of making herself laugh, not really caring whether or not anyone else even finds it funny, who is completely comfortable with who she is.
Seeing her now, shoulders rolled forward like maybe she can shrink herself into nothing—it sends a bolt of anger through me.
“If there’s one lesson you both need to know about pageants—it’s what’s underneath that counts.”
“You mean what’s on the inside?” Olivia asks.
The dressing room of a pageant is a stage before the stage, a psychological battlefield.
Girls get modest. They get shy. Putting on gowns beneath robes, changing behind their travel clothing racks.
But I don’t turn. I don’t hide. I enjoy maintaining eye contact with my competitors, keeping small talk going while I strip in front of them, I enjoy letting my body reflect every one of their hidden insecurities.
But it isn’t just my body that’s doing the work.
“It’s all about confidence,” I say. “I win that crown before the other girls ever put on their thousand-dollar dresses. Before I ever take one step onto that stage.” I pull Hannah’s hands away.
“Never hide,” I tell her, looking right into her dark brown eyes.
I guide the dress over her, running my hands down her rib cage, sliding them to the hem and farther down the curve of her thighs.
She’s already tied the front in a bow at her neck before I pop up.
We’re face-to-face, and her cheeks are flushed.
I’m close enough to smell the sweetness of the pineapple on her breath from the smoothies we picked up earlier. And I know she can smell it on mine.
“Curves are in,” I say. “So we use them.” I begin to untie the bow.
I loop one end of the tie up through her bra and slide the other under, my fingers gliding between her breasts, along her sternum.
I tie the ends together tight, pushing her neckline into a deep V, giving her a little more support, a little more exposure, so that her breasts swell up between the girly white flowers on either side. Perfect.
I turn her to face the mirror again. “You have cleavage we’d kill for,” I whisper in her ear, my chin resting on her shoulder. “So kill us with it.” The corner of her mouth lifts with a mischievous smile. She can’t help it. Beauty is power.
“Can I try this on?” Olivia asks, and I turn to see she’s holding up a sky-blue minidress.
“Of course, babes.”
Mom got all paranoid after Cat told us about Olivia’s dance experience, but I’m not worried. Olivia is basically like a tiny little church mouse.
Hannah claims the chair, I perch on the bed, and Olivia positions herself in front of the mirror. She pulls off her leggings, then grabs the hem of her baggy T-shirt and lifts it over her head.
And, holy shit.
I didn’t realize that’s what Olivia was working with under all that fabric. She’s a closet stunner.
She pulls the dress up and reaches back a long, lithe arm to zip it herself. It fits her like a glove.
Hannah lets out a wolf whistle, but I’m struck dumb for the moment.
Then the door opens, and Mom pops her head in.
“I’m home,” she says. “Just wanted to see if you’ve had dinner yet.
Oh, Hannah, dear. Don’t you look just lovely?
I really like…” But she stops mid-sentence when she catches sight of Olivia.
She pushes the door open fully and steps into the room. “And who’s this?”
My spine pulls taut as a piano wire, because I swear Mom’s eyes just dilated like a cat who’s spotted that tiny little church mouse from across the room.
Helplessly, I watch Olivia go to Mom. “Hi, Mrs. Preston. I’m Olivia.”
Mom’s eyes skate to me and back. “Cat’s girl?” She shakes Olivia’s hand. “It’s so wonderful to have you in Miss Lone Star this year. Is that one of Sarah Lynn’s dresses?”
Olivia glances over to me, smiling, blissfully unaware that the room has turned electric, every surface humming like a live wire. “She’s letting me borrow it for orientation tomorrow.” She smooths it over her flat stomach.
“This color is just divine on that creamy complexion of yours.” Mom circles Olivia.
“Oh, you know what, though”—she reaches out to grab hold of the skirt’s hem—“Sarah Lynn, isn’t this the one with that stain, the pen mark?
Yes, here it is.” She tsks. Olivia tries to twist her head to see the back of the dress, where Mom is rubbing a thumb at the fabric.
“Here,” Mom says, sliding down the zipper.
“I’m actually going out tonight anyway. Let me drop this off at the dry cleaner.
I’ll pick it up first thing and bring it over to your mama. How does that sound?”
Olivia lifts the dress over her head and Mom snaps it up quickly, folding it into the crook of her elbow.
“Are you sure?” Olivia says, reaching for her clothes. “That’s so nice.”
Mom waves it away, all Miss Congeniality. “I need to make a trip to the dry cleaner anyway, sweetheart. Don’t you worry about it.”
Hannah and Olivia get dressed and gather their things, waving goodbye as they leave together.
Mom and I are quiet while they take the spiral steps down.
But as soon as we hear the front door close behind them, Mom says what I already know she’s thinking.
“Be careful of that one, Sarah Lynn.” She tosses the blue dress into the corner like it’s a dirty hand towel.
Final verdict on Olivia? Red-dot-level threat.
Beauty is power. But it also puts a target on your back.