Page 129 of Swallow Your Sorries

“No more scratchers.”

I sigh. “Congratulations on the win. Have you thought about how you’ll spend it? You should definitely sign up for those ceramic classes.” I finger the tarnished ballet slipper around my throat now.

“You’re such a good kid, Elle. That’s the first thing you ask, how will I spend it? On you, of course. I was calling to ask what all you needed and you’re already giving me suggestions of how I should spend it on myself?”

I soften at that. At least she’s thinking of me.

“Therapy is important,” I say. “But…if you want to get me something, some new leotards and shampoo would be nice. The good kind that doesn’t make your hair feel like straw afterwards.”

“Anything for my Elle Bell,” she laughs.

It sounds so pretty. So carefree, just like I imagined it to be whenever I saw photos of her as a teen dressed in band tees with shorts so short, it was always a toss-up if she was actually wearing any at all. But that was before and during the first few weeks of her knowing Jarett. After that, the photos grew more modest, as did her smile, which seemed non-existent by the time I came along.

“I’ll ship them to the school. Promise.”

“Thanks,” I say weakly. “Have fun celebrating. Don’t stay out too late and don’t spend too much. You should go see the landlord and clear a few months of rent in advance.”

“I’ll go to the leasing office first thing tomorrow morning. I have a plan.”

I hope so.

Ten minutes later at checkout, Stassi insists on keeping the orange wig on, allowing the cashier to scan her head. Aria grabs a blonde one and slaps a curly black one, reminiscent of her hair on my head. I look more like Captain Hook than anything, but c’est la vie because it’s Aria’s money that purchases them.

“You know my hair looks nothing like that?” I ask Stassi ten minutes later, adjusting my black wig as we step out of the store, looking like bootleg versions of each other. We’re getting strange looks from passersby, especially Aria in her fish hooker heels. She has impeccable grace though, and I wonder if it comes from balancing on ice skates all the time. Either way, it must be nice to buy random crap for shits and giggles.

“I know it’s more conditioned,” Stassi says, fluffing the synthetic fibres for volume, not that it’s needed

“I’m hungry,” Aria says suddenly. “Let’s stop into Deveraux’s for a snack before the liquor store.

I eye the beautiful cafe across the street with its dark green and gold awnings and know immediately that I can’t afford a glass of water, much less a snack.

Stassi immediately looks worried too, but for very different reasons. She doesn’t want to eat in front of Aria.

“I actually need to run to the chemist first,” she says, eyeing the small store on the corner. “Here, Elle. Can you get me a croissant with ham and cheese to go?”

I look down at the bills she shoves into my hand, but before I can protest at the absurd amount, she’s already crossing the street.

“Get whatever you want,” she says over her shoulder.

Like the croissant that I know she won’t eat? Because I’d feel too guilty to spend anything else.

It didn’t matter if it was Gant, Aria or Stassi. I don’t like people spending money on me.

I’m about to take the dark curly wig off when Aria grabs my hand and pulls me in the opposite direction towards Deveraux’s. Before I can ask if we should take off our ridiculous wigs, she pulls me inside and manoeuvres us right up to the counter.

“The wait’s always a little long,” she says, jutting her chin towards an empty table in the corner. “Why don’t you sit? I’ll get Stassi’s order. I know the kind of cheese and ham she likes.”

There’s more than one option?

I try to hand Aria the bills, but she brushes me off, turning her attention toward a handsome barista.

No one pays me attention as I slink off to the corner. As informal as the cafe seems, it’s obviously anything but with the amount of designer purses I see hooked onto the backs of every woman’s chair. They’re not the trendy, gaudy kind either. They’re from brands I didn’t know existed before attending Beaulieu. The kind only old money wore that looked plain with impeccable quality and genuine materials. The difference between new money and old money.

I’m clearly no money as I self-consciously try to hide the tacky logo of the sex store on my shopping bag from view. Maybe it is best to keep the wig on in case I run into another student from the academy. The last thing I need is another Beaussip article speculating about what’s in my bag.

The thought barely leaves me when a familiar voice, cold, clear, and feminine, the epitome of an Ice Queen reaches my ears.

Rin.

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