4
We’re outside. My long brown hair, stripped of its usual frizzy ponytail, has been coaxed into soft waves that fall around my newly made-up face, while my dress exposes way more thigh than the shorts I wear in PE.
“I feel likePretty Woman,” I say, referring to my mom’s all-time favorite movie, which is basically some old-school story about an escort who gets a makeover from a rich client when he plucks her off a street corner.
When my mom decided I was finally old enough to watch it with her, she spent the entire movie either grinning giddily or anxiously clutching a damp tissue to her lips like the ending might change from the previous hundred or so viewings. By the time the final credits rolled, I guess she thought my own untouched box of tissues meant I didn’t understand, because she tried to explain.
“But look!” she cried, rewinding to the part where the sex worker and the corporate raider ride away in a limo. “She saves him right back!”
Which I guess, in her mind, made up for the fact that this woman had to change literally everything about herself to be good enough for some dude. Yeah, no thanks.
“It’s a seriously badass makeover.” Elodie shakes me away from my thoughts and back to the present. “And the best part is, you don’t even have to blow me in return.”
I tug at the hem and frown. Makeover ethics aside, it’s been a long time since I allowed myself to actually try to look pretty, and the effect is simultaneously aspirational and disturbing.
Like, one part of me is thinking:Yes, this is who you are meant to be!
While the other side insists:You are never going to get away with this.
“Honestly?” I say. “I feel…kinda weird.”
My arms hang awkwardly by my sides, like I’ve forgotten how to use them. Between the dress, the shoes, the sunglasses, the makeup, and the new bra that makes my breasts appear way bigger than they actually are, Elodie has made a major investment, and she doesn’t even seem to care that I can never repay her.
“Thanks,” I say. “Really.” I mean, it’s the right thing to do when someone spends a bundle on you and asks nothing in return.
She waves at my reflection in the window before us. I wave back at hers. Elodie didn’t get a makeover, mostly because she didn’t need one. She just swapped her tank top for a silk cami and her sneakers for strappy heels.
Still, it’s the first time I’ve ever stood beside her and felt like an equal.
So I decide to seize the moment and act like one, too.
I cock my hip, shake my hair, and adopt a vacant expression, like a girl in a misogynistic music video. Elodie responds with a raised brow and tilted grin that can only be described as mischievous, if I used words like that.
“Ready to venture into the vast unknown?” She hooks her arm through mine.
I run my gaze up the length of the building—a block of mirrored panes stretching from the sidewalk to the bank of gray clouds overhead. It’s the kind of place filled with people who followed all the rules and did all the right things, only to end up slack-faced and numb, trudging through the calendar in pursuit of the weekend.
“I ditched my hoodie for this?”
Elodie throws her head back and laughs, then marches me toward the building next door, which is notably shorter, darker, and the few windows it has are all painted black.
“Oh, and one more thing.” She presses something hard and rectangular into my palm. “It’s members only. Just follow my lead.”
The plastic card bears a picture of me that I know I never posed for, mostly because I’m wearing a top I don’t own.
“Either magic or Photoshop.” Elodie winks. “You be the judge.”
I stare at the ID again. Apparently, I’m approaching my one-year anniversary since becoming a member.
“Arcana?” I glance between the name of the club and her. For some reason, the word feels like it’s tugging at my brain. But Elodie’s already approaching the bouncer and flashing her card, so I bury the thought and follow along, whispering to myself, “What the hell is this place?”