I tie my hair up at work, knotting it in a bun atop my head. Today had been a grueling shift and my patience for the tugging on my scalp had reached its limit the moment I’d finished. I’d yanked it free almost immediately. Now, it fell about my shoulders in that special way hair did after being held tight. It looked luscious, wanton, and had a curling volume that, no matter what you do, is impossible to replicate when you actually want to.
“Bah,” I tell her with another shrug. “Good genes. You work with what you’ve got, and no one is ever satisfied with what they have. I’d kill for eyes like yours.”
The girl blinks, clearly taken aback.
“I’m sorry?”
“Your eyes,” I say casually, hoping I’m not pushing our fledgling acquaintance too far. “I have to do all kinds of stuff to mine to make them look even half the size and shape of yours. Very pretty.”
Especially those lashes, I think to myself. I’m lucky that my own are dark, leaving the need for mascara for special occasions. But if I wanted any kind of length, falsies were my friend. Alice would have absolutely no need for fake lashes. Her lashes are long and naturally curly. They just need a little color for people to see them.
Watching as spots of red bloom in her cheeks again, I take a step back from the compliments and try to bring the conversation back to neutral ground.
“Besides, there’s no need for dressing up unless there’s something to dress up for, right?”
Or someone. Of which I do not have, I remind myself. If I could stomp on the toes of my own mental voice I would. Every time a comment or idea like that slips out, my mind now races to fill the picture with Caleb’s face.
Which is useless since he’s made it abundantly clear he has no interest in me.
Not only had he pulled away that night on the couch, but he’s been actively avoiding me. Caleb leaves his room the minute we’re due to head into town each morning and then every night swiftly disappears into what must be his office. Aside the twice-daily ten minutes in his truck, where he basically says nothing, and the thirty minutes he spends in the kitchen refusing to let me help out with dinner, I barely see him.
Which is not surprising given what almost happened the other night.
I snap myself out of my daydreaming, only to see that my comment has sparked a reaction in Alice too. Her gaze is fixed on the desk and she’s fingering a piece of tape, securing a flier to its surface. I lean forward to read it.
Harvest Festival Dance
14th October
The Jackson Kenny Farm
31 Fairweather Road
Family Fun - 1pm till 7pm
15+ Years - 9pm till Late
“Harvest Festival?” I ask with interest.
Alice snatches her hand back as if she’s been caught with it in the cookie jar.
“Yes,” she swallows. “It’s an annual thing here. Usually at one of the farms in the area.”
“Is it popular?” Having never lived in a rural town, I have no idea what the event might entail. “Like… is it actually a dance or just a bunch of old timers swigging whisky and talking about the good ol’ times?”
Alice seems surprised at the stereotype and shakes her head.
“Oh no, it’s the only dress-up event in town. Everyone goes,” suddenly looking awkward, she straightens her shoulders and corrects herself. “Well, not everyone. But, you know, most people.”
Translation: Alice doesn’t attend. That image I’d created of the awkward girl in high school is looking more realistic by the minute.
“My sister wants to go,” the words seem drawn from Alice with agony.
“You have a sister?”
Alice nods.
“And she wants to go to the dance?”