Always right before she destroyed someone.
“Did you lose a bet or something?” she asked, loud enough for everyone to hear.
Laughter exploded around her.
I tried to keep my face still.
I tried to remember Grandma Evelyn’s smile from earlier that evening, the way her thin hands had patted the fabric and called me beautiful.
“Did you lose a bet or something?”
“Seriously,” another girl chimed in, “is that from a museum? Like a costume exhibit?”
“My grandmother could have worn it,” Chloe added, tilting her head. “If she were poor.”
More laughter.
Louder this time.
I felt my throat close.
“It’s just a dress,” I said, and I hated how small my voice sounded.
“Is that from a museum?”
Chloe stepped closer, perfume thick and expensive in the air between us.
She looked me up and down the way someone inspects a stain.
“It’s not just a dress, sweetie. It’s a tragedy. Did you sew it yourself? Because that would explain a lot.”
