Beth: Yeah, wat up?
Me: Can I get ready at your place?
Beth: Sure. Need anything?
Me: Want to help me ball-bash a Ferro?
The screen on my phone lights up with Beth’s face as it rings. I knew she’d be all over this plan.
CHAPTER 5
Beth’s dorm room is still sporting the hippie vibe despite her attempt to redefine herself. She’s wearing a catsuit with an oversized belt and looks a little like she fell off the page of a comic book. She?
?s tugging on my hair, blowing it out, and ranting, “They keep asking me weird questions and then giggling. Have you ever seen a grown man giggle? It’s some freaky shit.”
I’m staring at a patchwork of photographs of a sunset. The four by six-inch pictures cover an entire wall. Some of them are all one color. Some have only sand, sun, or sky. It’s a mosaic made from Polaroids.
“Beth, you’re wearing a body stocking. What’d you think was going to happen?”
“I don’t know. Definitely not man-giggles. Freaky fuckers.”
“What’d your brothers think of your outfit?”
She shrugs. “They haven’t seen it yet.”
“Oh God! You’re hiding it from them?” That’s got bad idea written all over it.
“Not hiding it, more like biding my time. If I like this look, I want to decide for myself before they say anything. I just need to breathe, you know?” She tugs a brush through another length of my hair, pulling it hard, and forcing hot air from the blow-dryer over it until it’s dry, shiny, and straight.
“I know. So, do you want to rock this look a little longer?”
“Yeah! Maybe make it more my own thing. Add some jewelry, combat boots, and a big ass belt. I don’t know. I thought about putting a sheer skirt on the bottom. Do you know what I’m talking about? They were popular a few years back, totally sheer and flowing."
I smile because I know exactly what she’s talking about. It’s another hippie-style skirt. The girl loves peasant clothes. “Yeah, you should do it. Add some of that crazy-ass makeup they’re wearing on TV right now, and you’ll look totally kickass.”
As she tugs and blows out another section of hair, she frowns. “Yeah, but here’s the problem—while this whole outfit is totally kickass—it looks completely stupid shoved in a classroom chair. It’s like inviting Batman to an English class.”
“Yeah, but everyone would know he was awesome, no one would fuck with him, and he could date anyone he wanted. That doesn’t sound too bad to me.” She turns off the dryer midsentence, and I scream the last word at her.
“That’s because you’re having a quarter life crisis. So, what’s the plan with all this stuff, Miss Hill? You really think you can waltz into Ferro’s office and get anywhere with the guy?”
I look into the mirror at my newly sleek hair. It frames my face, falling in a shiny sheet of brown that seems to bring out the little glints of gold in my eyes. I don’t look like me anymore, but since I don’t feel like myself either, I’m not too concerned.
As I tug on the blouse and tulip skirt, I tell Beth my plan, and she helps me tweak the weaker spots. When I’m finished dressing, Beth helps me with my makeup. “Well, damn girl! You have that law student look nailed.”
“Yeah, well, here’s to hoping. Hopefully I have enough jargon from Law & Order stuck in my head to sound halfway convincing.”
She scoffs, “Not necessary. This is Ferro, and you’re hot. Hotness trumps everything with that man.”
I nod slowly, remembering what I’ve read in the papers about the guy. He has a way of letting his dick wander. It’s disturbing how he remained married to the ice queen, Constance Ferro, and she just looked the other way. Why do women do that? Is it pride or something else? I can’t look the other way, but then again, it wasn't Connie's mom screwing her husband.
Beth makes some last second adjustments and then stands back, arms folded over her chest. Her index finger taps against her cheek. “Something’s off. We need a little boost to make him think twice, which means we need some clout. Bling. Neck money.” She rushes to her dresser, grabs a jewelry box, and pulls out a pair of gold earrings and hands them to me. “They’re small, understated on purpose. It’ll make them reconsider your bargain basement threads.”
I frown and look at the new suit. “It looks cheap?”
“Not cheap, but not designer. There are two possible explanations. One, you’re poor. Two, you’re rich and don’t waste money on stupid shit. The clues are in the little things—rings, watches, shoes, and gold. Here, take this too.” She hands me a watch with a black leather band and a plain face embossed with Roman numerals. I put it on my wrist. “It’s pretty.”
“It should be. It’s Le Couture. I got that for my graduation from my grandparents. It’s a twenty thousand dollar watch. The earrings are Tiffany’s. This ring is Cartier.”