Viola is too polite to say you too? Instead, she says, “I can’t wait to see your costume.”
“How about you?” I ask my brother. “Are you going to enter the contest?”
“I hadn’t thought about it. Probably not.”
The little hairs on the back of my neck start to tingle.
Sebastian has the worst tell in the world. He does this funny thing with his right eye that he’s not aware of. But there it is. He’s absolutely going in costume. Why he’s trying to hide it from me, I have no idea.
I smirk. “You should. The prize is a hundred bucks.”
He gauges my reaction and sighs because he knows he’s gotten caught.
Sebastian knows all about my little “gift,” but he has no idea just how talented I am. It’s something I try not to talk about. Even with him.
Everyone begins talking about the big grand opening of the rec center tomorrow, and what they’re wearing for the costume contest, but I can’t help but be distracted by the pensive look on my brother’s face.
Something isn’t right.
And that something has to do with Abby Delgado.
Chapter Two
I stare at myself in the mirror and cringe.
My hair looks like:
A) A grenade has gone off inside my head and it didn’t have anywhere else to go but straight up.
B) Like it belongs to a character from a Dr. Seuss book.
Or
C) Both.
I choose C.
Last week when I was putting together my outfit for the celebration, I needed some visual inspiration, so I rented the old sixties movie Beach Blanket Bingo, which is completely false advertising because not once do those wholesome horny teenagers ever play Bingo. I also use the word “teenager” loosely because I don’t think any of the actors were a day under thirty.
To get my costume right, I asked Lauren Miller for advice. Lauren is married to Dr. Nate, one of the two practicing physicians in our town, and owns Baby Got Bump, the business next door to The Bistro. She designs retro maternity wear, but before that, she ran a retro boutique.
She loaned me a lime green shift with a matching print scarf that I’ve tied around my neck. Because I’m going to be on my feet all day I opted for white tennis shoes and ankle socks. My dark shoulder-length hair was supposed to be styled to flip up on the ends ala Annette, but something went wrong. I must have gone overboard with the teasing because my hair is ginormous. It’s so big I don’t think I’ll be able to fit my head inside the minivan we use for the business.
I’ve also used so much hairspray that I should probably be wearing a flammable warning label pinned to my chest. Good thing I did all my baking yesterday so I don’t have to go near a stove.
My partner Sarah is completely rocking the Sandra Dee look with a crisp white sleeveless button-down blouse, jeans, ponytail and saddle oxfords.
“You look fabulous!” Sarah squeals.
I could look like a raccoon and Sarah would still think I look good because she’s the kind of person who always looks for the positive in any situation. “Thanks. So do you. Do you think my hair looks okay?”
“Sure! Er, do you want me to try to flatten it some?”
Obviously, she too is afraid that I won’t fit into the minivan.
Sarah does her best to bring my hair down a few inches, but it’s like trying to move a hundred-pound rock. “How much hairspray did you use?”
“I don’t know. Half a can maybe?”