The Weight of Blood (13)

“Oh yeah. They totally have! I was going to tell you that before!”

“You’re so full of shit.” Jules laughed and hopped off the counter, her black slingback heels clicking on the tile.

Jules had called it right; Wendy didn’t notice a difference. And she’d probably seen Jules’s boobs just as much as Brady had. Jules wasn’t exactly modest.

“I swear!” Wendy insisted. “And you look hot tonight.”

Jules wore a tight strapless red crepe dress that stopped just at her shins. Overdressed for the occasion, but that was Jules. She relished being a bloody spot you couldn’t look away from. Her seductive, provocative wit shrouded a nefarious nature. Jules procured two nips of Jameson from her clutch, offering one to Wendy.

“Bottoms up!”

They clinked bottles and threw them back, eyeing each other, racing to see who would finish first. There was always a looming unsaid competition between them that silently boiled, like a tea kettle with a broken whistle. Wendy didn’t want Jules to win, to be the butt of another joke. But the liquor stung her tonsils, and she couldn’t fight it any longer. She coughed up a gasp, the alcohol burning down her throat. Jules giggled.

A toilet flushed behind them. Jules quickly snatched the bottles and stuffed them in the trash. Wendy scrambled to find a pack of mints as the stall door opened. It was just a girl. A Black eighth grader Wendy had clocked earlier that evening, dressed in a floral smocked dress and white cardigan, an outfit more suitable for Sunday service. The girl’s eyes widened at the sight of Springville’s two most popular seniors but she tipped her chin up, marched over to the sink, and washed her hands.

Jules grinned at Wendy in the mirror, bumping her hip with a wink.

“I . . . I like your dress,” the girl said, her voice quivering, mouth full of braces. Pretty, in a quiet sort of way. “I’m Pamala. I’mma be trying out for cheer next year.”

Jules turned, giving her a slow, lingering once-over, eyes stopping on her hair, box braids that sat on her shoulders.

“Well, good luck to you, babe,” Jules said, the words almost taunting.

The girl didn’t blink, her face tight and discerning, resolve unwavering. She nodded at Wendy, her chin still tipped to the ceiling.

“Nice meeting y’all. Good luck at college,” she said, letting the door slam behind her.

Jules scoffed, rolling her eyes. “Hope they make her straighten her hair or something before they let her try out for the team.”

Wendy didn’t see anything wrong with her hair. Sure, it wouldn’t be uniform with the rest of the girls’ high spiral ponytails tied with large ribbons, but at least it was neat and clean. Wendy chalked up her pity partly to commiserating. She remembered what it was like being a prospect back in middle school, pleading for her parents to take her to the cheer banquet, and spending an exorbitant amount on a white dress that made her look demure, wholesome even. Cheerleading resembled pledging a sorority. You had to balance a certain number of appearances with the right amount of sucking up if you wanted in.

Wendy checked her phone. Another scholarship for five hundred dollars. She beamed, the gap between her and her goal was shrinking.

“That better be Kenny making you grin like that,” Jules quipped.

Wendy shoved her phone away. “Ye-yeah. Of course.”

Jules stared into the mirror, playing with her hair again. “Wow. I can’t believe this is our last cheer dinner. Remember last year, when Mia James was puking in the bathroom, and it turned out Ashton Carey had knocked her up?”

“Her parents were pissed,” Wendy said. “But at least he did right by her, giving up going to play for Florida.”

“Ha! I’d throw myself down the stairs before I ever let some baby keep me from Texas A&M.”

Wendy didn’t doubt it, especially with the amount of Plan B she’d picked up for Jules in the past.

“Have you seen that baby? She’s real cute!” Wendy twirled a lock of hair around her finger, heat rising to her cheeks. “I hope I have a girl. Someday.”

Jules shook her head with a snort. “And I hope you and Kenny’s baby turns out to look just like Maddy.”

Wendy stiffened. “What?”

Jules measured Wendy’s shock and rolled her eyes.

“Oh, come on. You don’t want your kid coming out looking all . . . dark, right? Or with funny hair you can’t do nothing with. You’d want them coming out looking more like you. Otherwise, your family portraits are gonna look a hot mess!”

Wendy winced a smile, as if agreeing, her neck growing red and splotchy. She never thought about what Kenny’s and her potential children would look like. But using Maddy as a measuring stick made her feel sick with something close to guilt. Because Jules had called it right again—she would want her daughter to be like Maddy, to pass for something she was not completely, if only to make her life easier. Wendy’s life . . . not the kid’s.

“Thanks again for the dress,” Wendy said, eager to change the subject. The silver belt wrapped around the teal V-neck halter dress perfectly matched her sandals.

Jules leaned into the mirror, her eye bulging as she applied another coat of mascara.

“It’s cool. Fits you better anyways. Can’t stuff these tits in there.”

That wasn’t necessarily true; Wendy had double Ds, while Jules was a plain C cup. But it was the standard excuse she provided. She said the same thing about the tank tops she gifted, sweaters, jeans, shorts, even underwear. In the past four years, Wendy had done more shopping in Jules’s closet than in any department store. Not that she could afford to step one foot in a mall.