The Lion's Den(71)

Seeing no reason to murder any more of her dreams this morning, I switch subjects. “Anything in particular you’re shopping for today?”

“I want a pair of those lace-up sandals everyone’s wearing, and I need, like, SPF100 sunscreen. I’m so done getting sun. How about you?”

“I need a dress for the Webby Awards.”

She looks at me blankly.

“It’s the awards for web series. One I had a part in is nominated. I told you about it—Junk?”

She nods. “Oh yeah.” But it’s clear she has no idea what I’m talking about.

“We’re getting souvenirs,” Rhonda says.

“Who knows when we’ll be in France again.” Brittani snorts. “We’re probably too embarrassing to get invited on another trip.”

“Souvenirs!” Rhonda steers her daughter by the elbow toward a tchotchke shop. Brittani gestures to Amythest to join them, but Amythest pretends not to see, turning stone-faced to stare out at the sea. Brittani sticks her tongue out and flips the bird at Amythest’s back before following her mom into the store.

Wendy, Claire, and I exchange a weighted glance. Good luck, Wendy mouths, cutting her eyes at Amythest. Then, at full volume, “Okay, we’ll see you in a bit.”

Claire gives a little wave and follows her toward a shoe shop. I feel a burden lift from my shoulders as they disappear from view. This is the first break from the herd and the least amount of supervision I’ve had since we started this trip. I turn to Amythest, leaning over the railing and looking out at the boats, big black sunglasses hiding her eyes. “You okay?”

“Fine,” she says flatly.

“If you wanna just sit in a restaurant or something and chill while I go find this dress, it’s totally cool,” I offer.

“Nah. Let’s go.”

We cut across the road, and I consult the maps app on my phone to find the nearest Western Union, which is luckily only a few blocks away. “I just have to run to Western Union first to send this money for Camille,” I say. “She’s not allowed off the boat, and her mom needs the cash.”

Still lost in her own world, Amythest nods vaguely and follows me up a cobblestone street lined with charming boutiques. She sits on a bench outside the storefront fiddling with her phone while I wait in the long line to send Camille’s money. By the time I emerge, her mood seems to have improved.

“That’s pretty awesome your web series was nominated,” she says as we make our way up the sidewalk among shoppers laden with bags. “What was it?”

“It was called Junk. I played a junkie medical school student trying to go straight. And failing.”

“Sounds intense. So, like, what do they pay for that?”

“Exactly zero dollars,” I divulge. “But it was an awesome experience. I learned so much and really got to stretch as an actor, as cheesy as that may sound.”

“No, it’s cool. I wish I could do something like that.”

I stop in front of a boutique with a deep-purple strapless dress displayed in the front window.

“You know how I feel about purple,” Amythest says.

We enter the store and I peruse the racks, nonchalantly turning over the first price tag I see. Five thousand euros. I turn over another one. Six thousand. I catch Amythest’s eye and casually stroll out.

“How much?” she asks.

“Six grand.” I sigh. “I’m looking for more like five hundred, which to me is still a lot to spend on a dress that I’ll maybe wear a handful of times ever.”

She laughs. “Good luck.”

We make quick work of it from there, but have a hell of a time finding anything that fits my budget. There are stores that sell cheaper clothing, but they don’t have formal dresses. Along the way, Amythest picks up a big floppy hat, and I grab a necklace for my mom and a pair of earrings for Lauren.

We’re already short on time from the length of the line at Western Union, and I’ve just about given up when I see the most beautiful emerald-green empire-waist dress in the window of a consignment store. I check my watch. It’s eleven thirty.

“That would be sick on you,” Amythest says.

“Okay, we just have to be quick. The boat is still a ten-minute walk.”

The dress is 460 euros, which translates to a little more than the five hundred dollars I intended to spend. But after the other dresses today, it seems like a steal, and when I try it on, it’s absolutely perfect in every way. Amythest claps as I spin in front of the mirror. “Hot.” She whistles. “Hella hot.”

As the shopgirls are wrapping it up for me, Amythest goes through a rack of clearance items in the back. “Ooh,” she exclaims. “What about this?”

It’s a gold vintage shift cocktail dress from the sixties that is probably the most stylish thing she’s ever picked out in her life, and I wish I’d seen it first.

“Yes.” I check my watch again. “But we have to be walking in ten minutes, so snap, snap.”

She scurries to the dressing room and emerges transformed. The dress fits her perfectly, turning her from death-metal stripper to stylish gamine.

“Yes,” I say immediately. “A hundred percent.”

“I don’t know if I can afford it, though.”