Ace of Spades Sneak Peek(97)
He picks up the first one. It’s the plainest one, with black lapels and a black bow. I should have seen that one coming.
“That’s really … plain,” I say.
“If you didn’t want me to choose it, why make it an option?” he asks.
“It’s not that I didn’t want you to choose it, I just think it’s a little boring … I mean, we’re going to be on national television, in front of all the people who wronged us, so … thought you would want to dress nice for once.”
He looks at me unblinking for a few moments, before chucking the suit back down and picking up the one next to it. This one is the flashiest.
The blazer is gold, with satin lapels, a black bow, and black pants.
I smile and pat him on the shoulder. “Much better. Going to go change now, will be back in a few,” I say, before walking out of my room and down the hallway, into my dressing room.
I’ve already done my makeup and put curlers in my hair. Usually, when we have big events like this, I get someone else to do my hair and makeup, wanting to be perfect, how everyone expects. But what’s the point anymore? They don’t expect anything from me. Maybe they never did. It was all a delusion.
My dress hangs in the center of my closet. It’s an Elie Saab original, flown in from Milan. I picked it out because it looks like it was made for a queen. Something I never was—just a social experiment, a chess piece in a sick game.
It is one of the prettiest dresses I have ever seen. It’s sleeveless with a plunging sweetheart neckline and A-line silhouette, with golden embroidery raining down from the top and a plain rose-gold mesh at the bottom. I’ve stared at it all day, feeling like I’m a fraud for wanting to wear something so beautiful and perfect to the ball.
I slip out of my robe and wander over to the dress, hesitating before stroking the material.
It’s not like I was ever truly someone worthy of this dress anyway. I’ll just have to fake it like I always do. Only this time, it’s not the students and teachers at Niveus who need to believe the persona. America needs to.
I pull the dress off the hook gently, unzipping the side before stepping into it for the first time since I got it this summer. I slowly zip it up, tugging a little harder in the middle, where it gets stuck. It’s always been a little snug on me—Elie Saab is not something you get tailored to fit you; either you’re perfect or you aren’t. You don’t fix a Saab original, you fix yourself, Ruby once said to me when she was showing off her gown for prom last year, alongside her diet plan. It’s a messed-up philosophy, I get that. I think these fashion labels do it on purpose, though.
When it’s zipped up, I push open a door on the side of the room where I keep my shoes. The walls are filled with my favorite pairs, from McQueen to Saint Laurent, all of them beautiful. But today isn’t about just looking good; I need my battle shoes. The ones I will use to stomp on my enemies.
I bend down, looking for a specific pair: my golden Jimmy Choos. You can never go wrong with Jimmy Choo. When I find them, I sit back on the chair in the middle of the room and slip my feet into them, already feeling stronger than before.
Not that I have a choice. I have to be ready—to show Niveus that it has not defeated me, and never will.
Like Mom always says, By fire, by force. Tonight will be the last night Niveus gets to make people like us feel small and worthless.
* * *
When I get back into my room, Devon is dressed and sitting on my bed, scrolling through his phone.
He looks up when I walk in, and his eyebrows rise a little.
“You look nice,” he says.
I take him in. His hair needs some brushing and other than the suit, he looks a little plain. He’s even wearing those godforsaken Vans he wears to school.
“Thanks … Where are your shoes?” I ask.
He looks down at his feet.
“On my feet,” he says matter-of-factly.
“You can’t wear those.”
“Why not?”
“They clash with your outfit.”
He pauses, like he seems to a lot during our conversations. I always wonder what he’s thinking, why his expression gets all intense. I assume he’s realizing I’m right and thinking of ways to thank me for my wisdom.
“What size are you? I’ll see if my dad has anything that might fit,” I say. He should have some simple loafers or—
“I’m comfortable; I don’t want to change into your dad’s shoes,” he says sharply.
Why is he so difficult?
At least one of us will look the part tonight, that’s what counts.
“Can you at least let me do something to your hair?” I ask.
He nods. “Okay.”
I go into my bathroom, getting out an unused brush, comb, and styling gel from my supply cabinet. In the corner I spot some black eyeliner, and so I grab it too, before going straight over to Richards, on the bed. I start spreading some gel on his hair, combing it out the best I can.
I’m not exactly an expert on hair, but I do mine enough to know how to make it look half decent. He literally looked like he had just rolled out of bed and come here, which wouldn’t surprise me.
When I’m done with his hair, I take out the eyeliner and I go toward his eyelids. He jerks back a little with his hand up, like he’s shielding his face.