Bookishly Ever After (Ever After #1)(4)
“Dinner first,” Dad called from the kitchen. “You’re late, Trixie.”
She stopped blocking me for a second to call over her shoulder. “Sorry, there was an accident on the Turnpike that delayed all the buses.” Amusement played across Trixie’s face as she turned back and swatted my hand away from the bag. “You heard Dad. Dinner.”
I reached for the fabric again, endured another swat, and batt my eyelashes at her. “Please can I have the pretty? Please?”
“You’re terrible.” She swept past me and tugged on my sleeve to pull me away from her things. “And maybe it would do you some good to wait. I spoil you way too much for your own good, baby girl.”
“Because you love me.”
Trixie shook her head and dragged me back to the dinner table. “Right. Remember, you owe me a sweater after this.”
“Hold still.” Trixie jammed another pin into the top layer of my dress, just barely skimming my skin.
“Careful! You almost stabbed me.”
My older sister just pulled another pin out of the cushion on her wrist. “I told you not to move.” The second pin actually scraped my waist and I had to fight not to flinch. “I didn’t come down all the way from New York to screw up the fit on this thing.” Between pins, I ran a hand over the incredibly soft green fabric. “This isn’t what I bought.”
“I used my student discount to pick up some decent stuff in the Garment District. I can’t work with crappy fabric,” She lifted the skirt of the dress and let the green material run over her hands like a waterfall. “Pure silk.” She sniffed a corner of it. “It even still has that real silk smell.”
I swatted the material out of her hands. “Stop smelling my dress. That’s weird.”
She went back to pinning. “You smell books and yarn.”
“That’s different. There’s nothing in the world like brand new book or that sheep-y, wool-y smell.”
“Except for silk.” Apparently satisfied with sticking enough pins in the dress to make me into a life-sized voodoo doll, she stepped back to check me from a few angles. “Good. Time for the overlay.” She reached into her bag and pulled out a bundle of material that was as delicate as cobwebs. “Arms up, bend over.”
“Overlay? The description in the book didn’t say anything about an overlay on the dress,” I complained, but at one look from those dark brown eyes, I complied. Never mess with a girl who owns four different kinds of sewing shears.
She slipped the layers of gossamer fabric over my head, letting it swoosh down my body like a whisper. “Won’t need to alter this,” she murmured, pulling and prodding the fabric into place. A tiny smile slipped across her lips. “I have to say, I thought this was a weird challenge, but this dress will look amazing in my portfolio. I love that they decided to let you wear costumes to Homecoming.” She brushed at imaginary lint on the skirt.
“That’s because some parents started protesting that our Halloween Fling was satanic or something and the school had to cancel it. This was our only chance to dress up.”
“It’s almost too pretty for a costume.” We both turned to see Mom leaning against the doorway to our shared bedroom. Since Trixie went away to college, I had taken over most of the room, but we were standing in her still sacred corner of fabric and sewing machines, and sketches that papered the wall so thickly, you couldn’t see the violet paint underneath. “It’s a shame you’re not saving it for your Senior Prom.” Mom stepped inside and came over to inspect Trixie’s work.
My sister’s smile turned into a full-out grin and she shook her head hard enough for the red and orange tinting the ends of her short brown hair to flutter like flames. “No way. Imagine how much better I’ll be in a year. Feebs’ senior prom dress is going to be epic.”
“Why do I feel like I’m just one of your experiments?” I teased, faking a pout.
Trixie added a golden belt to my whole outfit. “Your crazy ideas actually work out. Plus, your body type is a nice challenge.” At my glare, she added, “I’m all straight up and down. You might be practically flat chested, but at least your hips give you some curves.”
“I don’t know whether to be insulted or flattered.”
“Flattered. And you can always pad in some fake boobs.” At my Mom’s frown, she quickly added, “Could. You don’t need to in this dress…” Mom kept frowning at her. “…and, um, because you’re only sixteen and not a prostitute?”
Even Mom laughed at that one. “You’re beautiful the way you are.” She made a twirly motion with her pointer finger. “Turn around, I want to see the entire thing.”
As I rotated carefully like a music box ballerina and tried not to stick myself with any of the pins, I said, “I’m using shoes from that Irish dance store and I’ve got temporary color and extensions to give me ‘waves of flowing red hair.’”
I stopped turning at the dismayed look on Mom’s face. “Oh, Phoebe. You have beautiful hair. Why would you do anything like that?” Leave it to Mom to say that. While Trixie had gotten dad’s straight chestnut hair, I had inherited hers. Our hair was fine, thin, and hovered in this part-curly, part-straight state that was frizzy ninety percent of the time. Mom always kept hers short like Trixie’s and probably never noticed. And our color was brown. Not chestnut. Not auburn, not golden brown. It was a nice, boring shade of dirt brown. People never dyed their hair our color.