I think,
She’s going to burrito-wrap me in a bedspread. That’s my costume?
She counters my obvious disappointment with “Have I ever steered you wrong?”
I shake my head.
“Trust me?”
There’s no reason not to.
Ambrosia begins by draping the fabric across one of my shoulders, then wraps it around my midriff, tucking it here and there, arranging and rearranging the cloth so that it swoops down to my ankles and then back up in a loop, finishing in a U-shape that dips to the small of my back. She does this without using even a single safety pin. I never understand this fashion magic, how some girls can take hand-me-downs, like an old scarf or an outgrown skirt, and turn it into something new and flattering. My costume—it’s a dress, sort of a tunic-toga—fully covers one leg, but the other leg peeks out from a slit when I walk. It’s bare all the way up to the hip, which makes my legs look super long and thin. The fabric makes a
whoosh
when I move.
Ambrosia snaps two fingers. “Elegant, classy, irresistible.”
“Are you sure?”
“Hmmm, it’s a little
too
tasteful.” She pushes her elbows together. “Do like this.”
I imitate the motion, which emphasizes my cleavage. In the past week, I swear that I went from an A cup to a C. I love it, but … panic.
“I can’t wear this.”
She looks surprised, even a little hurt. “Why not? You don’t like the fabric?”
“That’s not it. It’s beautiful and comfortable. What is it, anyway? It looks and feels like another layer of skin. Only…” I search for the words. I think about the Meg I’ve been for so many years, the one with the overbite and frizzy hair and no waist, the one who hides in baggy clothes and avoids her reflection in the mirror. “This outfit is … not me.”
“Why isn’t it you?”
I point first to the bulging boobs and then to the naked thigh. “You know what I was for Halloween last year? An old man. Size 12 pants pulled to my armpits. Mustache. Pillow for a pot belly. That’s me.”
Ambrosia takes a big hank of my hair, which, thanks to the miracle formula, is wavier and softer than it’s ever been in my life, and drapes it over my bare shoulder. “Not anymore. This is you now. You have beauty and power. Accept it. Flaunt it. Embrace it.”
“You’re sure? I don’t want to look pathetic and ridiculous, one of those girls who’s trying to be someone she’s not.”
“I know exactly who you are. I worked too hard for too long on this project to have any doubts. Go ask the others their opinion.”
I turn toward the closet door, but she orders me to stop. “One more thing.” She leans in with a pair of tweezers, plucks a wild hair sprouting from a small mole on my back.
“Ouch!”
She extends her arm with the dagger index finger pointing. “Toughen up. Pain and sacrifice are necessary. Go!”
Barefoot, glistening with oil, half naked except for the two pounds of makeup on my face, I step out of the closet and suddenly I don’t need any more reassurance. My arms, which were crossed on my chest in uncertainty, drop to my sides.
All the proof I need stares back at me. I know I look amazing because Alix and Stephanie look amazing. I know I am magnificent because
they
are magnificent. We are our costumes and our costumes are us, inseparable, spitting images of who we are inside, three different versions of the Furies, our powers no longer hidden but turned into fabric and flesh, buttons and zippers, for everyone to see.
Alix, Alecto, her skin a metallic shimmer. She has the complexion of an ancient statue. Her hair is slicked back to resemble a warrior’s helmet, tufts of it gelled to stand up like a thick row of feathers curving from her forehead to the nape of her neck. The short shorts of her costume emphasize every bulge in her legs; the outlines of her quadriceps are like something you see in an anatomy book, nothing wasted, nothing extra. She pulls the halter lace tight, calling attention to the ripple of tendons in her arms. You can count every muscle in her stomach. You could serve dinner on the broad, straight plane of her back.
“These shoes rock!” she says. There’s no foot, no sole or heel, only circles of brown leather from her instep to knee. It takes her several minutes to latch the dozen or so metal buckles, and when she’s done, Ambrosia tells her to stand very still for one final accessory.
She brings out a long strand of seaweed that smells of the ocean and ties it around Alix’s bare middle.
“Show us who you are, Alecto, and what you can withstand.”
Alix flinches and sweat breaks out on her forehead. This is not ordinary kelp plucked straight from the sea. It comes from Ambrosia’s collection of mysteries and it is hot, branding-iron hot. I smell flesh burning. I want to help Alix. I reach out to rip off the seaweed, but Ambrosia blocks my way. She puts a finger to her lips, a warning and encouragement.
Pain and sacrifice are necessary
.
If Ambroisa has faith that Alix can withstand this test, she can. I know she can! Her eyes squeeze closed and her jaw clenches with the enormous effort needed not to yell out in pain.
Then finally the sizzling sound stops. Alix’s features immediately relax. The test is over and she has passed. When Ambrosia removes the seaweed, Stephanie and I examine the wound. There is no jagged scar or oozing open sore. Alix, amazed, runs her fingers around her midriff. Here is the perfect finishing touch to her costume, a tattooed impression of kelp, fish scales, and the tentacles of an octopus. She is part warrior, part mermaid—a furious Warrior Mermaid—and she glows with pride.
Stephanie, Tisiphone, is up next. She’s the perfect manifestation of the Earth she loves so much. You can’t see any hair on her head, only petals, vines, blossoms, and leaves. Her cheeks radiate pink like she’s part sun. Paired with a black satin unitard, the bat wings no longer seem like a costume that she slipped on. They spring from the curves of her shoulder blades like a natural growth. I can see the pulse of—is that blood?—flowing through them. She models the wings, experimenting with the different ways they beat.
Ambrosia places a dab of liquid behind each of Stephanie’s ears. That, too, must be boiling hot, but she understands what she must do. Stephanie goes deep inside of herself to hold firm against the pain. She merges with it. When the perfume finally cools, her eyes open and she smiles with an otherworldly blissfulness. The room fills with the scent of a freshly planted garden: basil, oregano, thyme, mint. The odor is so thick that as soon as I think of an herb, I taste it on my tongue.
And finally there’s me, Megaera, not some shy, awkward girl anymore, but—what adjectives did Ambrosia use?—elegant, classy, irresistible. Sexy, too. Very sexy.
“You look wow.” Alix lets out a whistle of admiration.
“When did you get that long neck?” Stephanie asks. I lift my hair to show off a neck that has turned lean and graceful.
To get better looks at ourselves, we hurry to the huge hallway mirror. I take it all in, the way my hair mimics the shine and intricate waves of the metal filigree. My eyes are slanted in black and the lids glisten with gold flakes. I run my hands along the curves of my torso and hips, then peer over my shoulder to check out my bottom, which sits high and round, two ripe cantaloupes. Even my toes look fabulous. I wiggle them. Sexy, purple jewels.
Ambrosia comes up behind me, leans closer, and I feel the flutter of her breath as she speaks into my ear. “You’ll need privacy tonight. My room. It’ll be vacant, off limits to everyone but you and him.”
“You trust him, then?”
“Go party with your prince. Indulge your desires. Don’t hold back on your fun. Why would you? But deep down”—she reaches around and places her palms flat on my belly; they rise and fall with my breath—“deep down, be prepared. Maybe you’re right about him and he’ll pass the test. Just don’t lose your heart. Remember who has the power.”
I shiver, and it’s not only because of the skimpy costume. How would it feel not to hold back? I want to experience that, to indulge my desires. Ambrosia runs a nail the length of my arms, and the sensation causes even more goose bumps to spring to the surface.
From a fancy leather case she takes out a necklace designed to resemble a coiling serpent. “Stay awake,” she reminds me. When she drapes the jewelry around my neck I flinch, expecting it to be burning hot, my trial of pain and sacrifice. But there’s only the slight chill of metal, which quickly warms to my body temperature. I know by the weight and texture that the necklace must be real gold. The front clasp is a three-headed cobra with ruby, sapphire, and emerald eyes. When I tilt my head to my chest to admire it, there’s a hiss and three darting tongues. It’s over so fast that I wonder if it really happened.
Ambrosia disappears into her room and returns with a tray that holds four shot glasses filled to the brim with a clear liquid. We follow her lead and each raise a glass to toast. The drink has an unusual and strong odor—definitely alcohol, but also hints of cinnamon, cloves, and other spices that make me think of pumpkin pie.
“Opa! Party!” Ambrosia shouts. “This drink will turn a colorless world very vibrant.”
I imitate the others and chug it down, only I’m the one who chokes because I’m not used to drinking. Alix pounds me on the back. After the burn in my throat fades, I decide that I like it. It’s so cold and sweet that it makes my teeth tingle, and it tastes like licorice.
From our position at the top of the stairs, we hear the band warming up in the living room. There’s feedback from the speakers, a jarring, painful electronic screech. The doorbell rings. The front door opens. Voices. Laughs. Squeals of recognition. A guitar plays a familiar nine-note riff. A boy’s voice yells: “Hell, yeah!”
“Don’t make your entrance too early,” Ambrosia advises. “But not too late, either. Timing is everything.”
The doorbell again. And again. Sounds merging together. We wait unseen, the three of us fussing with each other, making little costume adjustments and offering compliments.
Ambrosia nods.
It’s time.
I remind myself: Every desire. Don’t hold back.
We put on our masks, which are small, simple, and black, with holes for our eyes. I link arms with Alix and Stephanie. I feel their power and I know they feel mine. We walk down the stairs. Ambrosia throws an electrical switch. The entire house, inside and out, glows and pulses with thousands of orange lights.
24
One step and then
another. We’re almost into view.
All my confidence disappears. Total terror. I can’t go through with this. I hate parties. Social stuff makes me break out in hives. The costume that a minute ago was elegant and irresistible feels silly. Worse than silly. I’m basically naked.
I consider fleeing back up the stairs. But Stephanie reaches over and takes my hand, presses it tight against her side. The rough, satiny fabric of her wings rubs against my bare arm, and that is the exact sensation I need right now. There’s strength and comfort in it. Alix takes my other hand. We need each other. We have each other. What am I afraid of? I encourage myself with Ambrosia’s instructions: Accept it. Flaunt it. Embrace it.
As one unit, the three of us override any hesitation. We are the Furies. We are powerful. Together we can deal with a teenage party. Of course we can!
Another step and another.
Alix’s feet laced in leather, Stephanie’s vine-covered ankles and my purple-painted toes land at the bottom of the stairs in perfect rhythm. And when they do, it’s like we flipped an attention-getting switch. There’s a final cymbal crash and the band goes silent. People stop talking and flirting.
At every party there’s one group that all the energy orbits around. Obviously I’ve never been that center. I’m lucky if one nerd even talks to me one time. But now we are that center. I hear all the spoken and unspoken questions: Is that who I think it is? Where did they get such great costumes? When did she get such fantastic hair?
I never realized how starved for this kind of attention I am. I love it. But it’s also freaking me out. Being noticed comes with its own pressure. Whom should I talk to? What should I do with my hands? What about Brendon? Where is he? Was the whole romantic cave scene just a fluke? I’m supposed to be irresistible tonight, but I’m sure that I am going to blurt out stupid, lame things.
There’s another cymbal crash that signals the start of a new song, and the void fills at once with guitar licks, drum rolls, talking, singing, laughing, eating, dancing. I need some space to get my bearings. I look for a quiet corner to duck into. Perfect. It’s a corner with a table full of alcohol. I need alcohol desperately. I find a bottle of the licorice drink and take another shot to steady my nerves. This time I’m ready for the kick, and it burns only a little going down. Warmth spreads through me. I remove my mask.
Alix, I notice, is having no such trouble handling all the attention. She’s just fine. That’s because, basically, she’s oblivious. When there’s this much free food and booze in a room, it’s impossible for her to think about anything else. A wide path clears as she takes giant steps to the buffet table, humming happily as she piles a plate high with chicken wings, cheese, ribs, and desserts. All the ultra-skinny, anorexic girls are staring with envy at her appetite, wondering how her stomach remains so flat with all the food going into it. They aren’t the only jealous ones. A group of buff guys from the weight-lifting and wrestling teams are openly admiring Alix’s six-pack framed by her high midriff top. Their own muscles don’t measure up.
Stephanie, too, seems relaxed with her drawing power. I guess it’s easier for her because she’s always been okay with making a spectacle of herself. She strolls the perimeter of the room, showing off her wings and telling people that their beer bottles need to be recycled and that their plastic cups should be refilled and reused. I do notice a phenomenon that Stephanie isn’t aware of. Whenever she sashays past a group, something amazing happens. People in the middle of talking, joking, arguing, eating,
whatever
, stop cold. They take long inhales of her perfume. Each face gets the same expression, and the only way to describe it is to string together adjectives that don’t normally go together—lost, eager, hungry, hopeful, like they’re on the verge of recalling some old memory that they need urgently to remember.