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“Sure. I’ll get it for you.”
“And maybe use your bathtub while I’m at it. If you don’t mind.”
“Take whatever you need from the medicine cabinet. Deodorant, toothpaste.” She paused. “Makeup.”
Blue smiled.
April smiled back. “I’ll put out some clothes you can change into.”
Blue couldn’t imagine anything designed for April’s willowy body fitting her, but she appreciated the offer.
“My car keys are on the counter,” April said. “There’s a twenty in the drawer next to my bed. When Riley wakes up, would you mind driving her into town for lunch?”
“I’m not taking your money.”
“I’ll bill it to Dean. Please, Blue. I want to keep her away from him until Jack’s people get here.”
Blue wasn’t sure that keeping the eleven-year-old away was the best thing for either Riley or Dean, but she’d already been called to task for meddling, so she reluctantly nodded. “All right.”
April had laid out a delicate pink camisole and a frothy little afterthought of a ruffled skirt. She’d hastily modified both garments with some kind of double-sided tape to make them smaller. Blue knew she’d look adorable in the outfit. Way too adorable. The fluff-ball who wore those clothes might as well be wearing a SCREW ME OVER sign. This was the problem Blue always faced whenever she got around to fixing herself up, the main reason she’d stopped doing it.
Instead of the clothes on the bed, Blue appropriated a navy T-shirt. It did little to improve her purple tie-dyed yoga pants, but even she couldn’t stomach appearing in public in her orange BODY BY BEER sleeping T-shirt. Vanity reared its ugly head, and she dipped into April’s makeup—a swipe of soft pink tint on her cheeks, a little lip stain, and enough mascara to make it apparent exactly how long her lashes were. Just once, she wanted Dean to see that she was perfectly capable of looking decent. She simply didn’t care to.
“You look nice with makeup,” Riley said from the passenger seat of April’s Saab as she and Blue headed into town. “Not so washed out.”
“You’ve spent too much time around that awful Trinity.”
“You’re the only person who thinks she’s awful. Everybody else loves her.”
“No, they don’t. Okay, probably her mom. The rest are just pretending.”
Riley gave a faint, guilty smile. “I like it when you talk bad about Trinity.”
Blue laughed.
Since Garrison lacked a Pizza Hut, they picked Josie’s, the restaurant across from the pharmacy. Josie’s was short on charm, the food was lousy, and it lacked employment opportunities—Blue asked about a job first thing—but Riley liked it. “I never ate anyplace like this. It’s different.”
“It definitely has character.” Blue had settled on a BLT, which turned out to be more L than B or T.
Riley pulled a translucent sliver of tomato off her burger. “What does that mean?”
“It means it’s only like itself.”
Riley thought it over. “Sort of like you.”
“Thanks. You, too.”
Riley stuffed a French fry in her mouth. “I’d rather be pretty.”
Riley had left on her FOXY T-shirt, but exchanged the dirty lavender cords for a pair of too-tight denim shorts that squeezed her stomach. They’d settled into a cracked brown vinyl booth that afforded a good view of a bad collection of western landscape art displayed on nauseating pastel blue walls along with some dusty ballerina figurines resting in shadow box frames. A pair of blond, fake wood ceiling fans stirred the smell of fried food.
The door opened and the lunchtime buzz stilled as a formidable-looking older woman limped in, supporting herself with a cane. She was overweight, overpowdered, and overdressed in bright watermelon pink slacks and a matching tunic. Multiple gold chains accented a plunging V-neck, and the stones in her dangling earrings looked as though they might be real diamonds. She’d probably once been beautiful, but she hadn’t permitted herself to age gracefully. The sprayed mass of teased platinum hair that curled, waved, and swooped around her face had to be a wig. She’d drawn in her eyebrows with a light brown pencil but abandoned restraint with thick black mascara and frosted blue eye shadow. A small mole, which might once have been seductive, sagged at the corner of her bright pink lips. Tan orthopedic oxfords supporting badly swollen ankles were the only concession she’d made to her age.
None of the lunch crowd seemed happy to see her, but Blue regarded her with interest. The woman surveyed the crowded restaurant, her disdainful gaze flicking over the regulars, then settling on Blue and Riley. Seconds ticked by as she openly studied them. Finally, she bore down, her pink tunic molding to a formidable set of breasts held high by an excellent bra.
“Who,” she said, when she reached their table, “are you?”
“I’m Blue Bailey. And this is my friend Riley.”
