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I froze. In the time my mind shouted for me to turn and get out of there, they surrounded me, closing me in a ring of designer dresses, stilettos, clutch bags, and dye jobs. Lyla’s smile reached all the way to her eyes. True delight at trapping prey.
“That is you,” Lyla purred. “I almost didn’t recognize you in those— Heavens, sweetie, what on earth are you wearing?”
My face burned with humiliation. There were three people I prayed every day and night would not see me like this: living at rock bottom. Lyla was number three.
If I had any doubt the universe hates me, she just kicked sense into my head. She hated me more than anyone.
Lifting my chin, I said, “Like it? I’ve been working on this look for months. I call it homeless chic.”
Lyla’s laugh tinkled above the noise.
The whole crowd was there. Lyla, Madison, Naomi, Skylar, and Brielle—as lovely as their names. On the outside.
Lyla looked like a supermodel in college—time, money, and fancier clothes hadn’t changed that. Her kiwi-brown hair flowed past her shoulders and skimmed the waist of her Caddell last-season pants. She looked down her aquiline nose, top-heavy lips tugging up at the side. Her friends/coworkers varied in size, shape, and features, but like last I’d seen them, their haircuts and clothes weren’t far off Lyla. Everyone saw her as their image to behold. The goal to aspire to, and then curl into a ball and cry when you inevitably fell short.
Everyone worshipped Lyla Dawson—except for me. No wonder we never hit it off.
“Homeless? You must be joking.”
“No, Lyla, I’m not joking.” I closed the distance, staring her down. “I sleep in a tent under an overpass now, so take a good look. Snap a picture or two. This is the consequences of your evil, twisted games.”
She wrinkled her nose. “Hmm, well, I assume people don’t walk around smelling this bad for a gag.” Her entourage howled, raising my hackles. “So you fell on hard times and you’re blaming me? That’s rich. None of this would’ve happened if you weren’t a cheating, scheming liar. But it’s not like I expected much more from you. It’s in the genes, sweetie. You were cursed from the day Mommy spat you out. How is Mommy Blaine, by the way?” The sickly, sweet tone jarred with the malice etched in that pretty face. “Is she up for parole yet? Or did they grant her the needle? Face it, Kenzie, you’re exactly where people like you belong: in the trash.”
Lyla straightened, flipping her hair over her shoulder. “This is the part where I shove your shoulder walking off, but I’m sure you don’t mind if I skip it. I’d rather roll in that vomit puddle than touch you.”
I slid to the side, sweeping out a hand that vibrated with rage. “Please, go ahead. No doubt you’ve got to rush back to the plastic surgeon and correct that jacked-up nose job. He can’t have meant to make one nostril wider than the other.”
“Wha—?” She flew to her nose, eyes bugging. “That’s not—”
I was already walking off.
“Bitch!”
Middle finger over the shoulder was all Lyla and her buddies got in response. Everything in me ached to go back and jack up her nose job for real, but I saw the outcome playing out in a movie reel. Dozens of witnesses see a raggedy homeless woman punch out the gorgeous, fashionable Lyla Dawson. The cops roar up and receive four sworn statements from Lyla’s posse that I attacked completely unprovoked because I was probably off my meds. I’m hauled off to jail, and Lyla shakes her head, smirking through the blood that I’m finally going exactly where I belong.
I couldn’t deny her barbs hit home—each and every one. But I would deny her the satisfaction of giving Lyla what she truly wanted: to witness me sink lower.
As if I could fall any lower.
Leaving Seventh Street behind, I swipe a stray tear from my cheek, willing the barrier that held my sobs for five months not to break as I turned down a side road, hugging myself tight.
All I’d ever done my whole life was what I thought was right. I worked hard, loved freely, stayed true to myself, and never compromised my beliefs. Why didn’t I see in time that there was nothing the phony hated more than the genuine?
My steps slowed on the sidewalk, coming to a stop at the browning lawn’s border. Paint chipped off the fading plaster before my eyes—dotting the anemic flower bed with white polka dots. Through the window, she sat in her usual place, conked in front of the television. Her only claim to movement was lifting her hand in and out of the popcorn bowl.
The pressing urge to cry faded under the tide of a stronger, twice-as-scorching swell.
