ONE
A smear of red across her thumb pressed into the hollows and spirals of her skin. Pip studied it like a maze. It could be blood, if she squinted. It wasn’t, but she could trick her eyes if she wanted to. It was Ruby Woo, the red lipstick her mom had insisted she wear to “complete the 1920s look.” Pip kept forgetting about it and accidentally touching her mouth: another smudge there on her little finger. Bloodstains everywhere, standing out against her pale skin.
They pulled up outside the Reynoldses’ house. Pip had always thought the house looked like a face, the windows staring down at her.
“We’re here, pickle,” her dad said needlessly from the front of the car. He turned to her, a wide smile on his face, creasing his black skin and the gray-flecked beard he was “trying out for summer,” much to her mom’s dismay. “Have fun. I’m sure it’ll be a night to die for.”
Pip groaned. How long had he been planning to say that? Zach, beside her, gave a polite laugh. Zach was her neighbor; the Chens lived four doors down from the Amobis, so Pip and Zach were always in and out of each other’s cars, getting rides to and back together. Pip had her own car now, since she’d turned seventeen, but it was in the shop this weekend. Almost like her dad had planned it so they’d have to suffer through his terrible murder-based jokes.
“Any more?” Pip said, wrapping the black feather boa around her arms, making them look even whiter. She opened the door, pausing to roll her eyes at him.
“Oh, if looks could kill,” her dad said with a little too much flair.
There was always one more. “OK, goodbye, Dad,” she said, stepping out, Zach mirroring her on the other side, thanking Mr. Amobi for the lift.
“Have fun,” Pip’s dad called. “You both look dressed to kill!”
And another. Annoyingly, Pip couldn’t help but laugh at that one.
“Oh, and, Pip,” her dad said, dropping the act, “Cara’s dad is giving you a lift back. If you get home before Mom and I are back from the movie, will you let the dog out?”
“Yes, yes.” She waved him off, walking up to the front door side by side with Zach. He looked slightly ridiculous, in a red blazer with navy stripes, crisp white pants, and a black bow tie, with a straw boater hat covering his straight dark hair. His little name badge read Ralph Remy.
“Ready, Ralph?” she asked, pressing the doorbell. And then again. She was impatient to get this over and done with. Sure, she
hadn’t seen her friends all together in weeks, and maybe this would be fun. But she had work waiting for her at home, and fun, after all, was just a waste of time. Still, she could pretend well enough, and pretending wasn’t lying.
“After you, Celia Bourne.” Zach smiled, and she could tell he was excited. Maybe she’d have to pretend a little better, arranging a grin on her face too.
It was Connor who opened the door, except he didn’t exactly look like Connor Reynolds anymore. He’d put some kind of colored wax in his normally dark blond hair. It was now gray, and pasted neatly back from his face. There were brown wiggly face-paint lines around his eyes: a poor attempt at wrinkles. He was wearing a black tuxedo—it had to have been borrowed from his dad—and a matching white waistcoat and bow tie, with a napkin folded over one arm.
“Good evening.” Connor bowed low, some of his gray hair unsticking and flopping forward with him. “Welcome back to Remy Manor. I’m the butler, Humphrey Todd,” he said, emphasis on the “hump.”
There was a squeal as Lauren appeared in the hallway behind Connor. She was wearing a red flapper dress, the tassels on the hem skimming her knees. A bell-shaped hat hid most of her ginger hair, and there was a string of pearls wrapped around her neck, knocking against her Lizzie Remy badge. “Is that my husband?” she said excitedly, bounding forward and dragging poor Zach into the house after her.
“I see everyone’s already far too excited,” Pip said, following Connor down the hall.
“Ah, well, it’s good you’ve arrived to bring us all back down,” he teased her.
She widened her grin and pretended even harder.
“Your parents home?” she asked.
“No, they’re away for the weekend. And Jamie’s out. House to ourselves.”
Connor’s brother, Jamie, was six years older than them, but he’d been living at home ever since he dropped out of college. Pip remembered back when it happened, how thick the tension had been in the Reynoldses’ house, how they’d all learned to tiptoe around it. Now it was one of those not-talked-about topics.
They arrived in the kitchen, where Lauren had towed Zach and was now handing him a drink. Cara and Ant were there too, with matching glasses of red wine. An improvement on whatever concoctions they usually made from half-full bottles in unguarded drinks cabinets.
“ ’Ello, Madam Pip,” Cara—Pip’s best friend—said in a terrible cockney accent, sidling forward to fiddle with Pip’s
feather boa before letting it flop back against her garish emerald-green dress. Pip missed her normal overalls. “How fancy.”
“Thrift store,” Pip replied, taking in Cara’s costume. She was wearing a frumpy black dress with a long white cook’s apron, her dark blond hair covered by a gray bandanna. She had also gone for the face-paint-wrinkle look, slightly more subtle and effective than Connor’s. “How old is your character supposed to be?” Pip asked.
“Oh, ancient,” Cara said. “Fifty-six.”
“You look eighty-six.”
Ant snorted, and Pip turned to him finally. ...
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