Shadows Gray - By Melyssa Williams Page 0,44

just fine. Goodbyes happen all the time; you aren’t cursed and you aren’t the only one it happens to. That’s life, that’s all.” She winks at me, while piling her wavy hair on top her head and securing it with a clip.

“I know,” I sigh. “But I’ll miss them! Harry and Matthias were the only sane ones in the house! Well, if you don’t count their compulsive game show addiction.”

“What you need is a distraction. Forget your sorrows for a while.”

“I’m not getting drunk if that’s what you’re suggesting,” I grumble, picking apart my muffin until it’s nothing but a pile of crumbs; faintly purple hued.

Emme laughs.

“Oh!” I say, remembering. “I do have something of a distraction coming up tonight.” I tell her about my bucket list with Luke and how we are going to the art show.

“Mmmm,” she contemplates, her eyes sparkling. “And is this Luke a handsome bloke?”

“I hadn’t noticed,” I lie. Lying is a gift of the Lost – we all excel at it. I barely even flush.

“I see,” Emme responds and I can tell by her smile that she does. “Well, handsome or no, we’re going to get you ready and knock his knickers off!”

“Emme!”

“I meant socks! Knock his socks off!” Emme laughs so hard she has to hold her stomach and tears come to her eyes. Evidently my look of horror is hysterical. I flick a blueberry at her.

“Alright, alright,” she gasps for breath. “I’m done…really, I swear. Anyway, what are you planning on wearing? Because I can guarantee we will go with the opposite of your plan.”

“Ha ha, very funny. I was going to wear what I’m wearing right now.” I look down and inspect my clothes. Clean and barely wrinkled.

She narrows her eyes as she inspects my gray T-shirt and jeans. “No, you’re not. Art shows are something you dress up for, Sonnet. There’ll be hoity-toity rich people there, and appetizers, and wine. Blimey, girl, women will be wearing dresses and heels, and men will be all polished up and respectable like!”

“No way am I wearing heels,” I promise.

An hour later, I am wearing heels.

********************

“I look ridiculous,” I complain, as I walk back and forth in Emme’s tiny living room. My ankles still toddle and wobble and I feel like I am ten feet tall: not in a good way either.

“You do look ridiculous,” Emme agrees, hands on her hips, “But that’s because you’re wearing baggy pants and frowning. Stand up straight and smile!”

I stick my tongue out at her instead and as payment for my sassiness I promptly fall over and crash to the floor.

“Serves you right!” Emme giggles, “You’re the worst pupil I’ve ever had.”

“I’m the only pupil you’ve ever had. Are you sure these are the lowest heels you have? And the most plain?”

“They’re ordinary black pumps, Sonnet! For goodness sake, I wouldn’t wear those things to the grocery store, they’re so boring! But if you really don’t like them, I do have some four inch sparkly light up ones,” she teases.

“No, thanks.”

I look down at them. They are ordinary black and I suppose I’d hardly notice them on anyone else, but on me, they seem conspicuous and like they’re crying out for attention on my feet.

“But don’t worry, they won’t look boring when I get you into the dress I’m thinking of. Come on now, stop stalling. We still have hair and make-up.” She yanks me to my feet.

“I hate make-up,” I mutter. Make-up makes me think of Harry and Matthias who would be appalled at me wearing the stuff. I never bother, mostly because I don’t want to buy any and also because my eyes are striking enough without lining them or darkening my lashes. And I’ve never tried lipstick either, unless rubbing burst berries on my lips as a pre-teen in Portugal counts. I doubt Emme would count that.

Emme leads me to her bedroom and yanks out a deep red dress from her closet. It is very beautiful, with small straps and a satin feel to it.

“You’re three feet shorter than I am. How’s this going to work?” I demand.

“It’s too long on me. And I’m hardly three feet shorter, drama queen. A few inches. It will show off those long legs you have.”

I don’t want to show off my long legs. I want to wear my jeans. With sneakers. But I obediently step into it and let Emme zip up the back. I turn to face the mirror.

“It’s tight,” I object.

“Is not!”

“Is too! I can’t hardly

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