disappearing into their faces in their coats of white-pink lipstick, their cheeks pale, luminous as the moon.
Aunt Cass looked at Maggie in the mirror. Maggie looked back. Her face was hot. “You look fine, honey,” her aunt said. She moved the curtains aside and the older girls crowded in. “You look so cute,” one of them said, a buxom blonde whose chest had peeked out of the neckline of the dress she had tried on. “God, you’re so thin,” the fat sister said.
Monica stayed in the chair, playing with a piece of her honey-colored hair, wrapping it around one long finger. Her engagement ring glittered. Her mother moved aside so that Monica could see Maggie, and for the first time that day Monica smiled. “It’s you,” Monica said, narrowing her eyes. “It’s really you.” Maggie’s eyes dropped until she could no longer see Monica’s reflection in the mirror, except for one long tanned leg swinging back and forth restlessly over the silken upholstery of the green-and-pink striped chair. Then, with a great effort, she looked up again and stared her cousin straight in the eye. The smile was still there. “I think it’s fine,” Maggie said, determined to be agreeable. “Besides, no one will care what I’m wearing. Everybody will be staring at Monica. Everyone will be interested in her dress. No one will be able to take their eyes off her.”
“It is the bride’s day, certainly,” said the saleswoman brightly, lifting the hat from Maggie’s hair.
Monica rose from the chair and came over to the mirror, and Maggie noticed that she seemed a little clumsy. She looked Maggie up and down and then she went back to her purse and Maggie heard a scraping sound. Her cousin came up behind her, a smile on her face, and held up a lighted match.
“There is no smoking in the salon, miss,” said the saleswoman primly.
“Tell my cousin,” said Monica as she stared at Maggie in the mirror. Then she blew out the match.
“So I say to my soon-to-be-father-in-law, the New York City police officer,” Monica began, circling Maggie, still holding the stub of the match, “I say, Sergeant, what if you had a lovely young girl who had never been in any trouble before and suddenly she joins a band of arsonists. Arsonists! And this is what he says.”
One of the bridesmaids giggled nervously. “Monica, you are strange,” she said.
“Shut up, Cheryl,” Monica said pleasantly. Then she continued, “He says, Monica, my dear, if the local authorities were given such information, the girl in question would go to the local juvenile detention center. In other words, reform school. And I said, my, my, my. If I had such information, should I divulge it? And my soon-to-be-father-in-law said, it is your duty as a citizen. Well, you can imagine how upset I was. I hate to tell tales on people. I think anyone who tells tales on people is a rat.” Monica caught Maggie’s eyes in the mirror. “Especially about something important. Something that could ruin their whole life.”
Maggie had wheeled around, but the saleswoman was kneeling at her feet, pinning the hem of the dress, and she was caught halfway between the mirror and her cousin. She finally managed to turn completely. With a smile, Monica held out the match.
“What is it like to be like you?” Maggie said, staring into her cousin’s amber eyes, looking for something inside them.
“Don’t play with fire,” Monica said.
“I mean it. How can you stand yourself?”
“Maggie,” said Aunt Cass, her voice trembling.
“Liar, liar, your pants are on fire,” said Monica in an even voice. “Just a warning, Maria Goretti. Anything you can do I can do better. You may think it’s Monica, zero, Maggie, one. But you’re wrong. We’re even now.”
“That’s not how I am,” Maggie said.
“Oh,” Monica said in a squeaky little voice. “That’s not how I am. I’m a good girl.”
“You are a witch, Monica,” Maggie said.
“Now, Maggie,” said Aunt Cass.
“My, my, my,” Monica repeated, her smile tight.
“And you don’t fool me one bit,” Maggie added.
“I don’t fool you,” said Monica, and though her voice was low it somehow felt as if she was screaming. “I don’t fool you. God! With your family? With your birthday six months after your parents’ anniversary? Don’t talk to me about fooling. Don’t talk to me, Maria Goretti. All I have to do is open my mouth and you’ll be in so much trouble you’ll never know what happened. Good little Maggie Scanlan. God, if they only