THE UNDEAD NEXT DOOR - By Kerrelyn Sparks Page 0,1

adding some collagen to my hand. My knuckles are so bony."

Heather took a moment to assimilate. Sheesh, she and Sasha didn't have a lot in common anymore. Their lives had certainly gone in different directions since high school. "Maybe instead of cosmetic surgery, you could try something really radical. Like eating food."

Sasha tittered with laughter. Men in the room turned to stare at her, and she rewarded them by flipping her long blond hair over her shoulders. "You're such a hoot, Heather. But I do eat food. I swear I have no control whatsoever. I've eaten two mushrooms tonight."

"You should be flogged."

"I know. Let me show you the new gown I'll be wearing soon." Sasha led her over to a gray mannequin posed on top of a glossy black cube. The mannequin wore a stunning white gown with no back and a front neckline that plummeted to the navel.

Heather's eyes widened. Never in a hundred years would she have the nerve to wear such a dress. Never in a hundred years would anyone want to see her in it, either. "Wow."

"It's very clingy fabric," Sasha explained, "so I can't wear a stitch underneath. I'll be incredibly sexy."

"Right."

"I might wear it at the charity show in two weeks."

"I heard about that." The proceeds were going to the local school district, Heather's employer. "It was very nice of Echarpe to do that."

Sasha waved her bony hand in the air. "Oh, he doesn't have anything to do with it. Alberto's arranging it. Anyway, I'm thrilled to be in the show."

"Congratulations. I hope I get to see it."

"I'm only on the runway once." Sasha stuck out her collagen-enhanced lower lip. "It's not fair. Simone and Inga get two walks down the runway."

"Oh, I'm sorry."

"I've been trying not to worry about it 'cause it would just give me lines. But I swear, who do you have to sleep with around here to get some respect?"

Heather winced. "Why don't you just talk to Alberto?"

"Oh. That's a good idea." She waved at the young man.

"Sasha, darling, you look fabulous." Alberto rushed over and kissed her on both cheeks.

"This is my dear friend from high school, Heather Lynn Westfield." Sasha motioned to her.

"How do you do?" Heather smiled and extended a hand.

Alberto leaned over to kiss her hand. "Charmed." His eyes widened when he noticed her dress.

Shoot, she felt like a hillbilly. Heather opened her mouth to speak, but Sasha beat her to it.

"Alberto, darling, could we go somewhere private?" Sasha curled her hands around his arm and gave him a smoky look from under her false eyelashes. "I'd like to...talk."

Alberto's gaze was riveted on Sasha's low neckline. "I have an office nearby. We could...talk there."

"That would be lovely." Sasha leaned closer so her breasts were pressed against his arm. "I'm feeling very...talkative."

Heather watched, fascinated. It was like being in a live soap opera. Was Sasha offended that Alberto was conversing with her breasts? Were her breasts real? Would she slap him into next week or go to his office with him? And what about Alberto? Was he gay or metrosexual? Would they actually talk?

Alberto escorted Sasha across the store. Heather sighed. The show was over. She was always the observer, never the action figure.

Sasha glanced back and mouthed the word bingo.

Heather nodded with a sudden feeling of déjà vu. It was high school all over again. Sexy Sasha was making out in the classroom while Helpful Heather waited by the lockers and served as lookout. Would it always be this way? Why couldn't she be the daring one for once? Why couldn't she wear one of these sexy, revealing gowns?

Well, she couldn't afford it, for one thing. And she was too overweight. She circled the gown Sasha had talked about. So what if she couldn't wear it or buy it? She could make something similar to it. And she could probably do it for about fifty bucks.

White had never been a good color for her. She was too fair and freckly. No, she would do it in midnight-blue. Instead of cutting the neckline to the navel, she'd back it up to the top of her breasts. And she'd put a back on the dress. And sleeves. The ideas were coming faster than she could think them through. She opened her purse and found a pencil and pad of paper that the folks at Schnitzelberg Hardware had given her at their last gardening sale.

Jean-Luc Echarpe could take his multithousand-dollar price tags and toss them off the Eiffel Tower.