“Sixteen—duh.” She shrugged a dainty shoulder. “But don’t worry, I help my brother dress for events all the time. I might be young, but I’m a professional.”
I was worried.
At that exact moment, Fluffy Jr., who was lying on my bed, gnawing on his oversize front paw, let out a burp.
If that doesn’t sum up my life.
Helen burst into laughter and plugged her nose. “Your protector is so cute.” She made a kissy face at Fluffy Jr. (he didn’t notice; he wasn’t the brightest). “He’s so...real. Ya know? His energy is like—fierce. In a relatable way. He’s not stuffy or pompous. He’s down to earth. Troubled but strong.”
No, I didn’t know.
I was not getting any of that from him.
My bewilderment must have shown on my face because she turned back to the rack of dresses. “Okay, time to focus.” She waved her hand at me. “Have you gotten your color analysis done this season by a professional? I don’t want to guess.”
I choked.
“No,” I said, ignoring my deteriorating mind. “I haven’t.”
She reeled back and gasped, sheer terror in her eyes.Did a Titan break in?I whirled.
We were alone.
My heart pounded erratically, and I breathed deeply, trying to calm down. Lately it felt like I was living on a razor’s edge.
The only thing I’d done “this season” was freeze to death, starve, receive gifts of body parts, run the circuit, and study until I wanted to die.
I’d also daydreamed about Carl Gauss shirtless, secretly started writing another fanfiction about him, and gone nonverbalfor two weeks after Maximum’s death because I didn’t want to talk to anyone.
We all coped with horrors in different ways.
As if on cue, voices whispered at the edge of my subconscious.
“You’ve never been color analyzed?” Her jaw dropped. “What do you wear each day? How do you know what to put on?” She looked down at my skull sweatshirt. “Actually—that makes sense.”
I looked down too. “What’s wrong with it? It’s c-cozy.”
Helen burst into surprisingly deep throaty laughter. “You’re a funny one. Everyone in Sparta takes themselves way too seriously, especially the women, ya know—cause we’re so rare. It getsverycatty out there. But you seem chill... I think we’re gonna be good friends.”
I rubbed at my aching temples.
She seems to be confusing exhaustively traumatized for chill.
“Actually now that I’m looking at it...” She tapped her glossy pink lips. “I think I’ve seen that sweatshirt before?”
“Probably Patro’s.” I’d found it in his house after all.
“No, it’s definitely not his—even though it has a horrifying graphic, which he would like. That’s an expensive cashmere blend from the Himalayas... I’m pretty sure it’s custom-made. He never splurges on clothes like that.”
“Oh.” I shrugged.
“You say you found it. Are you sure someone didn’t leave it for you? It can actually be a big deal in Sparta, gifting?—”
“No, I found it.” I cut her off because once she started on a topic, she tended to get stuck.
Also, it was just a sweatshirt. It wasn’t that deep. It was soft and almost hung to my knees; that was the important part.
“Okay.” She clapped her hands. “I always get distracted—I’ve diagnosed myself with like a million things—but let’s stay focused. You are the talk of Sparta—the abandoned female mutt from the House of Zeus who has crushed all the boys in the crucible. You’re an icon of womanhood, and you need to dress like it.”
