Sara chuckles. She leans in and paints my mouth. Her hands are so steady it’s like she’s drawing with a ruler. There is the chemical taste of pigment, the waxy tug, and then she presses a tissue to my lips.
“Don’t rub. Just blot.”
I blot, I think. When she releases me, I stare into the mirror, leaning closer to see better, and feel a momentary, wild dissociation. My face is a stranger’s, sculpted and dramatic, a parody of glamour. I look like the evil twin I never had.
Hunter’s jaw drops. “Holy shit, you’re a dead ringer.”
Sara beams. “Not bad, right? But we need to test the wig.”
From a stand in the corner, she lifts the auburn monstrosity—thick waves, side part, curls that look superhuman. She yanks a mesh cap over my hair, pins it with cold efficiency, then lowers the wig onto my scalp. It’s heavier than expected; I can feel every hair follicle protesting.
She fiddles, arranging the curls to frame my face. “Not bad,” she says, stepping back. “But hold still.” She whips out a small hairdryer and blasts my temples, smoothing fly-aways.
The dryer’s roar makes it impossible to hear myself think, which is almost a relief.
Eventually, Sara kills the noise and regards her work. “Okay. Turn.”
I do. Hunter has his phone up again, snapping pictures from every angle. He looks between the screen and me.
“Dude,” he says. “It’s perfect. I mean—if you were taller, you’d probably get scouted for a drag show.”
“Can we not,” I mutter. “I don’t want to get scouted for anything, ever.”
Sara ignores the banter, fussing with my neckline, pressing powder into my collarbones, layering on something shimmery. Her hands are warm and gentle.
She stands back and examines me with a critical eye. “Okay, test run’s almost done. Let’s see the walk.”
I stare at her. “What walk?”
“You gotta sell it, Spence. Jessica doesn’t slouch or trudge. She glides and sways.” She mimics a hip swing so exaggerated it would dislocate an ordinary person.
Hunter whistles. “Get up. Let’s see your runway.”
I make a noise somewhere between a laugh and a groan, then stand. My knees feel wrong—unsteady, but also kind of… buoyant? The wig shifts, tickling my neck. I realize for the first time that I’m not wearing the dress; this is just the warm-up.
I try to take a step. My legs want to collapse inward. “I can’t do this,” I say, already picturing my imminent disaster.
Sara pats my arm. “You’re overthinking. Just pretend you’re being chased by paparazzi. How long does he need to last, Hunter?”
“Too long,” I say.
“He’s gotta stay until midnight,” Hunter clarifies, grinning.
Sara’s eyes soften. “You’re gonna be fine, Spence. No one will recognize you. And if anyone gives you shit, you tell me and I’ll cut them.”
I almost believe her.
Hunter tucks his phone away and stands. “You ready for the dress rehearsal?”
“No, but might as well get it over with.”
Sara pulls out a bag and extracts the dress—a red sheath, sequined so heavily it’s almost armor. She holds it up with both hands, inspecting it for defects, then turns it around. The back is lower than I thought. The reality of the situation hits me: there will be photos, there will be witnesses, there will be zero escape routes.
Sara squeezes my shoulder. “It’s just for one night, Spence. Then you never have to do it again.”
I let out a long, slow exhale. “Okay,” I say. “Just—no more pictures until it’s over, Hunter.”
He gives me a solemn salute, then winks at Sara behind my back. “Scout’s honor.”
