“I need to get this finished, or we are turning this car around, and I’m finishing it at home,” I whine, and it only serves to make Megan laugh harder. “This isn’t a joke. She’s threatening an intervention, and the last thing I need is my therapist turning up to Mr Crane’s class tomorrow to realign my chakras.”
“Give me a bottle of tequila, a spliff, and a chicken pasta tray bake, and I’ll align your chakras for free—no government intervention needed.”
“While appreciated, can we just get through these?”
“Say you aim to fill your circle with kind and passionate people.”
“You are good at this.”
“I know, I’m still questioning why they threw me out of the course; to be honest, I could philosophize with the best of them.” I’m not touching that remark with a barge pole. From what she has told me this week, her exit from philosophy was less about her ability to do the work and more about her willingness to sleep with the tutor last summer while his wife was vacationing in the Lake District.
“And finally, the biggie. How do you think you havehandled the stress of joining the student body at Hells Haven this term?” I really hate how this interrogation of my mental health is worded like a friendly get-to-know-you assessment.
“How about this? You will endeavour to overcome your shortfalls and strive to be the best student you can be while addressing past issues that have led to a decline in your previous state of mind.”
I don’t respond with words; that wouldn’t be enough. Instead, I clap slowly. Bending in prayer in the back seat of the car as I silently vow to give her anything she wants if she agrees to complete all these tests with me.“I’m in awe, quite frankly. Who knew you had it in you?”
“There should be an extras section where you have to provide photo proof of your current state—filling this out dressed as a sexy cat in thigh-high stockings would get you sectioned fast enough to make your head spin.”
“Annnndd, there she is.” I pull her in for a hug and kiss her cheek, leaving the faintest trace of my cyber grape coloured lipstick on her skin, wiping it away with the pad of my thumb before sitting back. Filling in the final section with Meg’s words, I press send and close out of my emails with a relieved exhale. That buys me one month of limited contact with my therapist. If I can get these grades up and not get caught at anymore murder scenes, I’m one step closer to actual freedom.
The whirl of rides and the flash of lights erupt in the distance, and Megan squeals with excitement, jostling like she’s just seen snow for the first time, much to our driver’s annoyance, who is practically asking for that punch to the face when he glares at us in the rearview mirror. I tampdown the urge to go back on my word of no more murder scenes as the knife in my boot rubs against my ankle, and I flip him off in my head because I don’t want to get stranded on the side of the road. There’s a psychopath on the loose, and I’d rather not make it easier for him to seek us out.
“This is the best event of the year, and the dress-up element this time around is going to make it epic.” Giddy Megan warms my heart, the levity in her voice refreshing as the car pulls to a stop.
We climb out of the cab, and she hands the driver a twenty-pound note.
“If you weren’t such a leering creep, you would have gotten thirty,” I say tersely as his gaze flicks down to watch Megan’s arse as she retreats to the circus entrance. He doesn’t say a word as he puts the car in gear, and his tyres crunch over the loose rock entryway as he peels out. Megan smooths down the fluff of obscenely short material around her waist. Her colourful jester costume could be confused with stripper attire as it moulds to her shapely body like a second skin. She looks stunning with her impossibly long legs and waist-length brown hair styled into loose barrel curls.
Gotta love my girl for owning those curves.
The ornate headpiece with jingling bells adorned at the end of each floppy section is bedazzled to the point I think she could be spotted from space, but she somehow makes it look cute with her elegant vintage-clown-inspired makeup.
“Penny for your thoughts, you didn’t get the memo?We’re ditching the sadness.” I instinctively smile, but it’s a small one. I feel so out of my comfort zone right now.
“Just questioning whether dressing up and coming to an adults’ only carnival the night before our first mock exams was a good idea,” I lie. No questioning needed, this is a fucking terrible idea. The broader smile I offer her settles her instantly as she shoulder-checks me playfully and hands me a bright orange shot of something I know is going to leave future Ebony with a headache in the morning. I don’t ask what is in it; our kitchen looked like an intro to bartending seminar exploded in there before we left. I down it in one without contest and actually enjoy the buzz as the homemade mango alcohol concoction warms my belly. Lights flicker in the carved faces of the pumpkins lining the walkway to the big top arena in the distance, and for a brief moment, I let myself believe I might actually have fun tonight.
It’s brief and likely a side effect of the shots; let’s not get too happy.
“You know you’re allowed to relax every once in a while, right?” she coos as she slips me another shot. I don’t fight it. I’m going to need the Dutch courage when I eventually pass a mirror and immediately regret the costume she practically poured me into. I, too, look like I’m about to start the graveyard shift working a pole in some horror house extravaganza. My costume suggestion was to wear a sheet, cut out a couple of eyeholes, and sail through this evening as a ghost—crowds have never really been my thing, and letting myslut flag flyas Megan so eloquently put it earlier, is also taking a lot to get used to. I think the last time I had this much skin on show, Iwas being born. I’ve come to learn that Megan is oddly persuasive when she wants to be, so here I am—preened and folded into a short black leather strapless dress that looks painted on at the right angle. The suspender belt secured around my waist under the dress is holding up my thigh high stockings and also has a long black tail attached that bounces in the air behind me when I walk. A lacy pair of cat ears and some stripes of black eyeliner across each cheek with a cute painted button nose completes the look. Just mentally cataloguing the prep work it took to get me into this getup has me thirsty for another drink.
The outfit I could tolerate, barely. But forcing myself into six-inch heels—that was never happening. The visual of Bambi trying to ice skate comes to mind.
She hadummedandahhedat my suggestion of ripped jeans and a scruffy old band t-shirt under a sheet tonight, but I could tell she hated the idea. Her free hand already moving hangers behind me in her wardrobe to select what she considered the perfect dress as I pleaded my case. It was then my turn to pretend that I knew anything about fashion as I vetoed everything she pulled out. After stomping her foot like the little mafia princess she is, she demanded I‘pull the stick out of my arse and get in the spirit of campus party life, where each week seems to have a new theme,’so here I am—stickless and wishing I had feigned an illness to stay home and watch horror movie reruns in my PJs as I live out my sexy kitty alter-ego nightmare.
“I guess there are worse places we could be.”
“Now we’re talking. Welcome to party central.” She grabs my hand and drags me forward through the mud. “I would have gone for a pair of heels though,” she adds forthe third time since we left the apartment. My choice of scuffed DMs with the engraved dove in the battered leather was a point I was unwilling to bend on.
‘If you can run, you can fly, Dove.’I remember Coop’s words from the day he sat cross-legged on my bed and hand-carved the bird mid-flight into the leather with his father’s Swiss army knife. I quickly shake away the memory, rubbing my hands together nervously, hoping Megan didn’t notice the shift in me. It’s easy to lose myself to thoughts of the dark-haired boys who were the centre of my universe, the sole reasons I had never run or flown like they’d told me to. Enduring what I did was worth it to know they were in my life. Until they weren’t, and there was no one left to help me escape.
“Find that inner kitten, embrace her.” I don’t tell her that my inner kitten feels like its being swung about in a sack as it wails for freedom as she loops her arm in mine and pulls me along towards the crowds of people lining up to enter the big top.
“Coming from the girl with a remote vibrator in her purse.”
“Always come prepared,” she reasons, and we share a knowing smile. Mateo had been more than willing to entertain her idea of circus sex for her next subscribers’ giveaway.
My anxiety level triples as we are herded into the belly of the crowd, a disorganised queue of inebriated uni students moving slowly as we approach the ticket booth.
