“Then count me out.”
I can’t show my face there. There’s no telling how many of them witnessed my shame the other night.
“I’m gonna tell you the same thing I’ve told Leah countless times. You can’t hide from the Gods in Kent,” Meela says. “It’s just not plausible. Don’t let Sandman or the club kill your vibe. Go out and do you with your head held high.”
“I don’t know…”
I’m not spunky or badass like her, and Sandman scares the crap out of me. Even her bedroom reflects her personality. Shehas a carriage bed frame with a sheer pink canopy for goodness’ sake. Opposite that is her collection of colorful wigs hanging from hooks on the wall.
But what really made me blink twice is the three mannequins in different stages of undress with tiaras on their heads. Meela is an aspiring fashion designer, among other things.Go figure.
“Well, I do,” she remarks with conviction. “Waltz in that bar like you’re that bitch because you are that bitch. Claim it and fucking own it.” She flings a long yellow twist over my shoulder.
Meela isn’t wrong. I need to walk through Kent with my head held high, and I can’t do that by hiding. Going to the bar will show Sandman and every last God that God’s Glory didn’t break me.
“And your new do is going to give you some extra bitch pizzazz.”
“Okay, I’ll go. But I’m still not sure about this color.” I finger the curly tip. “It’s so… bright and gaudy.”
“Ungrateful skank-ass ho!” she scolds me. “This color is fire, and this style would run you at least four-fifty at a braiding shop.”
“Dang, really?” I’ve never paid that much for a hairstyle before. “My mother thinks these types of styles are ghetto.”
“Girl, fuck your mother!” Meela squawks. “She on crack or something?”
I burst out laughing. “No, she isn’t addicted to any illegal substances to my knowledge.”
Meela huffs but doesn’t respond.
“Thank you.” I turn in the chair and give her a one-arm hug, not wanting to get on her bad side. “I appreciate you taming my mane for free. I absolutely love it.”
It’s true. I don’t share my mother’s sentiments.
She smiles, her displeasure quickly forgotten. “No problem, girlie.”
“The Sanctuary, huh? A bit cliché if you ask me.”
“Cliché as fuck,” Meela agrees, and we both laugh.
She resumes her torture on my scalp, but true to her word, she’s done twenty minutes later—give or take a few minutes. She showers first, then I hop in next.
I emerge from the bathroom squeaky clean and stroll back into her bedroom, finding her butt-ass naked. I clutch the towel to my chest, taking in her pierced nipples, belly ring, and the stunning chandelier tattoo starting between her breasts and curving over her rib cage. I figured she’d be dressed already and give me some privacy to don my own clothes.
“What?” Meela queries, carefully rubbing Vaseline onto the garter-belt tattoo she got last week. “It’s pussy, ass, and titties… the same thing you got. Don’t be weird.”
She does have a point, and I’ve seen my fair share of naked girls in the locker room after gym class. I’m not sure why I’m being prudish now.
“Oh my God!” she shouts.
“What?” I shout too, frantically scanning the room.
“Your… your pussy,” she squawks, pointing between my thighs.
“Okay.” I glance down, seeing that a small gap in the towel has my meow on display. “What about it?”
“What’s on it?” Meela asks, scandalized.
“Um… pubic hair.” I’m thoroughly confused. Am I missing something here?
