“She couldbesomeone, Steven. We could audition for mother-daughter roles. It’s too bad about the brown eyes—”
“They’reamber.” Amber was the most beautiful fossil, her dad always said.
“But there’s always colored contacts. Now that I’m home, I can manage her. Dance first, then singing. Acting can wait for next year. We’ll help her pick out a new name.”
“You wanted to name her Ripley!”
“My Sigourney Weaver–wannabe phase passed,” her mother said dismissively. “Along with the best years of my career. All sacrificed tothis.”
Ripley couldn’t see whatthiswas. But what could it be besides her father, the trailer, their family…herself?
“Ripley is your daughter, not a tool to advance your career, Vivienne,” her father said, a warning rattle in his low, coiled voice.
In the morning, her mom was gone. Her dad pretended everything was fine, but for the first time, Ripley knew it wasn’t. It shook her like an earthquake that tears a fossil in half, leaving one side six feet below the other.
She’d hidden the gold dress at the bottom of her closet and gone back to her baseball caps and broken-in jeans. Those and a pair of sneakers could take her everywhere from school to the Badlands. That was how Ripley and her dad liked it.
How Ripley still likes it.
She feels an unexpected shot of sympathy for Smithson, losing the clothes that make him feel like himself.
“I’ll get us some help.” She raises her voice: “Andre, my love. I have a customer for you.”
A pile of camo jackets shivers, revealing a sixtyish man with ashiny bald head. “Ripley, chérie!” Andre exclaims, bustling over to kiss her on both cheeks.
Andre steers Smithson to a changing room. Ninety seconds later, he returns with a pile of high-UPF fabric.
“These curtains don’t close all the way,” Smithson says, tugging ineffectively.
“I promise no one wants to look at your butt, Professor,” Ripley says, aware that this is not entirely true. She looks left, out the rain-speckled front window.
A pair of shorts sails out of the cubicle.
“Wrong size?” Ripley ventures.
“I don’t wear these.”
“You don’t drive. You don’t wear shorts. Whatdoyou do, Smithson?”
“I wear pants.”
“Just try the shorts, okay? And some pants, while you’re at it.”
There’s a pause. “How did you know I wasn’t trying on the trousers?”
Ripley smiles. It scratches an itch in her soul, being the one to figure out someone else’s secrets instead of accidentally spilling her own.
“I can’tseeyou. That doesn’t mean I can’thear.” The squeak of his Blundstones, which he hasn’t taken off; the lack of clinking from his belt buckle. Her mind supplies an image of his hands—those fine-boned hands—gripping his belt. Reaching for his zipper.
She blinks.What the hell, Adams.
There’s a rustle of fabric, the slide of feet inside pant legs, then a dissatisfied sound.
“There’s a mirror out here,” she tells him.
“Don’t make it worse,” he says crisply. “Let’s discuss what you’re looking for in a sponsor.”
“I want the entire amount up front. No refunds.” Ripley’s learned that from Maury. “Sponsor has the right of first refusal on a purchase at market price, to be determined by a professional appraiser. I get unlimited rights to display reproductions at Clever Girl and elsewhere. Additional copies, one per specimen, will be loaned to museums at my discretion.”
