I continued to watch my clothes drape Dallas’s ass and listen to her talk about me to her trashy girlfriends at school, until eventually I just couldn’t stand another minute. I said to Vivi, “I think we need to make her understand her place in my house and in my life.” Now, remember, we were all of seventeen, but right then and there we concocted a plan. Of course.
Vivi and I were family. We had pledged a sisterhood years before, in junior high. Vivi and I and our friend Rhonda Cartwright established an exclusive club. We called ourselves the Sassy Belles and created a constitution of sorts, stating now and forever we would have each other’s backs. “No matter what, even in cases of jail or worse,” we vowed. We were Southern Belles with attitude and a splash of fun. Nobody could break the circle. Though Rhonda moved away in tenth grade, Vivi and I have always remained the Sassy Belles. We take care of each other, we stand our ground and we do it with high heels, big hair and lots of lipstick.
Now, Dallas was certainly not a member of this exclusive club, despite our initial efforts to include her. She was the type of female who would never be a girlfriend. She preferred the company of men and would never be able to put her female friends first. Dallas was competitive with women and a flirt with men. She could never be a Sassy Belle. Regardless, we were forced to inhabit the same space day after day. Eventually, it was bound to come to blows.
Vivi and I set to work on our plan like it was a new religion. The Miss Warrior River beauty pageant was one for the record books, though looking back on it now, it was not one of my finer moments. The day of the pageant, our lake house was a swirl of activity. It was a sunny, fragrant Saturday in May, and hot rollers and taffeta, crinoline and mascara were everywhere. It was a day of spa pedicures and crystal beaded gowns. It was my favorite kind of day—primping all day long—but if everything went according to plan, Dallas would remember this day in quite a different light.
Vivi arrived in an old model Saab convertible, her red frizz set in hot rollers. I ran out to the circle drive to greet her.
She hugged me and asked in a conspiratorial whisper, “Got the goods?”
“You better believe it,” I said. We sounded more like mobsters in New Jersey than pageant girls in the South—although some would say they are interchangeable.
We walked inside feeling smug, until I saw Dallas had my rollers in her hair.
“Why in hell didn’t you use your own rollers?” I asked her.
“’Cause mine weren’t hot yet and yours were ready.”
“Yeah, they were ready! For me!”
Any second thoughts I’d been having about our plan evaporated. She was gonna get it. Vivi winked at me as she left the room and went down the hall to Dallas’s room. Her white organza and silver-sequined dress was spread out across the bed. Vivi took out the big guns—the itching powder, scissors, needle and thread that were all hidden in her pocket. The powder wouldn’t be noticed until the dress was worn, so long as Vivi put the powder inside the dress where it would be right against Dallas’s skin.
Vivi spread the powder all under the straps and at the base of the breast cups. Then she cut the straps and sewed them back with only one tiny thread holding them. With a figure as voluptuous as Dallas’s, there was only one way this event could possibly play out. Oh, dear, there might be itching and scratching. And all that movement when the straps were hanging by only a thread—who knows what might pop out? Whatever would we do?
Vivi came back to the bathroom and smiled as Dallas was taking up all the space and all the energy. I finally got her out of my rollers and out of my bathroom. She went downstairs to find the double-sided tape to keep her ginormous boobs from falling out of the sides of her dress and to tape her jiggly butt into her swimsuit. I smiled at that one—little did she know she’d never even get to the swimsuit competition.
“You ready for the big show?” Vivi said to Dallas, her voice just dripping with sugar as we were about to leave the house.
“Yes, Vivi, I do believe I am,” Dallas answered with a heapin’ helpin’ of confidence. Vivi winked at me. Hell, Dallas was the show. She just didn’t know it. We all zipped our gowns into our dress bags and loaded the car with the makeup kits and the shoe bags for our sparkly, strappy heels and left for the Bama Theatre, where the area-wide pageant was being held.
The Bama Theatre is part of the fabric of downtown. It was built in the 1930s through FDR’s New Deal and was one of the most stunning buildings I had ever been in. I always stood mesmerized in the actual theatre, under the indigo-blue ceiling dotted with twinkling stars. It was one of the last of the grand movie palaces built in the South, with sweeping staircases up to the balcony and tapestry carpets running throughout. The entire auditorium is actually a copy of the courtyard of Davanzati Place in Florence, Italy, complete with the twinkling stars and the clouds of a night sky. Flower-filled iron balconies hang halfway up the walls and face toward the grand stage.
My mother, Kitty, had actually worked there selling popcorn when she was in high school. She met my daddy there. He never came there to see the movie. He was always there to watch his own movie of Kitty selling popcorn. They got married right out of high school. To this day it is a special place to me.
When we arrived at the parking lot out back, Dallas got out first and pulled her things out, rearranging the back of the car and throwing mine and Vivi’s things to the side. My dress bag hit the gravel.
“Well, excuse me for also being in this pageant, but you just threw my dress on the ground,” I said, yanking it up as quick as I could.
“Oh, honey,” she oozed, “I am so sorry, I had no idea that was your dress bag. It looked like where they keep the spare tire.” Typical Dallas. She prissed off, swinging her hips from side to side.
“Ugh!” I looked at Vivi in total exasperation, but she just smiled back, reminding me that Dallas would pay.
We went into the back doors of the theatre and found ourselves a spot to spread out. We hung up our dresses on hooks in the dressing rooms and the theatre began to fill with anxious families and, of course, a few stage mothers putting lipstick on their precious daughters and going over the dos and don’ts of the proper pageant poses.
The nervous girls spread Vaseline on their teeth to help with the constant smiling and to make your teeth look pretty. The rips of double-sided tape sounded like a bunch of angry dogs as the flurry of activity heated the room. The humid air caused Vivi’s hair to frizz up even though she had rolled it on hot rollers twice already. I dug through my caboodles and gave her two crystal hair clips to hold some of it down.
Vivi had a gorgeous emerald-green dress that made her eyes sparkle. She looked beautiful. My dress was pale, icy blue and it made my eyes just pop. I loved it. It was antebellum styled with a huge skirt. I wore a large crinoline hoop skirt underneath to make it even bigger, and it rustled when I walked. It was strapless and had a scalloped bust and lace draped in scallops around the bottom swept up with tiny satin blue-and-white bows.
I loved looking like a Southern Belle. I was a Southern Belle. For sure. My strand of pearls was right in place. And ready to choke someone, if need be.
Dallas looked like a lounge singer in her dress. I knew she wouldn’t be in it for long, though, seeing as how it was full of itching powder and was redesigned to fall off with the first scratch. Vivi and I were thrilled when they gave the numbers out for us to pin on our gowns and Dallas got the number one. Perfect! All of us waited until the last minute to put our dresses on so we would
n’t get any makeup on them.
“Ladies, please get dressed. We will begin in twenty minutes.”
We dressed and got in line. Vivi and I were number three and four. We lined up at the wings of the stage, waiting to begin. The nerves and anxiety had us all in their grip, but Vivi and I were more focused on holding in our hysterics. Just about then, the lights were lowered, the spotlight came on and the music began. Then Dallas started to itch—right on cue. She pulled at her breasts, complaining, “Oh, my God, my boobs are so itchy.” She kept pulling till the double-sided tape was rubbed completely off, and her boobs began to drip out of the sides of her gown.
“What the heck is happening?” Vivi acted concerned.
“Oh, my goodness, honey, what’s wrong?” I said.
The curtain raised and the announcer said, “Number one, Dallas Sugarman.” As Dallas walked out, everyone began to mumble in appreciation. But as Dallas kept itching and fidgeting, her walk made her look like a chicken in a barnyard. She moved and danced and tugged at her breasts and her straps till her right strap broke and her breast almost did its own dance for the audience, but she caught it just in time. Nothing could stop her now, though—she was itching, picking and poking at herself as she moved. Vivi and I were dying with laughter backstage. I could hear the audience laughing and talking. Dallas deserved this, I kept telling myself. I laughed till my own mascara was running and Vivi had nearly lost her own strap as she doubled over.
After another minute, Dallas gave up and ran backstage and ripped her dress off. Screaming and unzipping her gown, she hopped around, shouting, “I’m having an attack of something!” Her breasts were red and her thighs were itching and then she caught her reflection in one of the lighted makeup mirrors. She looked straight at me and Vivi as my name was being called. Vivi winked at her.
I went down the runway, never missing a step, smiling my Vaseline smile and returning to the wings to watch and cheer for Vivi. She walked like she would rather be at a disco. But her red hair and bright green eyes looked stunning. I could see her soul. And she was especially beautiful that night, her face flushed with laughter. We were sisters. Sisters of the Sassy Belle Order. Dallas would never be my sister. And she’d most certainly never be a Sassy Belle.
The top ten were called and Vivi and I went out to walk the stage again. Then the top five, and only I went back out to answer the social “We love the whole world and world peace” questions, then the winner was announced—Blake O’Hara.
All the while, Dallas sat backstage, a cool towel draped across on her breasts. She had washed all the makeup off her face, and she was sitting in an overstuffed chair in her white swimsuit. She didn’t get to model it for the swimsuit competition, because her midsection was too itchy.
I went out to accept my crown and trophy. It was my year to reign as Miss Warrior River. I could see Kitty standing in the front row, her bangle bracelets clanking as she clapped like a super fan and blew me kisses.
I came backstage to see Dallas in this awful state with the towels across her itchy body, and that’s when it all suddenly hit me. I instantly felt terrible. I looked at Vivi and she looked at me and I could tell she felt bad, too. What had we done? We were angry, hormonal teenagers who’d been repeatedly taunted and abused by this girl, but looking at her then, it didn’t feel like a good enough excuse for stooping so low. The very worst part was seeing how alone she was. At that moment, I realized something that hadn’t sunk in till that very second. Dallas had no mother. She’d had no one to teach her any better growing up. No one to shower her with the affection Kitty lavished on me all the time. No one was there to tend to her. I suddenly didn’t feel like wearing my tiara anymore.
I’ve always regretted that prank—though Vivi tried to remind me of the list of hideous things Dallas had done to deserve it. Still, I tried to apologize. I shared my clothes without complaint, even though she took without asking. I covered for her to our parents when she messed up, and I did my best to reach out and include her in things I did with Vivi. But Dallas remained her mean, backstabbing, shallow self, despite my efforts. And today at the press conference, she’d just proven herself once again. She was using Lewis’s disappearance to her own advantage rather than genuinely trying to help. At some point, I knew, she’d have to be held responsible for her own actions. And I’d have to forgive myself for the little incident with the itching powder.
* * *
It was near midnight as I lay in bed reflecting on the events since we’d first heard about Lewis. A heavy thunderstorm had crept up like a ghost. Quietly, then with a sudden startle, the thunder crashed and the lightning ripped open the night sky. I made my way to the bathroom and filled the old crystal drinking glass with water from the tap and swallowed a sip. I’m just tired, I thought. I can handle this. It was good to have Sonny around again, too. He brought a comfort to me like no one else. Harry had been like that, in the beginning. But lately it just felt like we were roommates rather than friends or partners. I missed just being held. I missed going on a date and laughing. We still went out, but all talk was centered around our cases and the future of Harry’s inevitable political run. I was so sick of work talk. I wanted to feel like a woman again, desirable and feminine. Some flirting would be nice. But Harry was so wrapped up in his own goals that I wasn’t sure he even remembered how to flirt.
Sonny, on the other hand, made me feel so feminine it was making my head spin. For the millionth time I reminded myself that I shouldn’t be having these thoughts about Sonny. Problems with Harry aside, we were all in the middle of such a mess, just worry and anxious nerves every minute, and getting caught up in these emotions wouldn’t help anyone. Still, Sonny was on my mind.
I opened the bathroom door and turned off the light. The rips of lightning stretched across the white sheets illuminating a snoring Harry. I crawled into bed and drifted in and out of sleep, my mind wandering to Dallas and what she’d said about her source. What was she hiding? Or, rather, who was she hiding? Between the heavy thunder and heavy snoring, not to mention the inescapable thoughts of Sonny and the case with Lewis, there was no real rest for me that night. I’d decided, in the morning, Dallas and WTAL-TV would get a visitor. Me.
* * *
“Blake, I’ve already told you what I can.”
The TV monitors flickered and fax machines beeped in the newsroom of WTAL channel 30. They already had a banner hanging in the newsroom that read, Find Lewis Heart. The thing had taken on a life of its own, just like I knew it would. Dallas sat with her legs crossed in a bright turquoise suit with a very short skirt. She wore high-heeled sandals revealing hot-pink toenails. Her jacket was draped over the back of her chair, her sleeveless, low-cut white blouse just a smidge too tight.
“I have a meeting with my news director at nine-thirty, so I’m running out of time. And I’ve been running low on patience since you arrived twenty-three minutes ago unannounced.”
But I wasn’t giving up, especially not to her. “Dallas, you and I both know that you know more than you are saying. So just spill it. I don’t have time for your games.”
“Oh, my, look at you, Blake. Are you begging me for something? Wow, what a difference a few years can make.”
Dallas fingered her large gold chains and shifted her weight in her chair, eventually dropping the necklaces down her cavernous cleavage. I could see I was getting nowhere and her satisfaction at that was no longer worth it. I had to cut her off.
“Okay, fine. If you wa
nt, I will have the subpoena drawn up and served. Enjoy your meeting.” I grabbed my cream Chanel bag and began to walk away.
“Blake. Wait.” Dallas got up from her chair. Her height in those four-inch heels was overwhelming. Her legs went on forever.
“Reconsidering?” I asked, with my eyebrows up.
“Listen, you know that even if I wanted to, I can’t divulge my sources. Honestly, I really don’t know who it is. You can subpoena me and I will still have nothing. That’s how anonymous tips work.”
Part of me believed her, but I couldn’t help feeling there might be more. I couldn’t let her see my confusion.
“We’ll see, Dallas. Call me if you get any new information.” I turned and swung my long dark hair at her and clicked my Jimmy Choos out of the newsroom. She wasn’t the only one with hot-pink polish today.
10
“Hey, Vivi! Hey, Arthur! How’s everybody this morning?” I tried to sound upbeat as I pulled into the gravel drive at Vivi’s, talking to them out of my rolled-down window.
“Well, hey there, yourself, Miss Blake,” Arthur yelled back. “How you doin’?”
“I’m good, Arthur, and yourself?”
“Not too shabby,” he answered.
I walked toward them, the scent of fresh-cut roses surrounding us. Vivi had been working these gardens with Arthur since she was a child. With her mother so sickly and her father running wild, Vivi and Arthur had spent the years making these gardens their own. The flowers, and Arthur, were her friends. Arthur looked good. His aging face full of lines—every one of them probably put there by Vivi. He was about eighteen years older than me and Vivi, but only about twelve years older than Bonita, his new love interest. He was gentle as a summer breeze and smart as could be—and funny. Always laughing. His hair was short, a salt-and-pepper gray. His smile was beautiful and infectious. When he smiled, you smiled. You just couldn’t help it. He had a dimple on only one side. And when he was really laughing, which he did often, it would always deepen. His eyes were his most stunning feature. A light amber-brown, they glowed like dim flickering candlelight. His rough hands were dry from yard work, and he waved at me from a distance as Vivi approached.
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