Unearthly

I don’t know what to say. “Wendy—”

“Look, I’m not pushing you on my brother. It kind of gives me the creeps, truthfully, my best friend dating my brother. But I wanted to tell you, in case you were interested, that it’d be okay. I could get over it. If you wanted to go out with him—”

“But Tucker doesn’t even like me,” I sputter.

“He likes you.”

“Could have fooled me.”

“In grade school, didn’t you ever have a boy punch you on the arm?”

“Tucker’s a junior in high school.”

“He’s still in grade school, trust me,” she says.

I stare at her. “So you’re saying Tucker’s such a jackass because he likes me?”

“Pretty much.”

“No way.”

I shake my head in disbelief.

“The thought never crossed your mind?”

“No!”

“Huh,” she says. “I won’t stand in the way or anything. It’s okay.”

My heart’s beating fast. I swallow. “Wendy, I don’t like your brother. Not that way.

Not in any way, really. No offense.”

“None taken,” she says with a casual shrug. “I just wanted you to know I’m okay with it, the you-and-Tucker thing, if there’s ever a you-and-Tucker thing.”

“There’s no me-and-Tucker thing, okay? So can we talk about something else?”

“Sure,” she says, but I can tell by the pensive look on her face that she has more she wants to say.

Chapter 9 Long Live the Queen

“Can I get into this thing by myself?” I ask.

“Put on as much as you can,” Angela calls back, “and I’ll help you with the rest.”

I contemplate the gown and all of its many parts, which are hanging from a hook in the backstage dressing room at The Pink Garter. It looks complicated. Maybe we should have gone with the Angels of Mons idea.

“How long am I going to have to wear this tomorrow?” I call, pulling on the silk stockings and tying them with ribbon under the knee.

“Not long,” answers Angela. “I’ll help you put it on right before class and then you’ll wear it during the entire presentation.”

“Just so you know, this may kill me. I may have to sacrifice my life for us to get a good grade on this project.”

“So noble of you,” she says.

I struggle into the corset and the long crazy hoops of the petticoat. Then I grab the hanger with the dress on it and march out onto the stage.

“I think I need you to tie up the corset before I put the rest on,” I say.

She jumps up to help me. That’s one thing about Angela: She never does anything halfway. She yanks the laces.

“Not so tight! I still have to breathe, remember?”

“Quit whining. You’re lucky we couldn’t find any real whalebone for this thing.”

By the time she slides the dress over my head I feel like I have on every item of clothing at the Garter. She walks around me pulling on the pieces underneath to make sure they look right. She steps back.

“Wow, that is good. With the makeup and the hair right, you’ll look exactly like Queen Elizabeth.”

“Great,” I say without enthusiasm. “I’ll look like a pasty-faced tart.”

“Oh, I forgot the ruffs!”

She hops down from the stage and runs over to a cardboard box on the floor. She pulls out a stiff round collar that looks like the things you put on dogs to keep them from licking themselves. There are two more for the wrists.

“No one said anything about ruffs,” I say, backing away.

She jumps toward me. Her wings come out with a flash and beat a couple of times, carrying her easily to the stage, then disappear.

“Show-off.”

“Hold still.” She puts the final ruff on the end of my sleeve. “My mom’s a genius.”