“Okay…” Jodi wasn’t following. “That sounds sad and it’s really nice of, uh, Yipper to help, but what does any of this have to do with marking Amanda Brannigan as a bad person?”
“Come on.” Kat tugged her by the arm. “Let’s go see Yipper and you’ll understand.”
“Oh dear me, yes indeed, yes indeed.” Yipper nodded vigorously, his long ears flopping. “Bad smells are easy to make—too easy, in fact. Yes they are, yes they are!”
“Okay, that’s good.” Kat said, nodding. “And how difficult is it to administer this therapy of yours? Would we have to bring the subject into the lab or what?”
“Oh no, that would not be necessary. No it wouldn’t, no it wouldn’t.” This time Yipper shook his head, his furry ears flying. “All you would need to do is just inject the new gene under the skin—just a quick stick, yes indeed, yes indeed! The new gene would find its way to the subject’s DNA and begin replicating itself almost like a virus, replacing the old gene sequence with itself and making millions more until the subject was completely altered. It would happen in a matter of minutes. Yes it would, yes it would!”
“Well that sounds simple enough,” Kat remarked. She grinned at Jodi. “Do you have an idea of where I’m going with this, doll?”
Jodi grinned back.
“You know, I think I do. Thank you, Kat—you’re full of good ideas.”
“I got a million of ‘em,” Kat said with a laugh. She looked at Yipper. “Listen, Yipper—here’s what we need you to do…”
Forty-Nine
“Hello, are you Amanda Brannigan?”
Amanda looked up from the perfume bottles she was sorting, frowning at the girl with long black hair and vivid green eyes. She looked vaguely familiar.
“Oh, yes—hi,” she said, smiling in case the girl was some kind of secret shopper who worked for the store. Working retail was such a pain in the ass but at least Amanda had the cushiest job in the large department store. As a “beauty consultant” she spent most of her shift sorting makeup, arranging perfume bottles, and trying to make customers feel bad enough about themselves to buy the ridiculously overpriced products the store sold.
“Well, I could sell you this lotion you picked for your face,” she might say to a woman who was getting into her 40s. “But there’s not much we can do about that waddle under your chin unless you’re willing to buy a good-quality firming cream.” She would shake her head. “Honestly, it might be too late already. But maybe if you started the new cream today…”
Or she might talk about a customer’s weight.
“This bronzing powder is really going to help you contour your face and hide the pudginess,” she’d say.
Or their age.
“Have you thought about wearing a lighter shade of foundation to try and minimize the fine lines around your eyes and mouth? I have something here that will make you look sixty again. What’s that—you’re only fifty-four? Oh dear…well, I think it’s clear you need this badly…”
There were endless ways to sell a customer on the various products stocked behind the clear glass case and since Amanda worked on commission, she was extremely good at all of them. Also, it was fun to see their faces fall when she negged them—giving a backhanded compliment that hurt—or played on their sense of insecurity.
Amanda had always been thin and gorgeous her entire life—she’d been winning beauty pageants since she was two—so she had no sympathy for women who let themselves go around looking less than perfect. There was just no excuse for being ugly, in her opinion. Ugly people deserved to be put down and told exactly how disgusting they were. Honestly, she was doing them a favor—they needed to know how the world really saw them. And most of them ought to be staying home anyway—not inflicting their ugly-ass-selves on society.
Of course, most of the women who visited her were just stupid old cows, though when the young girls came in to get their makeup done for Prom, Amanda had fun with them too.
“Are you going to put out for him tonight?” she might ask in a conspiratorial whisper, as she worked to get a girl’s blush or lipstick just right. “I’d do it if I were you. You’re never going to get another date with him if you don’t. Besides, Prom sex is practically a tradition—everybody does it! And don’t worry about making him wear a condom—everybody knows you can’t get pregnant on the first time.”
Yes, there were endless ways to be awful and Amanda knew them all. So as she sized up the girl with the black hair and green eyes, she was wondering how she could sell her on one of the overpriced products in stock. If she could make her feel bad enough to buy one of the “Whole Body Beauty Kits” the store was pushing, she’d make enough commission to get that new skirt she’d had her eye on for so long…
“Do I know you?” she asked, giving the new customer her brightest smile. “You look familiar.”
“Maybe because you know my sister,” the girl said, putting out her hand.
Amanda took the offered hand and started to shake but a sudden sharp pain stabbed into her palm.
“Ouch! What was that?” she gasped, yanking her hand away. Looking down, she saw a tiny drop of blood welling in the palm of her hand. “You cut me!”
“Oh, sorry,” the other girl said pleasantly. “My ring must have got you.” She held up her hand, flashing a flawless many-faceted ruby
