Havoc

Fun, I think as I walk through the store, positive that I’m being watched by security to make sure I don’t steal anything. After the past four fun rounds of trying on dresses, I’m convinced that my knees are too bony, my legs are too stubby, my hips are too narrow, my shoulders are too pointy, my breasts are too small, my skin is too pale.

It’s not like I could afford any of these dresses anyway, but they’re all so pretty . . . and I guess I just wanted to look pretty in them.

I stop in front of a mannequin at the front of the store and chew on my lip as I admire it. She’s propped up on a pedestal wearing the most gorgeous dress I’ve ever seen. It’s sleeveless, but high-backed and long, so it would hide my bony shoulders and bony knees. The material is a soft cotton gauzelike fabric in a mist-gray color, with vibrant blue wildflowers gathered into striking bouquets throughout the pattern. The waist is cinched with a blue lace overlay, and the bottom is shaped into pretty, uneven layers lined by the same bright blue as the lace and flowers. The whole dress is stunning, and I stand there too timid to touch it.

“Oh, I love this,” Danica says from beside me, and I snap out of whatever daydream I was in. She smiles down at me. “You should try it on.”

I worry my lip as I stare back at the dress, but Danica is already snapping her fingers to get the closest saleswoman’s attention. She makes them find one in my size, and then she nudges me toward the dressing rooms while she continues browsing the racks for something to try on herself.

Back in my crystal-chandeliered, fringed-chaired room, I remove my tennis shoes and socks and threadbare jeans. I tug my T-shirt over my head and unclasp my bra. I place all my secondhand clothes on the absurdly expensive-looking chair, and then I stand there staring at the beautiful dress hanging against the wall in front of me. I don’t dare glance at the price tag before I remove it from its hanger and slip it over my head.

It’s magic, how it molds against my curves. The V-cut top pulls my breasts up and together in a way that’s sexy without being indecent, and the lace cincher hugs the curve of my waist flatteringly. The bottom drops down to just above my ankles, and I curl my bare toes against the polished floor as I stare down at it.

“Hailey, you almost ready?” Danica asks, and I hear her close and lock the door to her own dressing room.

“Yeah.”

“Okay, hold on a sec.”

I study myself in the mirror as I wait, wondering if Mike would think this dress is as pretty as I do. Would he think I’m pretty wearing it?

I consider looking at the price tag, but instead, I simply smile at myself in the mirror. Maybe I should snap a picture with my phone. Maybe I should send it to him.

“Alright, you ready?” Danica calls, and we both step out of our dressing rooms at the exact same time—wearing the exact same dress.

I freeze when she emerges in my soft gray fabric and bright blue wildflowers—her skin a shade tanner, her legs a lot longer, and her long copper hair cascading softly over her shoulders while mine curls wildly around my face. The bottom hem hits her shins at a much more flattering spot, and I notice all these details as she steps forward with a smile on her face.

“What do you think?” she asks, and honestly, I think I want to cry.

Danica turns us both toward the gold-rimmed mirror at the end of the hallway, and I see just how ridiculous I look standing next to her. She looks like a runway model born for this catwalk of a store, and I look like a beggar child who snuck in to try on her clothes.

“I think you found the perfect dress,” she praises as she watches herself walk toward the mirror and away from it again. She beams as she closes the distance between us, her lips turning up and her eyes sparking prettily. “Mike is going to die when he sees me in this.”

She bends down to hug me tightly before disappearing back inside her fitting room, and behind my own closed door, I try not to tear the dress as I rush to pull it over my head.

I know Mike will think it’s beautiful, but pretty dresses like this weren’t made for girls like me.

They were made for girls like Danica.

Chapter 40

“She’s not thriving. She’s losing weight,” my boss says two days after my hellish shopping trip with Danica. I hook my fingers into the chain-link cage as I frown at the mutt balled up in the corner. She looks like a golden Chow mix, but her ice-blue eyes make me think part Border collie or Siberian husky.

“Was she one of the bait dogs from the fighting ring?” I ask, and Barb nods solemnly. Along with the pit bulls we seized a week and a half ago, we rescued a few bait animals—animals that would have been used to help train the pits to fight and kill. The rabbits and kittens went to other facilities, but the puppies and our golden Chow mix stayed here.

“When she got here, her snout was duct-taped shut, but they didn’t break her teeth or anything, so she can eat . . . She just won’t.”

“Who’s been her primary caretaker?” I ask, since all of the volunteers were assigned their own group of new arrivals. The plan was for the dogs to bond with one new person before we started switching things around to get them properly socialized.

“Gabe,” Barb answers. “He has to carry the poor baby outside just to get her to use the bathroom. Otherwise, she just pees on herself. She’s too scared to leave her cage.”

“How old is she?” I wonder through the emotion in my throat, and Barb shakes her head.

“Two, maybe three. She’s a little old for a bait dog. We thought maybe she was stolen from someone, but she’s not chipped, and no one has reported a dog like this missing.” Barb sighs heavily over the sound of other dogs barking throughout the shelter. Their noise echoes off the walls, terrifying our poor golden. “My guess is she was a stray they picked up and decided to use.”