Page 308 of Tis the Season to be Bullied

Holy hell, that was close.

I sit up, and jerk in surprise when my phone starts ringing.

Addy.

“Hey,” I whisper, hunkering down beside my bed as if Marigold’s suddenly developed super-human hearing.

“Indi?” Addison yells in my ear. “Can you hear me?”

I cringe, and hurriedly end the call. I’m still busy typing out a message when Addy tries to call again, but I end her call without pausing.

Can’t talk. Just text.

I send the message and wait, my lip getting another round of nibbles as time stretches out like taffy.

Addy: You still coming?

Indi: Have to sneak out. No dress, no makeup, no shoes.

Addy: What size?

But I already know Addy’s twice my size, bust wise, height wise—practically everything wise. I send her my measurements anyway—for all I know, she has a baby sister that likes glitzy ball gowns.

Addy: Makeup, yes. Shoes, yes. Dress - no.

Indi: Can you pick me up?

Addy: Send me your deets.

I text her my address, and devour more of my inner lip while I wait for her to reply. I twitch at a distant door closing, but it has to be Marigold’s en-suite bathroom or something.

Here’s hoping, anyway.

Addy: see you in 15.

Shit. That’s not a lot of time to get ready. I shove to my feet and grab my backpack from the dresser. It has everything I own inside, so there’s no way I’m leaving it behind. Especially since I have this sneaking suspicion that Marigold might be throwing me out of the house tomorrow when she realizes I snuck out in the middle of the night.

My mother’s bedroom door opens and I step inside the dark room. The white walls glow everywhere except where the dark shapes of her artwork cover them.

Should I dare to turn on her light?

God, no. If Marigold happens to come downstairs, the light will be a veritable beacon and I don’t want to know what happens when Marigold realizes I’m disobeying her. I really, really don’t.

My heart pounds in my throat as I open first one closet door and then another. Books, art supplies, rotting cardboard boxes.

This place feels like a museum, but the inside of the closets look more like a rubbish dump. It’s as if Marigold took everything that wasn’t nailed down in Mom’s room and threw it in the closets.

Have these doors ever been opened?

The second to last door has what I want. As it swings open, something deep inside shimmers, despite the lack of light inside this mausoleum.

I reach in and grab a handful of slinky fabric.

Too many precious minutes have already ticked away inside my head, so I grab the fabric and tug it off its hanger. I shove it in my backpack as I’m easing my way out of my grandmother’s house.

I spend a second at the backdoor, my hand clasped on the handle, listening.

That’s when I see the shoes behind the shrub.

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