Page 43 of Count My Lies

VIOLET

19

The look on Sloane’s face when she sees the Rose & Honey business card is priceless. I think she may keel over. I bite the inside of my lip to keep from smirking. I thought it was a nice touch, pretending to drop it like that, letting it flutter to the ground, seemingly unnoticed. I purposefully ignored it, waiting for her to stoop down and pick it up.

She is pale, queasy-looking, as she hands it back to me. Her face is a chartreuse color, a sickly green.

“Are you okay?” I ask, hoping to sound concerned. I am, actually; it looks like she might vomit on the floor.

Sloane nods unconvincingly, head wobbling. Her face isn’t hard to read. She’s wondering if I’ve ever been to the place she used to work—and the answer is yes, I have.

“I’m fine,” she says. “Maybe it’s just the fumes from the hair dye. I do feel a little high.” She gives a little laugh, more high-pitched than normal. “It’s been a while since I was stoned at three in the afternoon. Not since college.”

I laugh like she’s made an incredibly clever joke. “Well then, let’s get out of here,” I say brightly. “Maybe we should go shopping! A newoutfit to go with your new hair?” I link my arm through hers, begin pulling her toward the front door.

She smiles back at me weakly. She’s unnerved. Good. But I can’t let her go home. Not yet. Her makeover isn’t done. When I’m finished with her, she’ll look more like me than I do.

“Violet, I—” She starts to protest, but she stops, seeing our side-by-side reflection in a mirror on the wall. Gemini twins, our faces almost interchangeable. We both smile, pleased. For different reasons, obviously.

“You know what,” I say. “I have an even better idea. Come back to my house instead. I have a few things that I think will fit you perfectly. I won’t take no for an answer.”

And I don’t. Thirty minutes later, we’re standing in my bedroom, Sloane in a crocheted Carolina Herrera tank, admiring herself in the full-length closet mirror as I lean against the doorframe. With her new haircut, it’s almost as if I’m looking at myself. It makes me want to dance, leap up and click my heels together. Look what I did, Ma!

“I can’t accept this,” Sloane says, her eyes not leaving the mirror.

“Well, how about if I trade you,” I offer. “The top for your flannel.” I motion to the shirt tied around her waist, even though it’s pushing ninety today. It should have been tossed in the garbage years ago, worn and faded, frayed at the cuffs, but she wears it everywhere—and I want it.

Sloane raises her eyebrows. “You wantthis?” she asks incredulously, holding up an arm of the shirt. “In exchange for Carolina Herrera?”

I laugh. Itisan absurd trade, if you didn’t know why I wanted it. “I have two others just like it. But no flannel. What can I say, I like your style. So is that a yes?”

“Obviously.”She unties it and hands it to me.

I take it from her, surprised at how easy this is, then motion around my closet. “Is there anything else you like? I have too many clothes. Way too many. I’ve actually been meaning to do a purge.” Sloane looks at me skeptically. “Come on, a new pair of jeans, maybe?” I say teasingly, pointing to the gaping holes in the knees of hers.

“What’s wrong with these?” Sloane jokes. “Jeans from two thousand five must be considered vintage, right? I thought holes were in!”

“Eh,” I wheedle. “Holes are in, caverns are not. Plus, they’re a little big on you.” I cock my head. “Have you lost weight? You look great. Despite the pants.”

Sloane blushes, oblivious that she has me to thank for it. When we met, she was a little heavier than I was; not by much, ten or fifteen pounds, maybe. To close the gap, I started increasing my portions, but I also invited her on as many walks as I could, briskly setting the pace, asked her to piggyback Harper around the park, introduced her to yoga. It’s worked. I’ve noticed most of her pants have been a little looser, sagging around the waist, in the thighs. Her already-too-big T-shirts have become baggier, so I haven’t quite been able to tell how much weight she’s lost—until now.

“Here.” I reach into my closet and hand her a pair of dark denim. “Try these on. And this…” I turn around, grab a high-necked Trina Turk blouse off the rack, shove it into her hands.

Sloane spends the next hour wriggling in and out of my clothing. I clap excitedly when something fits as she poses for me in the mirror. There’s a growing stack of shirts, dresses, and pants that I’ve insisted are now hers. I’m glad to see them go; they’re beautiful and expensive, what I should want to wear, what I look good in, but none of it is me. I hate all of it. I’d like to put a match to the whole closet, but if I can’t, giving it to Sloane is the second-best thing.

When she finally leaves, it’s in an entirely new outfit—fitted, high-waisted jeans and the Carolina Hererra she first tried on. She’s also carrying a full shopping bag of clothes, stuffed to the brim. At my insistence, the clothes she arrived in are folded in a pile on top of my dresser. I offered to donate them along with a bag of things Harper has outgrown later this week. It wasn’t anything special, just a threadbare T-shirt and old jeans, worn-out from too many wears, but she’d hesitated when she’d handed them over. Then she let go. We both had smiled at her reluctance, then at her concession. What she doesn’t know is that instead of donating them, I’ll put the pile in my dresser.

I watch as she disappears down the sidewalk. From behind, you wouldn’t know that she wasn’t me. When she’s out of sight, I ease the door shut and check the time. Four thirty. Harper won’t be home until six. And Jay is on a work trip; he isn’t coming home until tomorrow. Although never would be too soon.

I cross the living room into the kitchen and grab a step stool to reach the cupboard above the fridge, carefully taking out a bottle of Grey Goose from behind some extra paper towel rolls. I pour it over ice, the cubes cracking as the glass fills, then top it off with a squeeze of lemon.

I take the drink back into the living room and settle onto the couch. The vodka is cold and smooth. I smile. This whole thing is almost funny, Sloane and I lying to each other. She doesn’t drink? Oh my god, neither do I! Her dad is from Philly? What a coincidence, mine, too! Big Taylor Swift fan? Well, come on, who isn’t?

This whole time she thought she lied her way into our lives, but the truth is, I lied my way into hers.

Here’s what happened. A year ago, when I was walking Harper into Mockingbird one morning, I overheard a group of moms gossipingin the schoolyard. We were still new to the preschool, Harper and I, both of us hesitant at drop-off, me smiling awkwardly at the other parents, her tightly holding my hand as we approached the play yard. We looked like we belonged—me in a Marni midi, Harper in a Pepa London pinafore, both gifts from Jay—but we didn’t, not yet.

“I still can’t believe it,” one of the moms was saying vehemently—and loudly—“she was in my apartment. In my clothes.” A redheaded woman stood in a small circle of wide-eyed mothers, her voice carrying across the blacktop. She had sharp, fine features, porcelain skin. Her arms were wrapped around herself, hugging tightly.

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