Page 68 of Filthy Rich

“I also forget you copied them.” She sighs. “Fine, no gremlin. What do I know? I’m just a washed-out community theater actress.”

She means washed-up, but I’m smart enough now to never point out inconsistencies in her sayings or vocabulary. “I’m not saying that, Mom. They don’t let me make the decisions on really anything, though.”

“Yes, yes, I’m sure it’s all very hard to be stuck dealing with the whims of a big studio and a huge album deal.” She snorts. “My condolences.”

“I’m not saying that, either. All I’m saying is?—”

“Two weeks,” she says. “Then you’ll be back home.”

“Right.” Why bother arguing? It’s pointless.

“Your father’s driving me nuts, you know. He doesn’t want to bother you, but he’s desperate for information, and for some delusional reason he thinks I might have it. As if my now-famous daughter cares a bit what her mother knows.”

“I’m hardly famous,” I say. “And I’ve texted to tell you all the relevant information as it happened.”

“You haven’t said a word about any handsome movie stars, so I’m guessing that’s all just a publicity stunt? Were the little clips staged, too?” She doesn’t wait for me to even say anything. “How is Jake Priest in real life? Is he just horrible? I bet he’s rude, and brags, and he’s demanding. They always are.”

I think about correcting her, but it doesn’t seem to be worth the energy. “Mom, I have to go.”

“Great, yes, you go and do all your big, important things. I’ll just hang around here, ignoring messages from your father since you never text or call him.”

“Okay, Mom. You do that.” I hang up.

“What about this?” Bea’s standing in front of a shop, her gaze locked on the work of art in the window.

It’s a massive, full-skirted ball gown that’s entirely and completely impractical. The skirt’s touching the ground for at least a foot all the way around, and it’s made up of dip-dyed, bold, autumn-jewel toned swaths of crepe fabric that fall down from the bodice in a stunning cascade. The bodice itself is made of what look like carefully shaped and possibly embroidered sections of chiffon feathers and leaves.

It may be the most beautiful dress I’ve ever seen.

“That thing must cost an absolute fortune.” Like, the same price as a car.

“The shop’s called Helen Spinelli.” Bea frowns. “I’ve never heard of it. Maybe things that are new are cheap.”

“Well, let’s go inside and you can try it on, but I’m telling you, there’s no way our budget will cover that. We’d need the movie’s costume budget.” I shake my head. “But you do have exquisite taste, and I’d be happy to kick in my entire share for that—I can wear anything.”

“Wait.” Bea drops her hands on her hips.

“What?” I point. “We won’t know how bad it is until we ask. Places like this don’t exactly post a price card in the window.”

“We may be operating under a misunderstanding. Are you thinking I want this dress for myself?” She snorts. “Because that would be ridiculous. I’m five feet tall and the most introverted person you know. I would never wear this dress, not in a million years.”

“It’s perfect for you. Your face’s basically a work of art,” I say.

“No.” Bea shakes her head. “That dress screams Octavia.”

“That?” I can’t help pointing at it to emphasize my incredulity. “You think that gorgeous ball gown with a million brilliant colors that swirls and poofs and highlights my shoulders—one of which I never expose—and puts all the focus on my face, neck, and hair. . .you think that dress screams Octavia?” I can’t help laughing. “Have you met me?”

Bea tosses her head. “Just go in there. I’m getting a call—I’ll meet you inside in two minutes. At least ask what it costs and try it on. If you hate it, I’ll never bring it up again, and I’ll agree to whatever other outfits you pick.”

Trying this dress on is a ridiculous suggestion.

There’s no way that I would ever wear that dress for anything, much less to be the focal point of an album cover that’s going to be pushed hard. But once I do it and say no, she’ll let me pick something less in your face, and we can finally be done with all the never-ending searching. I’ve always hated shopping, but finding the perfect outfit for an album cover is the worst shopping task I’ve ever been set.

“Fine, but no photos once we’re in there.” I point.

She nods, presses her phone to her ear and waves.

I go inside—reluctantly—and then I see the price of the gown. It’s seventeen thousand dollars. I almost laugh my way out of the store, but there’s no way that even Bea could justify spending that. That means that once I try it on, she’ll have to concede to me. As I’m standing here, I can’t help wondering whether shops like this even let people like me try on gowns like this one.

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