Tryst Six Venom

1

Clay

Want to bet my mother is about to have a meltdown?

I'm sure it's after nine. She should be home, flushing out any calories she consumed today, and finishing up step five of her skincare regimen instead of waiting for me at the dress shop right now.

I'm so late.

Confetti flies in the air, and I reach down, grabbing three more rolled-up T-shirts out of the bucket as the parade float bounces and sways under us.

"More shirts!" I yell over to Krisjen to restock.

The crowd cheers on both sides of the street, and I jump down off the step, stopping at the edge as I hold my hand to my ear.

Come on. Let me hear it!

"Ah!" little girls scream.

"Hi, Clay!" tiny six-year-old Manda Cabot squeals at me like I'm a Disney princess. "Hi!"

She waves at me as her twin sister, Stella, holds up her hands, ready to catch.

A comfortable breeze blows through the palms lining Augustine Avenue, grazing my bare legs in my jean shorts as the potted pink lantanas hang on the street lamps lining the road and fill the air with their scent.

Just your typical balmy Florida winter evening.

"We want a shirt!" Stella cries.

I shoot my arm up in the air, my white T-shirt with the word BIG shining in bold silver letters.

I smile, shouting, "You wanna be a Little?"

"Yeah!" they cry out.

"Then I need to hear it!" I move my feet, doing a little dance move. "Omega Chi Kappa! Come on!"

"Omega Chi Kappa!" they shout. "Omega Chi Kappa!"

"I can't hear you!"

"Omega Chi Kappa!" they scream so loud their baby teeth damn near shake.

Oh my God. So adorbs. I hope I have daughters.

I throw them both an underhand toss and resume dancing to the music as the truck pulls us at a crawl, our float in the middle of a long line of floats, all celebrating the annual Founder's Day.

"See you in a few years!" I tell them. "Be good and study!"

"Yeah, we only take the best!" Amy Chandler shouts next to me.

Followed by Krisjen's chirp at my other side, "Be best!"

I snort, turning around to grab some more shirts. Balloons dance in the air along the sidewalks, and I toss some more bundles, the tingles in my head helping me play my part as I dance our choreographed little number in sync with Krisjen to "Swish Swish."

The rest of our girls walk in front of or alongside the float, dancing along with us in the street, and every eye on us makes the hair on my arms rise. The attention always feels good. Rolling my hips, arching my back, and shaking my body, I know one thing for sure. I'm good at this.

Our sorority is the biggest in any high school in the state, and while it's service- and academic-based, because that's what gets us into college, we're popular for other reasons. We look good doing what we do.

Whether it's washing cars to raise money for cat saliva research, hosting the football team's annual pancake breakfast, or helping clean Angelica Hearst's house and do her laundry because she just had baby number four from daddy number four and she's overwhelmed-bless her heart-we get it done Instagram-style.

Krisjen and I falter in our steps, laughing as we grab some more shirts and toss them to our future little sisters out there in the crowd.

"You see how drunk they are?" Krisjen says under her breath.

I follow her gaze, seeing her boyfriend, Milo Price, smiley and sweaty in his backward baseball cap and flushed cheeks, which is his tell that he'd had beer tonight.

Callum Ames stands next to him, grinning with his arms folded over his chest, watching me like something that's already his.

Maybe. I'll look good on his arm at the debutante ball, nevertheless.

I swipe my water bottle out from underneath the papier-mâché clown fish and take a swig, the burn already intoxicating as it courses down my throat. Just the taste eases my nerves.

"I'm going to kill him," Krisjen gripes.

"Wait until after the ball," I tell her. "You need a date."

Taking the bottle out of my hands, she throws back a swallow as I grab her shirts and toss them to waiting hands.

Music and laughter surround us, and the confetti gun shoots another bomb into the air-blue, pink, silver, and gold-fluttering like snow.

"God, that stuff is good." She hands me the bottle back. "Goes down like water."

"As long as you don't drink sixty-four ounces of this a day, got it?" I down another swallow and cap my new favorite brand of vodka, disguised in my Evian bottle.

She scrunches up her face in a smile, her apple cheeks perfect and her long chestnut hair in a messy bun on the top of her head. "What would I do without you?"

I chuckle. "The only thing any of us need is a little love"-I lean in, whispering-"from the right bottle."

She laughs, and we both hop down from the float, leaving Amy to handle it, while we join the girls in the last chorus of the dance.

My head floats a few feet above my neck, the "help" we just drank giving me just the right buzz that I'd sweat off in twenty minutes, but enough to put a spring in my step.

I'm so late. This parade is taking so much longer than I'd hoped, and Lavinia's will close soon. I dance faster as if that'll speed up the vehicles in front of us.

Callum and Milo follow, Callum's dark blond hair blowing in the breeze as I step and tease him with my eyes. Little girls cheer us on, looking up at me like I'm something special, while a couple guys hover close together, staring at me and whispering between them.

I move in ways our facilitator will certainly hear about on Monday, but I don't care. I rub in their face something they'll never get.

Because even at twelve, strutting down a pageant stage in a bikini, I knew what my power was. There's never been any confusion.

"We love you, Clay!" some of my classmates scream as I lead the group and finish the dance.

I close my eyes, soaking up all the phone cameras recording us and the pictures of Clay Collins that would survive long after I'm gone. Images that will show who I am far louder than I can ever say in words.

Homecoming queen.

Prom queen.

Omega Chi sweetheart, and something nice to look at.

That's me.

I open my eyes, immediately seeing myself in the window of a parked car at the curb. I bring up my hand, pushing the lock of blond hair back in place.

We all have to be something, I guess.


Are you sure you have to go?” Krisjen says from the back seat of Callum’s Mustang. “Have you even slept the past twenty-four hours?”

I climb out of the passenger side seat and shoot her a look as Milo sits next to her, hanging his arm around her.

I slept last night. Minus a couple hours to finish readying the float.

I close the door and lean on the convertible, meeting Callum's blue eyes as he sits in the driver's seat. "Get her home safe?" I ask.

God knows, Milo's too dumb to do it.

"Maybe," he taunts.

"Then maybe I'll think about letting you take me to the lighthouse party." I swing my bag over my shoulder and dig inside, pulling out a wipe to clean the sparkly Greek letters off my cheeks.

He sits there, that confident gleam in his eyes like everyone wants to be near him, and he'll wait for me to realize that.

"Come here," he says.

Slowly, I lean in, giving him ninety, so he only has to give me ten and still look like the man. He kisses me, coming in again and again, his wet tongue grazing my bottom lip before he pulls back.

Holding back so I'll beg for more.

"You were amazing tonight, babe," Milo slurs, squeezing Krisjen. "You both were."

I hold Callum's eyes as I stand upright again. "Thank you for coming."

"I think they liked it," he says. "You dancing for me."

Yeah, okay. I smile, backing away toward the dress shop.

He shifts the car into gear, takes off, and I spin around, wiping off my mouth.

I hate kissing. Wet and slobbery tongue like a damn slug flopping around my mouth.

I pull open the door to Lavinia's on the Avenue and stroll in, tossing the wipe out on the sidewalk behind me.

The streets of St. Carmen still buzz with foot traffic, cafés, and local hot spots swarming with people enjoying a quiet night with friends alfresco. The parade ended more than an hour ago, and even though it took us that long to get our gear cleaned up and Amy's father to get the float clear of the gridlock, I'm still not done for the day.

I walk into the boutique, gowns displayed on mannequins as I cross the white carpet and pass the reception desk, my mother sitting in the lounge area.

She spots me. "Talk tomorrow," she says into her phone.

"I'm here now," I tell her, knowing she's going to whine.

"I've been waiting over an hour." She rises from the white-cushioned, high-back chair and sticks her phone into her handbag. "Call next time."

I chuckle under my breath as I keep walking and she follows. "Like I can control how fast the parade moves," I mumble.

Her chunky gold-and-pearl bracelet jingles as she enters the dressing area behind me, and I set my bag down next to the chair near the floor-length mirrors. I glance at her in the reflection, noticing my gold necklace draped across her tanned chest, visible in her flowing, deep V-neck blouse.

Coiffed golden hair, perfectly tailored black slacks that hug her three-spinning-classes-a-week ass, and squeaky clean, right down to her trimmed cuticles. My mother's body hasn't seen a carb other than champagne in at least twelve years. Pretty sure it's in cryo-freeze at this point, simply relying on eggs and hair spray to animate.

In ten minutes, I'm on the riser in front of the mirror and wearing the debutante gown my mother had designed for me.

"Oh, Lavinia," she says, holding her hands to her cheeks as she circles me. "You've outdone yourself. It's exquisite. I love it. The detail . . ."

I look away from my image in the mirror, clenching my jaw as hard as I can to contain myself.

My mother rushes up to me as the older lady remains back, taking in her work and looking for any final fixes.

"Clay?" my mom urges me. "What do you think?"

I look down at her, struggling to keep my emotions from bubbling up my throat. I fold my lips between my teeth, about to burst. She doesn't care what I think. She wants me to lie.

"It's, um . . ." I choke on the words, a snort escaping. "It's so beautiful. I'm speechless."

And I can't do it anymore. Laughter pours out of me as I take in the big, fat hoopskirt monstrosity in the mirror that makes me look like Scarlett fucking O'Hara, complete with puffed sleeves and some dumbass ruffle around the waist. I'm tempted to look for the stains of Lavinia's tears of laughter all over the dress as she sewed this bullshit.

I hunch over, my stomach tight as I try to rein it in.

My mother glares at me.

"I'm sorry," I gasp, fanning myself. "My emotions are running wild. I've waited so long for this." I plant my hand to my heart, recovering. "Lavinia, can you bring me some gloves and a pearl necklace? I need the whole picture. I'm so excited. Thank you."

The corners of her eyes crinkle with a tight smile, but she nods, quickly leaving the room to fetch the accessories.

It's not technically her fault. My mother approved the design.

The two of us alone, my mother steps up on the riser in front of me and twists the bodice, jerking it until it's straight.

"I thought for sure I'd look like a cupcake," I tell her, trying to catch her eyes. "Now, I almost wish I could say that I looked like a cupcake. You know that white stuff that spills out of a heroin addict's mouth when they're overdosing? That's what I look like."

She meets my eyes, her blue slightly paler than mine as she continues to yank at the dress. "You chose your homecoming gown," she points out. "And you'll choose your prom dress. The debutante ball is mine."

I knew I should've gotten this over with two years ago when she wanted me to.

My body jerks as she situates the dress on me, and I stare over her shoulder and into the mirror. The back of her blond head can easily be me in twenty years.

"You won't be able to tell me from everyone else," I say, coming as close as I can to begging her.

Every other debutante will be wearing white, and while the fabric is rather pretty on mine-lacy with pearl accents-the design is embarrassing. All the debutante dresses reek of Stepford.

"That's kind of the point," my mom says. "Tradition. Solidarity. Community. Unity. You're coming out as a member of society, and a society functions on standards." She smooths her hands down the fabric, pressing out any wrinkles. "You need to learn that rocking the boat puts everyone onboard in danger."

But that's what boats are built for.

I sigh, not sure why I decided to let her have this one. I get my way because my mother picks her battles, and any battle with me that lasts more than three minutes is too much effort.

I could fight her on it. Maybe I still will.

"Do you need a Valium or something?" she asks.

I laugh under my breath and look away. Gigi Collins, everyone. Chairwoman, socialite, and school board president.

She puffs my sleeves, and then presses a hand to my stomach. "Hmm."

"What?"

She purses her lips and walks around me, inspecting. "I was going to have her take it down to a four, but a six is already a squeeze, isn't it?"

Heat spreads down my skin, and I clench my jaw.

Her phone rings from her bag on the chair, and she heads for it, waving me off. "We'll leave it, I guess."

Picking up her bag, she digs out her phone and answers it, walking past me and leaving the room.

I rub my eyes, listening to her chatter out in the waiting area about whether or not we should have a crêpe station for my school's Easter brunch in two months.