Page 24 of Such Sharp Teeth

“Yep,” I say.

I take a deep breath and reach for the plastic sack. I open it and take out the dress. Honestly, it’s generous to refer to this amount of fabric as a dress. There’s a little cape thing, also a faux leather belt and gloves. I put on a pair of stockings so I can feel a little less naked.

I tear up my closet, searching for my brown leather boots, before remembering I lost them the night of the attack. I loved those boots. I got them at a vintage shop in the Village. I could go look for them, but even if they’re still out there, they’ve been left to the elements for the last two weeks, and I’d rather not revisit that particular patch of the woods, for obvious reasons. Tragedy on top of tragedy. I let it go, complete the getup with my suede boots instead.

When I walk into Scarlett’s bathroom, she full-on cries, laughing.

“With the bow,” she squawks. “I can’t wait to see it with the bow.”

“All right,” I say. I’d be pissed, because I look ridiculous, but Scarlett’s so tickled by it, I can’t help but be amused. “Give me a smokey eye or something. Might as well lean in, right?”

She puts on a classic-rock playlist and tells me to hold still when I sing along to “Wild Thing.”

“Your hair looks incredible,” she says as she brushes out my eyebrows.

“I was thinking about braiding it. Better for the costume.”

“No, leave it,” she says, taking a strand and gently running it through her fingers. “My hair is so oily right now. Ash said her hair grew something outrageous with Luca. Like a foot. Any of the good things I was told would happen haven’t happened. Just all this weird, awful shit no one warned me about. Sorry. I don’t mean to be negative.”

“You’re fine. No one wants to be honest about the ugly stuff,” I say.

“Yeah.”

“We live in a society that wants us to be ashamed of our bodies. It’s hard not to internalize that.”

“You’re right,” she says, coming in with the mascara. “Open. Look up. And I don’t know. I feel like if I say anything bad about my pregnancy, suddenly I’m Casey Anthony.”

“That’s crazy,” I say. “You’re way prettier.”

She snorts. “Thanks. Thanks for that.”

“You can always talk to me. I might not understand, but I won’t judge you.”

“I know you won’t,” she says. “Close your eyes. I’m gonna hit you with the setting spray.”

She mists me and then moves out of the way so I can see myself in the mirror. I turn from my reflection, too afraid of what might appear behind me.

“I look gorgeous,” I say, “just like Scarlett Morris.”

“Ha-ha,” she says.

I watch as she does her own makeup, turning her face into a beautiful skull. She puts on her cloak, hood up, and looks truly amazing. If I fuss too much over her, she’ll think I’m bullshitting, so I give her a thumbs-up and keep my compliments to myself.

We get into the car, are about to leave, when Scarlett says, “I have to pee again. I’ll be right back.”

While she’s in the house and I’m alone in the garage, wiggling impatiently in the passenger seat, I open my phone and search How many days until the next full moon?

It’s fifteen.

Fifteen days.

IV

There are approximately forty million cars in front of Ashley’s house, which is too bright to look at directly. The place is absolutely decked with orange string lights, so many it can likely be seen from space.

Scarlett finds a spot down the street, and we walk arm in arm along the rain-slick sidewalk, careful not to slip on any soppy fallen leaves. I stay alert, hyperaware of my surroundings. I’ve been looking over my shoulder so much lately, I think I’m developing neck problems.

As we approach the front door, I get a sense of just how loud it is in there. I can hear raucous laughter over the blare of Michael Jackson’s “Thriller.” It’s eight seventeen p.m.