Lymber craft's Arc

Chapter 2 of 70

Thursday after school, Lymber drove home with the crown four days out and a list in her head. The rumor was dead. Her name was on every senior locker. What she needed now was a dress no other girl at the dance could match. She parked in front of the six-bedroom house her mother kept spotless and went straight upstairs to her closet. She pulled three dresses off the rack and dropped them on the bed. None of them worked. One was last year's cut. One had a stain near the hem. The third was red, and the queen bee already owned it in black. Lymber grabbed her keys again and drove to the boutique two towns over that her mother used for gala nights. The shop clerk knew her face and brought out the private rack. Lymber worked through it fast. She skipped anything short, anything with sleeves, anything the juniors could copy from a mall. On the last hanger she found a floor-length gown in deep gold that matched her hair almost exactly. The bodice was fitted. The skirt fell clean. She stepped into the dressing room and pulled the zipper up her side. It stopped two inches short of closing. She sucked in and tried again. The fabric held tight across her stomach. She stared at the mirror. Her waist looked thicker than it had in August. The clerk called through the curtain and asked if she needed the next size. Lymber said yes in a flat voice and stepped out of the gown. The next size fit. She paid without looking at the total and drove home with the dress flat across the back seat. In her bathroom she hung the gown on the door and sat on the counter. She opened the makeup drawer for her toner. Her hand hit the box she had shoved to the back two weeks ago. This time she did not put it back. She read the instructions twice, used it, and set the small white strip on the edge of the sink. She counted to a hundred and eighty. The control line came in bright green. Below it, a second line came in sharp pink. Lymber stared at the pink line until her eyes burned. The dress hung behind her in gold. The dance was four days away. She had the gown she wanted. She also had an answer she had spent two weeks refusing to ask for. She wrapped the strip in tissue, pushed it deep into the drawer under her cotton pads, and washed her hands. One problem at a time, she told herself again. But the problem in the drawer was no longer something she could pretend was stress.