“She looks amazing, doesn’t she?” Mom weaves her arm through Cissy’s. “Hard to believe I wore this gown twenty years ago.”

“I believe it,” says Cissy quietly.

Suddenly, I’d like nothing better than for the earth to open up and swallow me whole. I kill things; I don’t wear dresses.

“Just one second!” Mom rushes back to the box, pulling out a floppy orange hat with an enormous bow. “This goes with it.”

I picture Captain Hook’s hat, then realize Mom’s hat could eat that one and still have room for dessert.

“No, thanks,” say Cissy and I unison.

A knot of tension crawls up my spine; I can’t wait to get this dress off. “I’m not feeling too well, Cissy.” I fiddle with the zipper on my back. “You’ll have to catch the party without me.”

“You’re fine. It’s nerves.” Cissy turns to my mother, blinking her tawny eyes madly. “You wouldn’t mind if we made a few little alterations, would you? To bring the dress up to date a wee bit?”

“Of course. There are scissors in the box. Do you need anything else?”

Cissy smiles sweetly. “A little girl-time.” She stares pointedly at the door. “Do you mind?”

“Not at all.” Still beaming, Mom almost glides out of my room. Cissy closes the door firmly behind her, then grabs the scissors and goes to work. Within minutes, the flounces and bows lay on the floor, alongside the hoop. In the end, I’m wearing a very simple, very electric orange gown. I stare at my image in the mirror.

“I look like a nuclear carrot.”

Cissy grabs my hand. “No, you don’t, you look fine. Please let’s go to the party please, please, pleeeeeeeeeeease?”

I’m going to regret this. “Okay, let’s go.”

Cissy and I race toward the front door, but my mother’s too quick for an uneventful escape. “No, wait!” Mom holds up her hands. “I have an instamatic camera somewhere in the attic crawlspace. I want to capture this moment!”

Cissy pauses by the threshold, fluffing her blonde ringlets. “Sure.” Mom runs off, the sound of footsteps echo through the house.

I glare at my best friend. “No pictures, please. Besides, we’re running super-late.”

“Oh, yeah,” Cissy cups her hand by her mouth. “Gotta go, Momma Lewis!”

Mom’s muffled voice sounds from the attic. “Are you sure you can’t wait?”

I grab Cissy’s hand and lunge for the front door. “Absolutely positive.”

Cissy and I rush to the driveway and slide into Betsy. After Betsy coughs up a few clouds of toxic smoke, we putter along the route to the Ryder mansion, our gowns carefully folded around us. As I drive along, I watch Upper Purgatory slide by my windows.