Twirl,” Marjorie commands, so I do. When I come full circle, I hardly recognize the girl in the mirror. I feel like I haven’t really looked at myself in months. And here I am—in a pale peach tulle dress, with a sparkly barrette in my hair.
I think I’ve mentioned that Marjorie has some surprising talents.
“Three years sewing costumes for the drama department of a community college,” Marjorie says as she fusses with my right sleeve, “come in surprisingly handy. Take it from me—everyone should do it.”
“Thank you,” I say.
“Oh, I have lots more advice,” she tells me.
“I meant—thanks for making me the dress. Although the advice is helpful, too.”
Marjorie seems surprised and pleased at the compliment. Her wild hair is held back by a headband, and I can see her face. She looks a lot like Mrs. Morris. That shouldn’t be surprising, but it is.
Marjorie gives me a hug. “It’s my pleasure, Cuckoo,” she whispers.
She finished just in time, because ten minutes later, the Freakshow is at my front door. They’ve pulled up in a limo (a gift from Eggy’s parents).
I have to say that all my friends look incredibly beautiful. Even Zitsy looks gorgeous, although how he is managing that in a powder-blue tuxedo is a mystery for the ages. Brainzilla is wearing white. Not the Vera Wang wedding dress, but close. Flatso is wearing midnight-blue velvet and looks like a goddess. Tebow is predictably handsome. And Eggy is wearing a vibrant, anime-inspired sequin gown that looks like it came straight out of Lady Gaga’s closet.
“Everyone line up in front of the limo!” Marjorie shouts, holding up an expensive-looking camera with a long lens.
“She spent six months working as a photographer’s assistant,” I explain to my friends. But the Freakshow doesn’t need an explanation.