This scene is one of the first I wrote for this novel, a bitchy catfight which, originally in a different setting, was an exchange I wasn’t sure I’d be able to use at all. Today I saw precisely where it fit though, and I am really quite taken with it. It lands in ACT II, Become Like Children— a subtitle that’s very apt, considering what goes down.
To position you here, this exchange occurs after Pretty has learned, through a teen she mentors (Taylor), that an old school club she once belonged to in the late 80’s, Seeing Futures, was a front for some very sinister shenanigans among the other teens—most of whom are now, coincidentally, all dead. Taylor has told Pretty that one of her Aunts was who alerted her that this club was secretly called ‘Devil’s Children.’ Taylor has also revealed that she’s researching it all with a mysterious older guy she only refers to by computer username: “To Infinity, Baby.”
Uneasy with all Taylor has told her, Pretty has begun to dig on her own—and is alarmed at one Seeing Futures member’s death in particular. So alarmed, that in this scene she’s elected to set old hostility aside, consult with another former member of Seeing Futures—her nemesis, Shirlee Brophy. Here’s what happens:
Chapter # (?) A Little Respect
Shirlee Brophy had worked at South Valley Insurance ever since Seeing Futures, when they’d had to set goals: “I’d be a good receptionist,” she’d said, and it was true. There was nothing about the agency Shirl didn’t know, and every local usually consulted her rather than any of the bona fide brokers. All these decades later, she ran the place efficiently, stylishly, and why she wasn’t the principal owner of SVI by now mystified everyone—including Pretty, who, parking outside, suddenly remembered her soiled skirt. “Dammit!” She searched the backseat.
An oversized flannel shirt, autumn plaid, was all she had—a rustic boho look when she paired it with denim dresses on Street Market Thursdays. With today’s sundress, though? “Hello, bag lady,” she grumbled. Exactly how she wanted to face Shirl. Sighing, she slipped it on. Tugged its hem down past her rear, entered SVI.
Shirl did a double take. So did Pretty. Because if she looked homeless, Shirl looked like hell; hair scraped into a haphazard chignon. Sleepless dents under eyes that raked Pretty’s bag-lady flannel harshly before, “You don’t have a policy here,” she said.
Was that the grown-up version of ‘You don’t even go here?’ If so—You missed the grown-up part, Pretty thought, and said, “I’m not here for insurance. I’m here to see you.”
“What,” Shirl said, “for?”
Her clenched teeth…Good Lord, Shirl. You won. I lost. Years ago. So take your victory lap already. Climb out of the damn ring. She said, as patiently as she could, “Our old Futures alumni—Roz Bolduc. I just learned now that she died.”
Shirlee glared. Expression a show of ‘So what?’
Patience, Pretty. “It…made me sad,” she said. “And from what I’ve heard it was…” Sacrifice. She swallowed. “Shirl, did Roz commit suicide?”
“Who told you that?”
Inadvertently? Taylor had. But no way would she out her kid to this jackal. Not today. Taylor’s Auntie Colleen, though…? She was fair game. “You remember Colleen? From school?”
“Are you saying you spoke to Colleen?”
Oh, for Christ’s sake. Was Shirl still following old code, acting like she and all her shitty friends were too good to even speak to the likes of her? “Yes,” Pretty lied.
“Really?” Shirlee smiled now. “And how did you do that, Petticoat? With one of your old friend Vincent’s Ouija boards?”
“I…pardon?”
“Colleen’s dead. Breast cancer. Years ago. So why are you digging up bones?”
Colleen was dead? Taylor lied? Then who’d told her about Seeing Futures? About ‘Devil’s Children’? That they too were all dead?
“I can tell you his username.”
To Infinity, Baby. Who the hell was this clown? And how—why—did he know all this dark shit?
Shirl said, “Better question.”
Pretty snapped back to attention. Shirlee had risen, mocking smirk gone. Instead, her fists were clenched. Shaking. “Why are you wearing my husband’s flannel?”
What? Had she entered the damn Twilight Zone? “I’m not—”
“Take it off!” shouted Shirl. “Right now. What the hell is this? Coming in here, mocking me? Scaring me? Why else would you say…” She gulped a breath. “And why are you wearing his flannel?”
“Why were you fucking my fiancé?” Pretty flared.
The agency door had opened. Neither of them looked. “Seventeen-year-old boys with no dick control are one thing,” Pretty snarled, temper uncorked now. Callous now. “Conniving bitches who baby-trap are another.”
“Uh…hello?”
Pretty turned. Sabrina Haslom, colorless Vincent-eyes massive, goggled them both. “Shirl, I need you to pull up a policy.”
Shirlee swallowed, composed herself. “Of course,” she said, but that glare…
Pretty peeled the flannel off, tossed it at her. “Tell Joey it was as good for me as it was for him,” she said, and pivoted, clicked measuredly out the door.
Behind her she could hear Sabrina, choking.
STAY TUNED.... I'm bustin' my butt here!
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