Being rescued

Friday crawls toward me like a storm I can't outrun.

All week, Tara talks about nothing else.

"The city," she says during lunch, eyes gleaming. "A real club. Real music. Real people. Not this small-town nonsense."

"Small-town nonsense is peaceful," I counter.

"Small-town nonsense is boring," she declares, as if that settles it.

Lizzie listens with a nervous smile, twirling her straw in her drink. She looks excited—genuinely—but there's tension under it, like she's stepping onto a stage for the first time and hoping no one throws tomatoes.

I'm not nervous about the club.

I'm not happy about what it represents.

Being available.

Being the kind of girl my mother thinks I should become, even for one night.

June prowls in the back of my mind. We can handle a club.

I'm not worried about the club, I answer.

She pauses. You're worried about attention.

I don't respond, because she's right and I hate it.

On Friday afternoon, Tara corners us by the lockers with the energy of someone announcing a life-changing event instead of a night out.

"Shopping," she says, grabbing my wrist like I might flee. "Immediately."

"I have training," I protest.

"You can punch your brother tomorrow," she says, dragging me toward the parking lot. "Tonight you're going to live."

Lizzie hurries after us, clutching her bag. "Tara, maybe don't kidnap her?"

"Not kidnapping," Tara replies. "Rescuing."

From the mall parking lot, June observes dryly, We're being captured by glitter.

The mall is bright, loud, and full of humans who have no idea they're shopping alongside predators.

Tara moves like she owns the place, pulling dresses from racks with the confidence of someone who was born to decide what's hot.

Eventually, Tara bursts out of a fitting room.

"Jackpot!"

She's wearing a tight glittering sleeveless golden dress that barely covers anything. Her boobs look ready to start a rebellion.

"Look at my boobs!" she squeals.

Lizzy claps excitedly.

"It's hot," I admit, watching Tara spin. "But everyone will see your panties."

"The more the merrier," Tara winks. "Confidence is sexy."

"With red lipstick and that dress, you'll be queen of the club," Lizzy laughs.

Lizzie tries things on with a careful kind of hope, stepping out of the fitting room and watching our faces like our opinions might decide her whole future.

"You look amazing," I tell her when she finds a dark blue dress that hugs her curves without screaming for attention.

Lizzie blushes. "Really?"

"Really," I say, and I mean it.

Tara claps her hands. "Okay! Now it's Cat's turn."

"No," I say instantly.

"Yes," Tara says instantly.

I end up sitting on a bench while they disappear into a sea of fabric and hangers. I scroll on my phone and pretend I'm somewhere else. At home. In the basement. Kicking Mike's ass. Anything but this.

Then Tara returns, eyes gleaming with trouble.

"This," she announces, holding up a black dress.

It's sleek. Tight. Leather-look. Square neckline with a notch that suggests my boobs will be invited to the party whether I want them there or not. The back is... barely there.

My throat goes dry. "Absolutely not."

Lizzie appears behind her and makes a small sound. "Oh wow."

"Traitor," I mutter.

Tara shoves the dress at me. "Try it."

"I don't want to."

"Cat," she says, lowering her voice, "you don't have to become someone else. You just have to stop hiding."

"You know very well that I'm not hiding—it's just not my thing."

I grit my teeth and stomp into the fitting room.

Ten minutes later, I step out, and both girls freeze.

Tara's mouth drops open. Lizzie's eyes widen.

I stare at them. "Don't."

Tara fans herself dramatically. "I'm going to pass out."

"It's too much," I insist, tugging at the neckline like I can magically add fabric. "It's not me."

"It is you," Lizzie says softly. "Just... a version you don't let people see."

I open my mouth to argue, but Tara is already sprinting toward the cashier with all three dresses slung over her arm like a victory banner.

"Tara!" I shout.

She calls over her shoulder, "Too late!"

I glare at Lizzie. "She didn't—"

Lizzie winces. "She did."

By the time we're back in the parking lot, the bags are in Tara's trunk and my fate is sealed.

"Why do you always pull stuff like this?" I mutter.

Tara shrugs, unrepentant. "Because you'll thank me later."

June murmurs, Or we'll set something on fire.

No fires, I warn.