The Fifth Hawthorne

Chapter Eleven

(Avery's POV)

I asked Alisa about the will. I half expected her to look at me like I lost my marbles, but the second I aid the word red, her expression shifted. She informed me that a viewing of the red will could be arranged, but first I had to do something for her. That something ended up involving a brother-sister stylist team carting what appeared to be the entire inventory of Saks Fifth Avenue into my bedroom. The female stylist was tiny and said next to nothing. 

The man was six foot six and kept up a steady stream of observations. "You can't wear yellow, and I would encourage you to banish the words orange and cream from your vocabulary, but most every other colour is an option." The three of us were in my room now, along with Libby and Ashley, thirteen racks of clothing, dozens of trays of jewelery, and what appeared to be an entire salon set up in the bathroom. "Brights, pastels, earth tones in moderation. You gravitate towards solids?"

I look down at my current outfit: a grey t-shirt and my second most-comfortable pair of jeans. "I like simple."

"Simple is a lie ," the woman murmured. "But a beautiful one sometimes."

Beside me, Libby snorted and bit back a grin. I glared at her. "You're enjoying this, aren't you?" I asked darkly. Then I took in the outfit she was wearing. The dress was black, which was Libby enough, but the style would've fit right in a country club.

I'd told Alisa not to pressure her. "You don't have to change how you-" I started to say, but Libby cut me off.
"They've bribed me. With boots." She gestured toward the back wall, which was lined with boots, all of them leather, in shades of purple, black, and blue. Ankle length, calf-length, even one pair of thigh highs.
"Also," Libby added serenely, "creepy lockets." If a piece of jewelry looked haunted, Libby was there.

"You let them make you over in exchange for fifteen pairs of boots and some creepy lockets?" I said, feeling mildly betrayed.
"And some incredibly soft leather pants," Libby added. "Totally worth it. I'm still me, just... fancy." Her hair was still blue. Her nail polish was still black. And she wasn't the one the style team was focused on now.

"We should start with the hair," the male stylist declared beside me, eyeing my offending tresses. "Don't you think?" he asked his sister. There was no reply as the woman disappeared behind one of the racks. I could hear her thumbing through another, rearranging the order of clothing.

"Thick. Not quite wavy, not quite straight. You could go either way." This giant man looked and sounded like he should be playing tight end, not advising me on hairstyles. "No shorter than two inches below your chin, no longer than mid back. Gentle layers wouldn't hurt." He glanced over at Libby. "I suggest you disown her if she opts for bangs."

"I'll take that under consideration," Libby said solemnly. "You would be miserable if it wasn't long enough for a ponytail," she told me.
"Ponytail." That got me s censoring look from the linebacker. "Do you hate your hair and want it to suffer?"
"I don't hate it." I shrugged. "I just don't care."

"That is also a lie." The woman reappeared from behind the clothing rack. She had a half dozen hangers worth of clothes in her hands, and as I watched, she hung them up, face out, on the closest rack. The result was three different outfits.

"Classic." She nodded to an ice blue skirt, paired with a long sleeved t-shirt.
"Natural." The stylist moved on the second option- a loose and flowing floral dress combining at least a dozen shades of red and pink. "Preppy with an edge." The final option included a brown leather skirt, shorter than any of the others- and probably tighter too. She'd matched it with a white collared shirt and a heather-grey cardigan.

"Which calls to you?" The male stylist asked. That got another snort out of Libby. She was enjoying this way too much.
"They're all fine." I eyed the floral dress. "That one looks itchy though."