More Than A Mask

Chapter Three: Blondes

Chapter Three

Monica's POV

Saturday afternoon I head to the best dress shop in town.  Doing a drive by, I see no cars that I recognize from school.  It's safe.

The door jingles as I enter.  I head right for the blonde at the counter, conniving thoughts running through my head.

"Excuse me.  Could you tell me if there were any other teenage girls in here today?  I'm looking for a friend of mine." The lie came so easily.

"There was actually."

I motion for her to continue.

"She paid me not to tell anyone who she was, so I'm not saying a word."

"Tell me what she bought then."

After a moments hesitation she answered, "She bought an absolutely stunning red dress that fit just perfectly.  Oh and a pair of red heels to match."

"So who was she?"

"Like I said before, she paid me." The blonde mimes zipping her lips and tucks the key into her pocket.  Never before have I realized how annoying that could be.

"I'll pay you more."

The fictional key flies out of her pocket and she unzips her mouth.  "How much are you talking about?"

"Double whatever she paid you."

"Triple!"

"Deal."

We shake hands and I dig in my purse for some cash.  "How much did she pay you?"

"Twenty bucks."

I swear under my breath, cursing the girl who bought the red dress.  I hold out the money to the blonde.  She grabs it and pull, but I don't let go.  "Name first, and then you can have the money."

"No!"

"N-no.  Did you just say no to me?  Do you know who I am?"

She smiles at me.  "No."

Containing the anger boiling inside of me, I let go of the money and she tucks all sixty bucks into the back pocket of her stylish jeans.

"The name." I prompt angrily.

"Oh yeah, I almost forgot."

Wow, remind me again of what color hair she has.

"She said her name was Monica Williams."

My jaw drops.  Who thinks that they have enough guts to mess with me?  "You idiot!" I scream at her, "I'm Monica Williams.  Me. Not the girl you saw.  I'm Monica.  NOW GIVE ME MY MONEY BACK!"

"No."

Wanting to strangle her, I storm out of the store.  The dresses there aren't worth my time, even if there is a weekend sale.  Instead I turn my murderous anger toward the girl who bought the red dress and promise myself that she was going to regret the day she ever crossed me.