SV Chapter 57 (Patreon)

Back at school on Monday, there seemed to be a single topic on everybody’s lips: the hot new clothing destination, Fabulé. Tiff was usually pretty unaware of these things, so it was possible that very few people were talking about it, but because she was hyper-focused on the shifty [Tailor], that was all she heard.

It could also be that Tiff’s recent shift in surroundings was rearing an unexpected head. She knew extroverted people liked to talk, but maybe she underestimated Candice’s network.

One peculiar side effect of Candice hanging around Tiff was the appearance of other popular, trendy girls. Just because Candice gained a new friend didn’t mean she lost all her old ones, and once they got used to Tiff’s presence near the cheerleader, they slowly started coming around. Though her lunch table was apparently sacred, Tiff might find herself inexplicably surrounded by spunky girls. It was as if she had become invisible to them, which was a fascinating development in itself.

It let her overhear lurid conversations, petty squabbles, and other regrettable gossip she had mistakenly thought was quarantined to the locker room.

So, when Tiff sat down on a bench in the hallway during break to eat a piece of string cheese and Candice joined her with her customary bubblegum chewing, Tiff wasn’t altogether surprised when a flock of girls popped up out of nowhere.

If Tiff didn’t pay close attention or look too closely, they actually resembled a bunch of brightly colored birds, too. Skirts that pushed regulations to the limits, overwhelming perfume and gaudy accessories, plus the tendency to clump tightly together the moment a male walked by. But at the same time, by some metric Tiff couldn’t understand, they’d instantly and silently decide whether to ignore the boy, stare at him, or give him furtive glances, hoping he’d notice.

…Were they really the same species as her?

Or was Tiff the weird one?

Who could really say.

No boys were passing through at the moment, so the talk had shifted back to compli-saulting each other on their choice of wardrobe today. It was like they were really excited to talk about what they were wearing, but at the same time might be driven by jealousy or other petty reasons to put each other down and bid for supremacy in an escalating game of one-upmanship.

Tiff almost wished her string cheese were a bag of popcorn (or maybe just a second thing of string cheese, since she'd already eaten the first). So long as she remained invisible, at least, and nobody dragged her into it. Tiff knew her fashion sense was questionable, but she was comfortable, so who cared?

“I like your sweater, Cand,” one of the girls with large gold hoop earrings said. “Like, like like it? I’m thinking about going highlights in November and that would look super cute on me.”

There it is, Tiff thought. Sure, it’s alright on you, but it would totally be better on me.

Some of the girls tittered in agreement while a few looked rather skeptical. Candice did wear the sweatshirt incredibly well…just like any other clothes she put on. Tiff was always amazed at the variety and sheer quantity of viable outfits in Candice’s arsenal.

“There’s a new shop in Hacienda,” Candice said smugly. “I don’t know how it’s gone under everyone’s radar for so long, but it’s phenom. It’s a tiny little hole in the wall, but don’t let that fool you! It’s got exactly what you need. Totally killer…though it also might murder your wallet. I won’t skimp on a good look, but this thing wasn’t cheap!”

Candice said the magic word and Tiff was already perking up. But as if the world really wanted to make sure she was paying attention, the conversation didn’t stop there.

“Huh,” another girl muttered. “What’s it called? You said it’s in Hacienda? I might have to look it up.”

“Fabulé,” Candice said, flicking her hair. “You can look up the reviews. Highest-rated small clothing store in our area, and honestly, it’s not close. I didn’t believe it at first, because nobody could be that good, right? But I went and I’m sold now. I think I’ll become a regular.”

Tiff listened intently as the girls gossiped some more, talking about which boys were eligible, which weren’t, and which should be despite already having a partner and were therefore technically free game to poach. She sat impatiently but quietly, not wanting to ruin her harmless wallflower cover, until the bell finally rang. When it did, the group let out a collective groan and started dragging their feet toward their destination, but Tiff wasn’t done yet. Before she could corner Candice and pester her for information, the cheerleader sighed.

“Look,” Candice said in a heavy tone the moment Tiff stood up. “I know you want to talk. Do you really think I couldn’t feel your burning stare the whole time we were talking? Don’t worry, we’ll talk at lunch. I promise I’ll tell you what I know.”

“You really went to Fabulé?” Tiff asked. “I mean, I did too; my mom took me. I didn’t think you’d go without protection.”

“Girl, what’s so dangerous about a [Tailor]?” Candice smirked. “I don’t need a bodyguard to try on jeans.”

Tiff’s face darkened instantly and Candice’s smile faltered.

“Oh, I have thoughts on that,” Tiff said darkly. “Especially the jeans. Do you have any idea how many jean styles there are? I got an entire lecture listening to my mom and the owner!”

“Really?” Candice perked up. A hall monitor glared at them and tapped their wrist, reminding them their time to get to class was running out fast. “Shit,” Candice grimaced. “Lunch. We’ll talk at lunch!”

​

Normally, the upcoming conversation would have occupied Tiff’s mind and blocked out everything else, making it hard to concentrate and stretching the remaining time until the lunch bell rang into an eternity. But today, she had something heavy weighing her down. Something unavoidable, awkward, and frankly, slightly embarrassing.

The lunch her mom packed her.

It was, literally, heavy.

During the break, when Tiff grabbed her snack, she peeked into her bag, wondering if she'd brought an extra textbook to school for no good reason, because it was heavier than it had any right to be. It turned out…no. She didn’t. She had her regular assortment of binders and class notes crammed in with the rest of her school supplies, but next to all that, like an industrial brick, was her lunch bag. Tiff stared at it for several seconds, wondering why it wasn’t getting crushed by all her books as it settled toward the bottom, before letting out a low, exasperated groan.

Normally, Melissa was good about packing lunches when she was on food duty. Most times, she gave Tiff exactly what she needed to make it through the day, but on rare occasions, she’d screw up. Sometimes she’d get the girls mixed up and Tiff would end up with Victoria’s or Amy’s lunch. If it happened to be Amy, it was usually a quick fix. At least if Amy ended up with Tiff’s normal lunch, which wouldn’t be enough food for the bigger girl, she’d seek Tiff out herself to trade. But since the energetic redhead wasn’t making a beeline for her table, Tiff figured Amy hadn’t gotten a messed-up lunch order and Victoria was the one missing out.

No matter where Victoria was, at home, at the Guild, or anywhere else, she could always get more food. But when Tiff was stuck with a lunch multiple times the size of one she could feasibly eat? It was always awkward.

Technically, she could throw it away…but that felt really bad.

During the break, Tiff had taken her cheese and declared the oversized sack lunch-Tiff’s problem. Which was now, so she sat at her table, opened up the paper sack, and peered into it nervously.

Sandwiches.

Tiff let out a sigh of relief.

On one hand, she could eat sandwiches with little worry about portion size. A sandwich was usually a sandwich, but the quantity was questionable. For instance, leftovers in a reusable tub…that’s where things started getting tricky.

Judging by the three oranges and a large baggie of cashews, this was obviously a lunch for Tiff. She loved those and she’d gladly eat them. In moderation. Tiff could only assume her mom had been distracted while packing the lunches. After thinking back on all the time Melissa spent humming a song about well-fitting pants while bustling around the kitchen, Tiff narrowed her eyes and knew exactly who the culprit was.

She let out a sigh. It wasn’t really a problem except Tiff didn’t want to be wasteful. She could try to take the leftovers home with her, but who knew how well they would last through the day? She took one of ten sandwiches, an orange, and the half-gallon-sized bag of nuts and stared at them forlornly. She shook her head, started peeling her orange, and eventually, Candice joined her.

“Do you…have a thing for nuts?” Candice asked warily, sitting across from her. “Because that’s a lot of nuts.”

“I’ve told you before,” Tiff said in a pained voice, glancing up. “My mom makes good food, but sometimes…it’s too much.”

“She really gave you a pound of cashews?” Candice scoffed. “That’s ridiculous.”

“Oh, it’s a lot more than a pound,” Tiff grunted, hefting the bag up and tossing it closer to Candice. “Probably 2, 2 1/2. You want some? Feel free. Oh, want an orange? And a sandwich? How about 7 sandwiches?”

“Your mom gave you 7 sandwiches?” Candice balked. But she opened the Ziploc and scooped a handful onto her tray.

“No,” Tiff shook her head. “She gave me 10.”

“Why…?”

“No clue,” Tiff said sadly. “Happens on occasion. I think she was distracted. Like I said, we went to the [Tailor]’s shop, right? Well, she wasn’t spared the apparent need to spend money, and she ended up having some clothes custom-made. She got, ah, really excited thinking about what my dad would think, and, well, here we are.”

Tiff waved her hand at the evidence. She pulled out another sandwich and slid it toward Candice.

“Turkey, muenster cheese, half an avocado, a little bit of ranch, and 4 strips of bacon.”

“No mayo?” Candice questioned, instantly reaching for the sandwich. A homemade BLT (minus the L and the T) certainly beat out “beans ‘n rice” day at the cafeteria. Technically it was “enchilada day,” but the ratio of BnR to enchilada was heavily skewed, and not in the enchilada’s favor.

Tiff gave Candice a very stern look.

“Ranch,” she repeated. Candice nearly recoiled.

“I get it, I get it!”

She picked up the sandwich and nearly dropped it.

“Holy hell, this is, like, an entire chicken breast!”

“Well, it’s carved turkey. Mom buys these packs from the deli and slices them at home.”

“And you’ve got 10 of these?”

Tiff gave Candice a dull look and pushed her bag closer.

“You know anybody else who wants a sandwich?”

“Why…?” Was all Candice could say as she peered into the sack, dumbfounded.

“Don’t think too hard about it,” Tiff advised. “It’ll make your brain hurt. And we’re not here to talk about my lunch, either. Fabulé. Do you want to start or should I?”

Thankfully, Candice was willing to share first. As Tiff ate her food, she listened to the girl’s story and her fears were confirmed.

​

Candice entered Fabulé guarded and cautious, unsure what to expect. All they had was Sugar Rush’s story, and the excitable Sidekick hadn’t given them a clear picture. Yes, they knew where the store was and roughly what it was trying to do…but other than “make a buttload of money,” the actual motive was unknown. Tiff was a perpetual pessimist bordering on a worrywart, which was cute in its own way once a person got to know her and could finally look past the icy demeanor. She’d strongly hinted to Candice that they shouldn’t take risks and that it would be smarter to go in as a group, but Candice pushed those concerns aside with a warm smile. Her plan to bring on a bodyguard was going smoothly, and if all the pieces lined up, she’d sit down with Tiff and they could onboard the guy on Monday. But for now…this was a clothing store. How dangerous could it be?

…Candice was smart enough to know those were foolish words. After hanging out with Tiff the last few weeks, seeing her in her normal aloof state and her imposing role as Dark Queen Theophania, Candice was willing to admit that weird crap was going to happen. Not just a chance, but a straight-up guarantee. She wasn’t worried about getting abducted or beat up in a clothes store; her biggest worry was how to get there.

She was working on her permit, but she didn’t have her own car and couldn’t drive on her own, even if she did. She needed adult supervision for at least another 6 months before she could get the real deal. That meant her options were limited. She couldn’t walk; that would take her the entire day, no matter how good of shape she was in. She could take the bus…make up some excuse about a surprise Saturday practice for the squad or needing to work on a group project. But those types of excuses were like a limited currency; she could only use them so many times before they stopped working. She needed to make sure they really counted. Her dad was out golfing with some buddies from the club, so she couldn’t ask him. That just left her mom. Candice psyched herself up, telling herself this could be the perfect opportunity for some mother-daughter bonding.

She was wrong.

Candice sighed as she sat in the passenger seat of the Escalade, staring out the window while her mom kept complaining. She’d agreed to take Candice shopping, a coin flip whether she’d say yes. But it came with conditions. Not spoken ones, but as soon as her mom threw her purse over her shoulder, the tirade began. Snide remarks here, little critiques there…nothing was ever good enough for her. And it wasn’t always directed at Candice, even if it usually was. Sometimes it was a long-winded explanation of what was wrong with all the neighbors, or a rant about somebody’s dog peeing on the front lawn, or how one of the ladies she played bridge with had a boy who was so and so, blah blah blah….

Candice learned to tune out the noise long ago, like a radio stuck on a channel filled with junk static. Occasionally, her brain would remind her to check in, but whenever she did, her mom was still complaining, even if the topic had changed. The negativity was inevitable. Candice used to think that was simply part of growing old and she dreaded the day she had to grow up.

Now she knew things could be different, which made the long trip uptown much less bearable.

Fortunately, her patience didn’t break, nor did her unwavering smile. And as she saw the fancy sign promising a genuine [Tailor], Candice got even more excited. Her mom let out a scoff and said she’d be the one to judge the quality, but Candice ignored her. Her mom judged everything. That wasn’t new. They parked, got out of the car, and walked inside.

“It looks like a thrift store,” Catherine sneered. “Look at this rubbish.”

“Mom,” Candice hissed. No one seemed to hear her, but Candice was mortified. “I’m going to look around.”

It was meant to be an escape tactic, but sadly, the shop wasn’t big enough for that. Unlike a department store, it didn’t have entire zones devoted to different types of clothes. There wasn’t a ready-to-wear section, an intimates corner, or a kids/teen area. Everything was piled onto the racks following a pattern only the owner must know. As had become customary since she’d gained her new Class, Candice immediately started counting. How many dresses, how many shirts, how many pants, robes, shorts…every article of clothing. How many racks. How many dummies in the window.

How many of various sizes before a new style came up.

Despite her initial reservations, Candice was impressed. She walked up to an assembled outfit that would easily fall under “a day on the course.” It felt warm and sunny: a neutral white pleated skirt and short-sleeved polo; an argyle vest in white, pink, and teal; and, to top it off, an Irish tweed vintage golf cap. A single white golf glove completed the look.

“Scandalous,” Catharine said, not bothering to keep her voice down. “Skirts these days…getting shorter and shorter. Cut any more off and you’d have to call it a belt. At the very least, you’d think it’d be cheaper since they saved all that fabric, but no! Highway robbery, that’s what this is!”

Candice rolled her eyes and inched away from her mother. She thought briefly about explaining that plenty of sports had short skirts…like tennis. And what about her cheer uniform? The skirt was practically for show; they wore shorts underneath. That’s if it wasn’t actually a skort to begin with.

But her mom already knew that; she just liked to complain. And be loud. Which didn’t help Candice focus on why this shop was so mysterious, or what it was doing that put a hero on edge.

Candice was about to abandon her mother again when a shadow fell over the rack next to her. She nearly flinched; how did somebody sneak up on her in a shop this small? Only a handful of people were in here!

“Perhaps, would the madame care to try something on?” A suave voice asked.

Candice looked up and saw a very peculiar man. Everybody knew the old saying “a face only a mother could love,” and while that didn’t apply here, it still made Candice think it. He was definitely not one of those guys who got called in as an extra for a police lineup, where a witness had to pick out a suspect. She would absolutely remember what this guy looked like if she had to stand on the other side of some glass and say, “It’s that guy, officer!”

…hopefully she’d never have to do that, considering what the group was looking into.

“Hmm,” Catharine frowned, looking the man up and down. “You work here, then? Fine. Make a recommendation. I’ll warn you now; I’m not easy to please, and I’ll let you know if I’m not satisfied.”

Well…at least she wasn’t lying.

Candice followed her mom on instinct. She didn’t want to be around when she caused a stink, but she also wanted to be able to grab her and run the moment things went to hell so she wouldn’t be humiliated for long.

And yet…the expected confrontation never materialized. Fabio, as the man’s name turned out to be, had an excellent eye. And a silver tongue. After only three questions, he got Catharine talking, and not in the bad-mouthing, nothing’s good enough, why are you a failure sort of way. He obviously knew his audience and exactly which buttons to push, and he stroked Catharine’s ego so smoothly that she quickly ate out of his hand. Fabio brought out a classy dinner dress– perhaps a size too small, though it wasn’t unflattering. Candice knew her mother was done for the second she stepped out of the changing room; a compliment to her figure and how it brought out the color in her eyes, and Candice could swear she could see her mom’s head inflate. She was in a tremendous mood, too, as she changed back into her original clothes. Not only was she going to buy the dress for herself, but she also suggested Candice try something, too.

If anything was going to make Candice suspicious of this shop, it was how fast her mom’s tune changed.

But she didn’t need to be told twice, especially since her mom told her she was paying. Cute clothes and Candice didn’t need to spend her hard-earned cash? Yes, please! Candice remembered that golf outfit, but now that winter was getting closer, she didn’t want a sleeveless vest. After talking with Fabio and getting his (lengthy) opinion on sweaters, Candice found herself hauling an armload of garments into the changing room.

What had started as a sweater turned into some pants and a shirt, too. Candice quickly got changed and looked at herself in the mirror.

She was used to seeing her own reflection. For many reasons, be it a critical mother or the need to look her best around her peers so her social standing wouldn’t take a hit. Candice almost always looked good…because she worked really hard at it. It wasn’t one of those natural things some girls liked to brag about: like anything else in life, hard work and diligence were key.

Candice knew when something felt right versus when she was putting in overtime. She might show up to school looking 10 out of 10, but that didn’t mean every day started that way. That’s why she knew something was off.

She couldn’t put her finger on it, and the longer she tried to focus on the feeling, the harder it tried to squirm away. Eventually it escaped her and she got lost in the clothes. They did look really good on her, and she did deserve to wear them. Candice found herself strutting around in front of the mirror, which should have been alarming, because Candice didn’t strut.

A tiny voice in the back of her head told Candice something else was moving her; she wasn’t walking of her own volition. But the voice wasn’t yelling; it was hardly a whisper, and it was quickly drowned out. But it wasn’t forgotten, not entirely.

Candice had the presence of mind to put the pants back. Every fiber of her being told her to buy them, beg her mom for them, do whatever it took to get them. She’d regret it if she didn’t.

Candice folded them neatly and placed them in the strangely unused return pile. As soon as she did, she felt better about herself…though she had no idea why. It wasn’t the pants' fault she was feeling this way…they were just a pair of pants. Her mom bought the dress and the sweater, and they headed home.

Once she got home, Candice found herself ignoring everything else and focusing on the sweater. How would she wear it? What outfit would complement it? What kind of reaction would it get from the boys?

That raised another flag for Candice, because she knew– she knew! –that not a single high school boy in her year cared a damn about sweaters. Oh, they’d look at her and think, hot, but in the unga-bunga, me-lift-bigger-rock-than-you sort of way alpha males tended to do.

…Maybe Candice needed to do some introspection regarding the types of boys she was seeing.

But the sweater was nice, not just because it looked good, but because it was made from quality materials and it fit her really well, so eventually, she decided to wear it to school on Monday.

Throughout the morning, Candice had an indescribable itch. It was like her arms…didn’t want to be her arms. If she weren’t paying close attention, she’d sometimes notice they were doing something she swore she hadn’t told them to do. Like being stretched out, wandering around, or reaching for something. Not anything she wouldn’t do on her own, but it was…weird. Like her body was exploring something without her approval. Most of the time, Candice could ignore it, but there was one time, when she was putting her things into her locker, when she reached up to close the door, and she realized her hand was already moving toward a different locker. Not because she misjudged where she was, but as if she were deliberately trying to open the wrong locker. Sadly, as soon as she tried to make a note, her body wouldn’t do it. She tried to type a message to herself, but the words just wouldn’t come. And as far as making a mental note…it vanished as soon as the first person cheerfully called out her name, instantly forgotten. She then spent a good chunk of the morning bragging about her new purchase to anyone who’d listen.

That’s how her day was going…until Tiff showed up. As soon as the grumpy goth laid her piercing eyes on Candice’s sweater, it was like she poked a hole through an invisible bubble that had been slowly building up around Candice. That conflicting feeling returned, reminding Candice that something wasn’t right. But of course, she couldn’t say exactly what it was; the thought was always on the tip of her tongue but never came back. She was pretty sure it had something to do with the shop they were looking into…but that couldn’t be right, because nothing was wrong with that place, and they had great clothes. Maybe they needed to go back, and this time, she’d go with Tiff and Victoria. That way they could finally get all of this nonsense out of their system.

But thinking of Fabulé reminded Candice she had another appointment. An interview for a job…though it would be very strange sitting on the opposite side this time. She’d done enough investigating around David Grant to know he was a good fit for Tiff’s organization. Candice had talked with him a handful of times and told him everything she wished she'd known before she got hired. Bring a resume, for one, and a heads-up about some of Tiff’s quirks would be nice, too.

Like the fact that she always looked two steps away from passing out, with those deep circles under her eyes and her sickly pallor, and that it felt like her grumpy-ass eyes pierced your soul.

Oh, and not actually knowing who you are, either, which threw David for a real loop. Candice tried to warn him, but he clearly didn’t believe her.

Well, that was his problem now, not hers, and he’d have to deal with it at lunch.

All Candice had to do was get through whatever the cafeteria was serving today, and she’d have a bodyguard of her own.