Clutches and Curses Read Free

and headed out onto the sales floor again.
    As soon as I’d cleared the lingerie department, a customer popped up from behind a rack of bathrobes.
    â€œYou help me,” she said.
    The woman was old, sort of hunched over, with long black hair she’d tried—and failed—to put up in a bun. She had on a shapeless gray dress and about a dozen odd-looking necklaces. Her skin was dark and she had a funny accent, like she might be Eastern European. Romanian, maybe. I don’t know. Is Romania still a country? I haven’t taken geography yet.
    She pointed to a rack of bathrobes. There was a creepy looking bump on the end of her finger.
    â€œYou help me. I need robe,” she told me.
    â€œI’m just here to serve the drink,” I said and gestured to my tray.
    â€œDrink? You serve drink in store?” she demanded.
    She looked kind of squirrelly—not fun-at-a-party squirrelly, more like kill-you-in-your-sleep squirrelly.
    I took a step back.
    â€œI’ll get you a drink,” I said. “I’ll be right back.”
    â€œNo!” The woman waved her gnarled hand. “You American girls, you have everything . You give nothing! You’re selfish, selfish, selfish! ”
    I had no idea what the heck she was talking about, but I wasn’t going to hang around and find out—not for seven lousy dollars an hour.
    â€œLook, I’ll get someone to help you with the bathrobes,” I said. “I’ll be back in a—”
    She leaned in, bared her teeth, and snarled at me. I froze, too stunned to move.
    â€œI curse you,” she hissed, waving her finger in front of my face. “I call on the power of the universe and curse you!”
    She poked her fingers at me, snapped her teeth together, and left.
    Sandy appeared out of nowhere, eyes wide, mouth open.
    â€œOh my God. That old woman just put a curse on you,” she said. “I can’t believe she did that. Are you okay?”
    I did feel kind of weird—but maybe it was all the Bolt I drank.
    â€œIt was just some cranky old lady,” I told her. “I don’t believe in curses.”
    â€œYou should,” Sandy told me. “You’d better watch out. Anything could happen.”
    â€œYeah, right,” I muttered.
    I headed for the front of the store to refill my Bolt tray. A panel fell out of the ceiling and crashed to the floor right in front of me.
    Sandy rushed to my side. “Oh my God. It’s happening already!”
    Oh, crap.

C HAPTER 2
    â€œS he put a curse on you?” Marcie asked, then pulled a yellow blouse from my closet. “How about this?”
    We were in my apartment in Santa Clarita, a great upscale area about thirty minutes—depending on traffic—from Los Angeles. Thanks to my diligent and consistent use of a number of credit cards, I’d gotten it fixed up just the way I liked it. I love my apartment.
    â€œHe’s seen me in that,” I said.
    She shoved the blouse back onto the rack and started flipping through the clothes again, while I sat on my bed watching her and surfing the net on my laptop. We’d been at this for a while now, sorting through my clothes to find exactly the right look for my are-we-going-to-move-in-together date with Ty tonight.
    Wearing the perfect outfit takes hours of prep time. Yet it must look effortless, like you breezed past your closet, selected items while texting your best friend with the news that the girl who stole your ex had a drug-resistant STD, or something cool like that, then threw them on and dashed out the door without even looking at yourself in the mirror.
    It’s a science, an art—no, it’s a gift. Really. It’s one of the things I inherited from my former pageant queen mom that my younger sister—Mom’s Mini-Me—did not.
    You can always tell when someone is trying too hard with an outfit. Like those girls who show up at a Dodger’s game in a skirt and