Free Spoiled by Heather Cocks

five-pound bag of awesome!” Boobs trilled.
    “I can’t move my legs,” Molly said apologetically.
    She felt terrible rejecting everything—it took an awful lot of strength not to fall in love with the name on the label—but
     she’d be hyperventilating enough at this party without her dress cutting off her air supply.
    “No, she’s right,” Botox piped up unexpectedly. “Her butt cheeks look like two balloons fighting. Get her out of it.”
    Botox reclined on a brushed-metal chaise near the terrace doors, deep in thought, massaging her skull through her plum-colored
     pixie cut. This was her company and her house, an art deco bungalow off Wilshire in what Brooke called “the museum district,”
     despite being unable to name which museums, exactly, were nearby. Its impeccably lit living room, a combination of smartly
     placed wall sconcesand natural light, was full of racks of clothes, glossy foreign magazines, shoes spilling out of Barneys bags, framed photos
     of famous clients, and barely any furniture. What
was
there was so minimalist, it could not have been comfortable. Nor cheap.
    “I’m getting the sense you don’t want something snug,” Botox concluded after her meditation. “Brooke, you should have told
     me she wasn’t a sample size. Shitballs. Not you,” she caught herself, waving in Molly’s direction. “I just need to think.”
    Boobs hurried over with another Red Bull and a bendy straw, plus a red plastic cup full of string cheese. Molly thought Boobs
     should avoid hurrying anywhere: Running in a tank top that small exposed her large chest as the investment it was, rather
     than a work of nature.
    “Maybe high fashion just isn’t for you,” Brooke said kindly. “It takes a very special physique.”
    “Would it be easier if I just wore something I brought from home?” Molly suggested. “I really appreciate all this, but—”
    “No!” Botox blurted, sitting up so fast that Boobs had to fan her. “That is crazenuts. Brick Berlin asked us to come to the
     rescue, and we cannot fail him.”
    She snapped her fingers. “Bring me the Marchesa.”
    Boobs and Bangs gasped in unison. The room fell silent, as if they were in church and the sermon was about to begin. Bangs
     reverently walked over to a dress bag, unzippedit, and lifted out an intricately ruffled violet cocktail dress. She touched it as if God really
had
just appeared in the bodice and asked her to go easy on the fingernails.
    Molly noticed Brooke had gotten up from her seat and started pacing the room and gnawing on her lip.
    “That dress is
amazing
,” Boobs panted.
    “Major,” Bangs breathed.
    “Radcakes,” Botox agreed. “The detailing is insane, and it’s, like, a normal size.” She shoved it into Molly’s hands. “I pulled
     it for Annie Hathaway, but who cares? Just don’t tell her.”
    Molly took the dress and shuffled back into the dressing room. She heard Brooke whisper something about a big responsibility,
     and inexplicably thought she made out the words
wheat combine
, but she tuned it all out in favor of slowly zipping up the snug Marchesa, centimeter by centimeter. Having Brick Berlin’s
     DNA didn’t mean she’d morphed overnight into a person who could wear a $3,500 cocktail dress without having a panic attack
     about ruining it.
    She returned to the living room. Bangs now had two cigarettes, one in each hand, and Boobs was holding a giant binder in front
     of Botox and turning the pages for her. Brooke was typing furiously on her iPhone.
    They all looked up when Molly appeared.
    “That is freaking unbelievable on you,” Botox barked enthusiastically, without any kind of assist from her forehead.
    “It’s so heavenly, I totally just died and went there,” exclaimed Bangs.
    Boobs: “
Omigod,
I fully got there an hour ago and saw Jackie O.”
    “I am also there,” Brooke said, although her face was oddly wan.
    In the light of Botox’s living room, at the large three-way mirror, Molly