Free All Fall Down by Ally Carter Page A

“Welcome home.”
    Home. The word hits me. I’ve spent all my life thinking that I didn’t have one, but now that I’m back I can’t deny that I’ve spent more of my life on Embassy Row than in any other place — that maybe it wasn’t just my mother’s childhood home. In a way, it’s mine, too.
    “Thanks,” I tell Megan. Then I turn to the rows and rows of dresses. “Where did you get these?”
    “All the designers, dear,” Ms. Chancellor says. “It’s the event of the season in Adria.”
    “Then I shouldn’t go,” I say, looking only at Ms. Chancellor, trying to make her understand.
    “Nonsense,” Ms. Chancellor says before stage-whispering to Megan, “Grace doesn’t think the ball sounds like very much fun. What do you think we’re going to have to do to convince her?”
    “Obstacle courses help,” I say. “I’m really, really good at obstacle courses.”
    “I bet you do an excellent belly-crawl.”
    Megan’s voice is flat. Our stares lock. This is how things are going to be, I can tell. Her knowing something that can destroy me. Me waiting for her to either throw the grenade or put the pin back in.
    “Yes,” I say slowly. “I’m a good person to have around in a crisis.”
    If Ms. Chancellor hears the undertones of our exchange, she doesn’t show it.
    “What about this one for Grace?” Megan asks, selecting a gown that is long and puffy and very, very pink. “The color will look good with your skin.”
    I want to glare at her. I am as pale as ice in winter except for when I’m angry or embarrassed, and then my cheeks go red.
    In other words, my cheeks are almost always red.
    Megan has maybe the prettiest skin that I have ever seen. Her hair is sleek and black, perfectly straight and constantly shiny. My hair is thin and shoulder length and looks like the stuff you pull out of the dryer after doing a load of yellow towels.
    But Megan just holds the dress up against my skin as if to prove her point.
    “Oh, I love that,” Ms. Chancellor says.
    The dress is the color and texture of cotton candy, with a tight bodice and a long, full skirt. There must be acres and acres of fabric.
    “That’s called a princess cut,” Ms. Chancellor says, eyeing me over the top of her glasses. But I’m no princess , I want to say.
    “I’ve never seen you wear pink before, but I always thought you should,” Megan tells me, and something in the words makes me panic. Always thought you should .
    That’s when I realize that Megan knows me.
    Even worse, Megan knew me.
    Before.
    There is a privacy screen set up in the corner of the room. I freeze as I recognize it, as I remember.
    “Grace —” My mother steps out from behind the screen, then spins around. Her dress is long and white with beautiful black lace covering the bodice. She actually does look like a princess. “What do you think?”
    “So, Grace —” Megan’s voice is too loud. I shudder. “What do you think?”
    “What?” I say, remembering where and when I am.
    “The dress?” Megan’s arms look like they are filled with cotton candy. “Do you want to try it on?”
    “It won’t fit,” I say. “See, it’s dragging on the floor.”
    “That’s a train, dear,” Ms. Chancellor tells me, and she and Megan share a chuckle at my expense.
    “You have to try it on,” Megan says.
    “I don’t have to do anything,” I counter.
    “Sure you do. It’s as easy as, say, jumping off a cliff.” Megan crosses her arms, and I know she’s got me, so I go behind a screen and try to wiggle into the contraption. But there are so many straps and zippers and hooks that Megan has to come help me.
    While I slip out of my clothes, she takes the dress off the hanger. It puddles on the floor like a pale-pink volcano.
    “So, how have you been?”
    Is she asking for Ms. Chancellor’s benefit or her own? I honestly don’t know, so I say, “Fine.”
    She helps me step into the dress then work it up over my hips.
    “I’m sorry about your