Free Just Like Me, Only Better by Carol Snow Page A

pointed toward the door with her beige fingernail, a hundred bracelets hanging from her skinny wrist. “Around the corner,” she droned, impatient with my modesty.
    Forget sucking in my gut: nothing short of surgery would make me fit into that skirt. And I don’t mean liposuction—I’m talking organ removal. When I told Simone the bad news, she rapped on Haley’s door once and then opened it.
    “Hi, Hale—just me.” She caught sight of the blue velour track suit. “Oh. My. God. What are you wearing?” She sighed. “Anyway, love, I’m trying to get Virginia dressed, and we’re having a little trouble with the sizing.”
    “It’s Veronica,” I said to no one in particular.
    Simone kept her attention focused on Haley. “Remind me, love—where do you keep your fat clothes?”
    From a plastic box in the uppermost reaches of Haley’s closet, Simone dug up a white miniskirt to go with the black tank top and tan sweater. The sweater was really loose around the neck—it actually slipped down one shoulder—but Simone assured me it was supposed to look that way. The slouchy calfskin boots she picked out were a half size too small and made my pinky toe hurt. I had to wear a hat, of course—something big to hide my brown hair, which Simone had already pinned up. After studying me for an uncomfortably long time, she plucked a black felt cowboy hat off of Haley’s shelf and rammed it on my head. She pursed her lips in distaste. “Hideous, but it will have to do.”
    With Haley safely out of earshot, Simone explained the wardrobe. “I tried old Hollywood glamour with Haley, but it just wouldn’t take. When I wasn’t looking, she’d go right back to being Rodeo Jane.”
    She reached her talons up to grab a plaid cowboy shirt with silver piping and mother-of-pearl buttons and yanked it from its hanger. “This has got to go.”
    She scrunched the shirt into a little ball and shoved it into her handbag.
    “So now we’re switching gears and going for urban cowgirl,” she droned. “Worn denim. Butter-soft leather. The occasional cowboy hat.” She shuddered. “To offset the hick factor, we’re accessorizing with some architectural pieces.”
    She plucked a pair of big, white, Jackie O sunglasses from a shelf. “Try these on.”
    Once she’d okayed the sunglasses, she hauled her enormous, slouchy handbag off the floor (today’s choice was copper metallic with lots of rings and studs) and dug around until she found a cosmetic bag. I closed my eyes and let her pat, powder, and draw on my face.
    “There.” She angled me toward a full-length mirror. I opened my eyes and gasped. I looked very little like the mopey young woman in the next room but exactly like the starlet—sorry, star—who’d been gazing out from magazine covers for the past year. It was almost as if Haley Rush weren’t a real person but rather an airbrushed fantasy that Simone could conjure at will.
    Jay, pacing around the living room, did a double take and almost dropped his cell phone. “Call you later.” He shoved his phone into a back pocket without taking his eyes off me.
    “Pretty good, huh?” I said.
    “Astonishing.”
    I laughed. “I couldn’t believe it when I looked in the mirror. It really felt like Haley was looking back at me.”
    “Don’t talk.”
    “Excuse me?”
    “I don’t mean now. I mean when you’re, you know. Out. As soon as you open your mouth, you ruin the illusion.”
    “When we met, you said I sounded like her.”
    “I was just saying that.”
    “How am I supposed to order coffee without talking?”
    “Well, obviously you have to talk a little, but keep it to a minimum. Just say what you want—a grande caramel macchiato with an extra shot of syrup. They ask if you want whipped cream, just nod. And nod again when they hand you the coffee—don’t say thank you.”
    Now he was sounding paranoid. “You really think someone can tell I’m not Haley from two words?”
    “Depends on the two words. For