Dismissing Dakota | ✓

»31. all the good girls go to hell«

Silvia's P.O.V.

They paid me off. I wasn't going into that wretched house without some sort of incentive. I didn't come at a cheap price either, grabbing cash from the two of them by the time I was shuffling to the front of the house, dropping the new found money into the pockets of my jacket. I hadn't thought up my response to whoever would open the door, brain storming while gaping at the enormity of her home. I hadn't stopped by in so long-given obvious reasons. It was wise to not befriend a full-time whack-job like Beth Giller and her evil sidekick Xander. I'd forgotten how big her house was, and the land surrounding it.

I figured I should've stuck around long enough to get pricey gifts out of her, but it was a fleeting thought, reminding myself why I cut her off to begin with. Nothing was worth the insanity and stress of having her around. I hadn't enjoyed our friendship all that much once boys got involved. I suspected if she wasn't so boy crazy-and you know, a psycho who dressed up like me to seduce Pierson into bed-then maybe we could've salvaged something. It was too late to think about the alternative paths, knowing that I was better without her in the long run. I had learned my lesson. Not much could change my stance.

Holding my breath, I raised my hand to the door knocker, swinging it against the wood. I waited, praying that no one was home. But the drive way wasn't vacant. My prayers were frivolous. A blue Toyota and white Mercedes were parked to the left of me.

"Are you lost?" A voice snarled.

I blinked, seeing the front door wide open, and Beth dressed in a traditional Somali dirac. It confused the hell out of me, more and more, the longer I took note of her attire. Gold and white detailing shimmered, popping against the sheer blue material that hung loose on her body. Dirac's weren't automatically meant for formal settings-depending on the quality and style. Long ago, in a time during my childhood, I remembered my mother waltzing throughout the house in dirac's that had more modest designs and with no shimmer or shine. The type Beth had on was not for casual lounging at home, but rather for a wedding.

"I'm here for my mother."

"She didn't tell me you were coming," she said, squinting at the space above my head. "Who brought you here? I don't see your car."

"Why do you want to know? I'm here to stay. I'm not going anywhere." I stated, but she didn't move out of the way to let me into the house. "Mom!"

In minutes, the door was thrown fully open, revealing my mother standing before her in a similar dirac, but her colors were red and gold, suiting well against her chestnut skin. My fists tightened at the sight before me. I hadn't seen my mother this happy in so long. Years ago, she dropped all inherent attributes of her Somali background, no longer speaking in the language or clothing herself in the traditional garments. It was around the same time she had turned to drugs, losing herself in the intoxicating cloud to mask the pain of the divorce.

She clapped her hands together, grabbing at me. "You made it!"

"You wanted her to come?" Beth boomed. "You didn't tell mom that."

"Your mom'll be fine with it. Come on in, Silvia. I want you to help. I've been teaching Beth how to buraanbur. You remember how?"

I was getting pissed off at the loudness of the music so I turned it off.

"Why would she need to know how to buraanbur? It's not like she's going to a wedding..." I trailed off, however, found myself at a loss of words at the noise of Somali music pouring out of the hallways, shaking me into a fright when I saw more dirac laid out on the couch and table. "What's going on?"