Got Your Number

Angora knew what was coming next.
    "But to our great delight, the nominee in question found her way back to South Bend this week. Without further ado, the board would like to recognize Roxann Beadleman for a decade of selfless work with abused women. Please come forward, Roxann, and accept this token of our admiration for your many good deeds. You truly embody the spirit of an Alumni Homecoming Queen."
    Angora couldn't believe her ears. She watched as Dr. Carl lifted a tiara from a wooden box—a large, magnificent crown with dangling crystals and a point in the front. It made the one she was wearing look like a toy. She drank deeply.
    She had to hand it to her cousin, though—she knew how to work the crowd. Roxann protested until the audience of a thousand or so were whipped into a frenzy. By the time she got on stage, they were riveted to every word. Worse, she looked great, passing over the short red dress that Angora had picked out for her in favor of a plain long black skirt, black tank, and a long lime-green scarf around her neck. A perfect foil for the crown, which Dr. Carl set on her head like an adoring king.
    "Thank you," Roxann said, holding the crown with one hand.
    It was probably heavy, Angora thought miserably. Crowns were supposed to be of a weight symbolic to the responsibility of the title. All of hers were about as heavy as a potato.
    "I'm stunned and honored," Roxann said. "And I don't deserve this recognition..."
    Angora smirked into her glass and watched her cousin wrap the entire room around her little finger. Good, sweet, honest Roxann who had dedicated her life to others—not because it made her feel good, but because it made her feel superior. Yep, that was why. Dee had been right about Roxann all along. Everyone had a price, and she'd found Roxann's when they were eighteen. Wonder what the audience would think if she jumped up on stage and made that little revelation? And while she was up there, she'd announce that Dr. Carl had a botched circumcision.
    But she couldn't very well do either without incriminating herself. And she needed that job in Chicago now more than ever. It was her ticket out of Deeville. Why the hell had she come back? Angora took another drink and tried to focus on Roxann's speech.
    "...and I'm humbled by your recognition."
    The audience burst into applause and, to add insult to Angora's injury, gave Roxann a standing ovation. She hadn't even gotten a standing ovation when she hit the high end note in "When Whoever's in New England's Through With You" at the Louisiana state fair karaoke competition. She watched as Roxann made her way back to her seat next to Dr. Oney. When Roxann scanned the room, probably looking for her, Angora stepped behind the bartender. She needed time to conjure up congratulations for her cousin, the fake.
    The lights dimmed, and the auction resumed. Another dud presented himself and strutted around the stage—where did they find these guys? Bad haircut, and too-short pants. She continued to drink, despite the fact that she could feel herself being pulled into a funk.
    Then Dr. Carl appeared on stage again, this time as the prize. She swished the wine in her mouth like Listerine, and swallowed noisily. Why not? For as long as she could remember, she'd wanted something of Roxann's—anything of Roxann's. Dr. Carl would do nicely. Besides...the man owed her big-time for that humiliating encounter in his office ten years ago. Even if the cad didn't remember it.
    "Do I hear one hundred?" the auctioneer asked. A hand went up near the stage.
    "One hundred from the lady in the yellow. Do I hear one fifty?"
    Roxann raised her hand tentatively.
    "One hundred fifty from the queen! Do I hear one seventy-five?"
    The lady in yellow raised her hand.
    "One seventy-five! Do I hear two hundred?"
    "Two thousand," Angora said loudly.
    A stunned silence ensued, then all eyes swung to her. The attorney had garnered the top bid of the night at eight hundred, from a bridge foursome who looked as if they needed to have their wills done, pronto.
    "Did you say two thousand ?" the auctioneer asked, arcing his arm in her direction. Dr. Carl looked smug.
    "Yes," she said, stepping forward carefully because the carpet was moving. "Two thousand dollars." It was nearly all she had left from hocking the ring, but moments like these only came around once in a lifetime.
    "Two thousand from the lady in the back! Do I hear twenty-one hundred?"
    The crowd tittered.
    "Sold to the