Get in Trouble: Stories (15 page)

What is it with rich girls and pyramids, anyway?

In hieroglyphs, you put the names of the important people, kings and queens and gods, in a cartouche. Like this.

“Were you really going to do it?”
wants to know. This is before the snake, before I know what she’s up to.

“Yeah,” I say.

“Why?”

“Why not?” I say. “Lots of reasons. ‘Why’ is kind of a dumb question, isn’t it? I mean, why did God make me so pretty? Why size four jeans?”

There’s a walk-in closet in the burial chamber. I went through it looking for something useful. Anything useful. Silk shawls, crushed velvet dresses, black jeans in the wrong size. A stereo system loaded with the kind of music rich goth girls listen to. Extra pillows. Sterling silver. Perfumes, makeup. A mummified cat.
. I remember when
died. We were eight. They were already laying the foundations of
’s
pyramid. The Olds called in the embalmers.

We helped with the natron. I had nightmares for a week.

says, “They’re for the afterlife, okay?”