Shara, aghast at the teeny-weeny size of it. Not on her nelly would she be squeezing into that thing.
âJust try it,â said Rosie. âIt has to be seen on .â Shara took a step backwards and grimaced.
âCum maahn !â
Shara squirmed into the little red thing and stood in front of the mirror, trying to yank it down to a decent level. âI feel half naked.â
âLeave it up!â said Rosie. âYou look hot.â
âI look like a total rodeo floozy.â
âExactly. Youâll fit right in. Got any good tops to go with it?â
After several fittings, Rosie grudgingly approved
Sharaâs white T-shirt with brumbies on it, and cowboy boots.
âWhat jewellery are you going to wear?â
âHuh?â said Shara. âJewellery? You didnât tell me I had to wear jewellery!â
Her self-confidence was rapidly diminishing. In Coachâwood Crossing and at school, she was Shara Wilson â champion campâdrafter, up-and-coming vet, equine geneticist extraordinaire. In Brisbane sheâd be some lame wannabe cowgirl who didnât even own any jewellery.
Rosie rolled her eyes and pulled a small silk purse from her handbag. It was full of earrings. She brought out a jangly pair with blue crystals and held them against Sharaâs ears. âPerfect,â she said, brushing Sharaâs hair back. âThey match your eyes.â
Shara reluctantly took out her plain old sleepers and hooked the earrings into her earlobes.
âWhat about your charm bracelet?â said Rosie.
âOh, yeah.â Shara opened the drawer in her bedside table.
The delicate silver chain bore fifteen tiny charms. Every charm marked a new year in her life; a bootie for her first birthday and a teddy bear for her second. By her fifth, it was a horseshoe and for her sixth, after falling off her first pony, a tiny helmet; the little silver horse had been for her twelfth birthday, just after sheâd bought Rocko from the saleyards, and for her fourteenth a tiny book had celebrated her scholarship to Canningdale College.
Shara draped the bracelet over her wrist and held it out for Rosie to clasp. âMake sure itâs clipped on properly. I would die if I lost it.â It was one of her most treasured possessions, so treasured, in fact, that she only ever wore it for Christmas and her birthday. âDo I look okay?â She turned around.
âWhat about your hair?â
âWhatâs wrong with my hair?â
Rosie looked at the ponytail clamped to the back of Sharaâs head. âYou look like someone whoâs about to either muck out stables or play tennis.â
âWeâre only supposed to be going to the movies,â Shara argued.
âBut itâs in the city ,â said Rosie. âAnd itâs that big 3D screen. One of the biggest in the southern hemisphere. I almost wish I was going myself.â
âRosie, weâre not really going to the movies, remember?â
âIt doesnât matter, we still have to convince your parents that you are. Besides, you might snag yourself a cowboy at the show.â
Shara snorted. She didnât know what was worse, being coerced into this web of deceit, being forced into a skirt, or having Rosie trying to get her a love-life. âI donât like cowboys.â
She scruffed her hair. âWhat will I do with my hair, then? Itâs so boring.â
âItâs not, itâs gorgeous,â said Rosie, running her fingers through it and looking at Shara in the mirror. âItâs so thick and blonde . Wish I had hair like that.â Then she pulled a petulant face. âTom might even notice that I exist!â
âOh, Rosie, you two are total besties.â
Rosie flicked her wispy hair over her shoulder and pouted. âI want to be more than just besties.â
âMaybe heâs just shy.â
âMaybe.â Rosie took Shara by the shoulders
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