Heavy black lined eyes did not match the smile of the sybil's mouth that peered into the sunlight out at her visitor - perhaps taken by surprise that the outside air was not fogged with sweet incense and the sun was not blocked by curtains filched from the estate sale one worn street over.
Come in, said the smiling mouth and the cold, cold eyes. And she did, that girl with the unchanged mind.
She stepped through the arc formed by so many mardi gras beads and suppressed a cough from the sick, silky, sweet incense. Through another slanted doorway the sybil stepped, adjusting her braided wig and snapping the elastic of her waistband, sitting at a wooden table in need of staining. Pouring tea from a chipped pot into two china cups.
My dear you are worn, you are breaking, you are starved in the mind. I see nothing in your cup that differs from your face. Layers of walls and foundation, you cover more than blemishes. You hide under a tarnished homecoming crown.
That boy you love, he wears the true crown in that town. A crown molded from establishment and trimmed with connections and held in a golden box of security. And the tiara they gave to you, it was given solely from your connection, not your idea. The shine is gone, the prongs are loose, and soon the jewels will fall.
Quite honestly girl, you won't last the year. Your borrowed crown will be evidence enough for the chopping block. And once they have your head, they will wash off what you cover up.
But until that boy was gone, her tiara stayed on her head, and her scalp burned from the nickel, and her walls and blemishes were hidden. The town loved her until she left.