“No one’s going to take you seriously in a tutu,” Torrie argues, half-heartedly though because the mental image of her brother doing his best Ace Ventura impression gets her dangerously close to laughter. She’s never had high class humor. “You’ll lose all of that super important authority you have.” Like it mattered, and as far as arguments for drag went her’s was pretty bad. The truth was she probably wouldn’t celebrate Halloween the same way UMCB did, if they did anything. Not unless Sol asked her too. She only tries to shake him off a little when he gets a hold of her ankle, her near puppy eyes replaced with a canary grin as quick as a blink. “I was only trying to conjure up warm, fuzzy memories of Aunt Rochelle,” she returns. “Fat Mags is just worried about you though, can you blame her? We always look a little skin and bones.” Which is probably why the cookies were squirreled away for Torrie in the first place.
She still swats at him like she’s still in grade school and worried about him making a nest of her hair. There are things that never change, and Solomon has a way of making her regress back to being small and ornery when he pulls out those old tricks. “Damnit, you guessed my plan.” She’s droll suddenly, but she’s still smiling. “I already had help lined up to hide your body too.”