No way could I compete with her, I thought, not pausing to figure out in what way I thought she and I were competing.
I stuck the picture back in its spot, then took a slow lap around the room, pausing to touch the delicate, silky shirts that were thrown on the armchair or the floor, crumpled piles of shiny black fabric that must have been hundred-dollar yoga pants or sports bras. What struck me the most was that none of these clothes, or the ones in the photos, were at all similar to the staid, conservative style of clothing she wore now. The clothing I wore now.
It seemed almost like this room contained the real Agatha, her life essence, while the girl who sat by the window in the nursery was just the shell that had once held her.
Why hadn’t they let her stay in here?
And why hadn’t they straightened up?
The floral bedspread was bunched up on the bed, pushed to one side. The exposed sheets were rumpled, and the pillow was still askew. On the nightstand were a water glass from which the water had evaporated, leaving a light film on the inside surface; a disconnected phone charger; and a book left open on its flattened pages—The Scarlet Letter. Above it, on a small shelf, the line of stuffed animals had all fallen over.
I knew I should leave. I had a suspicion—more than that, really—that if Laura found me in this forbidden, forgotten room, it might fracture however much of her trust I’d managed to earn. But I wasn’t that worried. I could see the front driveway and I’d have plenty of time to get out if they came back.
And I had to admit that I was starved for a glimpse of real life. I wanted to be reminded, for a moment, of what it had been like before my world imploded.
I saw a door on the far side of the room that had a hook on it, a hook that overflowed with purses in various sizes, and my brain pricked up like a dog’s ears.
Her closet.
I just wanted to peek.
When I stepped through the door, a little sigh floated up out of me like a helium balloon. What a closet. It was about the size of my old bedroom, and the walls were lined with racks full of skirts, dresses, shirts, jeans, sweaters, and coats. The floor underneath the racks was stacked high with shoeboxes, each with a Polaroid picture on the front showing the shoes inside. Like the rest of the bedroom, it was a disaster—clothes tossed everywhere. My mom would have had a conniption fit if I’d treated my clothes like this, and that’s not even taking into account how much all of it probably cost. I couldn’t stop myself from picking up the most expensive-looking items and draping them over the tufted ottoman in the center of the room. There was some indescribable quality about the fabric, the stitching, the sleeves, and the hemlines that telegraphed how costly it all was.
Without meaning to, I moved to the nearest shelf, which was piled high with hats in countless materials and colors. My fingers grabbed a white straw fedora with a black velvet band, and I slipped it on my head. Then I picked up a pair of sunglasses—vintage Ray-Bans, by the look of them—and put those on.
I stared at myself in the mirror. My hair, in its choppy short layers that I hated (thank you, emergency room haircut), actually looked almost cute sticking out from under the hat’s narrow brim. For a second, I pictured myself in one of those photos with Agatha, along with the other well-dressed, perfectly made-up girls.
Oh, right, Margot. Totally. That’s what Agatha would do if she woke up—invite you on vacation.
I glanced at my reflection and felt ridiculous. My hands were like lead weights as I replaced the hat and sunglasses.
Then I wandered back out to the vanity. The boat picture had fallen out of its position, so I wedged it into place.
I looked over the surface of the desk and saw a spiral-bound notebook, like a journal, monogrammed with a silver-foiled A on the front cover.
Every muscle in my body resisted as I reached toward it. This was none of my business. This had nothing to do with me. It was a horrible violation of Agatha’s privacy . . .
But I flipped it open anyway.
What I saw made me shrink back.
There was a lot of writing on the page—it was almost covered. But the penmanship was scrawling, unsteady. Words were randomly capitalized and repeated. It was the work of a person not in their right mind.
And the words on the page:
The Moral Sense of the world world world is Reflected in the Individual SOUL, and Only with the greatest CARE can we avoid avoid the Descent into the DARKEST and Most Vile tendencies of human Nature.
I slapped it shut and dropped it back onto the desk like it was on fire.
Those were Lily’s bizarre ramblings. But this was Agatha’s notebook.
Had she done this? Judging by the shakiness of the script, it must have taken her hours. As for the content, it was so creepy. Why would a person my age even think things like that, let alone write them down?
After catching my breath, I flipped the cover open and then fanned through the pages. Even though I’d known what I would find, it was still awful. Page after page was covered in the chaotic scribblings—sometimes the same lines over and over, sometimes whole pages of long paragraphs in her increasingly erratic handwriting.
I was contemplating this when, to my utter horror, I heard voices in the hall.
Were they back already? I’d been so busy snooping that I hadn’t kept an eye on the driveway. How could I have been so stupid?
Had I lost time again, been caught dazed and unaware like that first night?
I listened, my body electrified by fear.
Only when I imagined Laura finding me in here did the magnitude of my judgment error really sink in.
But a second later, I relaxed—slightly. That wasn’t Laura’s voice or John’s.
It was a young man. And the other person in the conversation was Mr. Albright—I was almost positive, based on the clipped, formal phrasing of his responses.
I edged closer to the door and pressed against the wall so I’d be blocked from view if they looked inside.
“Andy ran out of money in Sardinia, and his father wouldn’t wire him more, so we changed our flights and left early. You know how the Bensons are,” the young man said, sounding slightly disapproving.
This had to be Barrett. We’d been expecting him over the weekend, but until I stood there eavesdropping, it hadn’t truly sunk in for me that there was going to be another person in the house with us. And not just a person—Mr. Albright was a person. But someone my age. A boy.
And now he was home early. This was bad. I wasn’t prepared. Everything I’d come to know was about to be disrupted. I felt shaky and sweaty and anxious.
“I’m not surprised,” Mr. Albright said. “I’ve heard some troubling rumors about the state of their finances. I wouldn’t expect to spend any more time on that yacht.”
“Too bad,” Barrett replied. “I mean, it’s probably for the best. Boats are a terrible investment. Well, thanks for picking me up. I can get the bags from here.”
“It was perfect timing; I was coming out anyway. Oh, and your mother and Agatha are in town. They should be back within the hour.”
After that they must have parted, because two sets of footsteps went in opposite directions—heavier ones headed down the stairs, and lighter ones farther down the hall.
Left to himself, the young man started to whistle—no particular tune, just a succession of notes.
Trying to regain my composure, I realized with dismay that I was still clutching Agatha’s notebook. As I went to set it back down, my fingers fumbled, and it fell to the floor with a fluttering of pages like the sound of a bird’s wings.
The whistling paused.
I didn’t breathe—I couldn’t.
Finally, after a few seconds, the whistling started back up and grew quieter, then muffled, and then there was the click of a door. The last door on the left—Barrett’s room. Laura had pointed it out
to me half a dozen times.
I bent down to pick up the notebook, glancing at the page it had fallen open to. Just one sentence was written at the top:
I am Too WeaK to Fight anymore.
It was the last thing she’d written in the entire notebook.
My heart contracted with horror. Her writing had regressed even further, so it looked clumsy and awkward, like the work of a child.
But the idea itself was the worst part. To go from the brilliantly beautiful person Agatha had obviously been to the hollow shell she was now, that was bad enough—but worse was that she’d been aware of her slipping away, and at some point, exhausted from the effort, she had felt she had no choice but to give up.
I sighed, deeply, from the core of my soul.
I knew that feeling.
I set the journal back down and switched off the light, then shut the door and crossed the hall.
As I was opening the nursery door, a sudden noise made me jump.
It was the sound of someone clearing their throat.
And then he spoke. “Excuse me.” His voice was cold, firm, demanding. “Who are you, and what are you doing in my house?”
CHAPTER
12
I TURNED AND saw that, yes, this was Barrett, the boy from the crystal-framed photograph. His attractiveness, while undeniable, was nowhere near as intimidating as Agatha’s faultless perfection. He looked less like a doll and more like an ad from a catalog that sells clothes to people who talk about yachts in their spare time. His jawline was sharp, and his chin had a slight cleft. His eyebrows were dark brown and full, pressed low over his eyes as he glared at me. His hair was short but shaggy, like he hadn’t had it cut in a month or two. His skin glowed toasted gold, a tan he must have picked up while traveling around Europe hitting on politicians’ daughters.
I moved my mouth to answer, but could only open and shut it helplessly.
“This house is private property,” he said. “You’re trespassing.”
“No, I’m not,” I squeaked.
“What’s your name?”
“It’s—I’m Margot.” My voice betrayed me by quavering.
“Don’t move. I’m calling the police.” He stepped toward me, and I ducked back toward the wall. But he was only trying to get closer to the stairs so he could yell down to the first floor. “Mr. Albright! There’s an intruder here!”
Albright’s footsteps came quickly—it sounded like he was jogging—and he appeared at the top of the stairs moments later, his eyes wide with surprise.
“She was in Aggie’s room,” Barrett said.
“Oh, no, no—Barrett, you’re mistaken,” Mr. Albright said. To me, he said, “I’m so sorry, Margot. This is Barrett Sutton. Barrett, your parents had planned to talk to you about Margot when you got home, but since you’re here early, they obviously haven’t had the chance. I didn’t know she was home, or I would have said something.”
Barrett’s brow got even lower, his glower more pronounced. “And what exactly are you doing here?” He folded his arms across his chest. He wore a battered white polo shirt and knee-length light blue shorts with a torn hem. On his feet were leather loafers—boat shoes, I guess. They were bleached by the sun and salt water and the sole was peeling away from the leather. It was the kind of ratty outfit only an insanely rich person could feel comfortable wearing. He’d have been underdressed at Walmart.
“I live here,” I said.
He turned to Mr. Albright for clarification.
Mr. Albright sighed. “I’ll explain, Barrett. Why don’t you come downstairs?”
Wait, they were going to go and have a secret conversation about me? That didn’t seem fair. I felt a bit shocked myself, to be honest. Laura and John hadn’t even mentioned my existence to him? This prompted a number of unpleasant theories: Maybe they hadn’t thought it would work out. Maybe I’d done something to offend them.
Or maybe they didn’t tell him because they predicted—correctly—he’d be upset. That was definitely starting to seem like the most likely explanation.
“It’s fine, I’ll wait for Dad.” Barrett stared at me as if I were a household object that had come to life. “How long has she been here?”
At least he didn’t call me it.
“Three weeks,” I said, even though he hadn’t addressed the question to me.
“How long are you staying?” He seemed to resent having to speak to me. “And why were you going into Aggie’s room?”
“She lives in Agatha’s room,” Mr. Albright said.
Barrett stared at him, confused. “She does?”
“Yes,” Mr. Albright said. “And she’s here for the foreseeable future. She’s helping your mother with Agatha.”
“What? Really?” Barrett asked. He shot me a look that was . . . strange. Almost as if he was suddenly a little afraid of me.
“Yes, and she’s a great comfort,” Mr. Albright said.
Like the money from his friend’s yacht fund, the wind had gone out of Barrett’s conversational sails. Apparently fresh out of mean things to say, he took a step back.
“All right,” he said. He licked his lips. “Okay.”
Mr. Albright made a little salute, looked at us both with eager attentiveness, then swooshed back down the stairs.
I assumed Barrett would turn away without another word. But he stared at my feet for a second, then looked up at me. “What are you doing for Agatha? Are you a nurse?”
“I’m her companion.”
“Companion,” he repeated, not totally understanding. “How old are you?”
“Sixteen,” I said.
“But you live here?” he said. “How does that work? Do you go to school?”
If there had been half a hint of condescension in the question, I wouldn’t have answered. But he was still strangely sheepish.
“Your parents took me in,” I said, unable to keep the ice out of my voice. “My family just died, and now I’m an orphan.”
He had the grace not to respond.
“And it’s summer,” I said, enjoying the chance to make him look dumb. “Nobody’s in school right now.”
“Right,” he said.
Without another word, I slipped back into the nursery and left him standing in the hallway.
* * *
LATER, I HEARD Barrett going downstairs and opened the door to listen to his reunion with Laura and Agatha. I stayed where I was, thinking I’d have a chance to check in with Laura when she brought Agatha up to the nursery. But an hour passed, and another, and they didn’t come up. When I heard John’s voice boom a cheerful greeting, I cracked the door again and listened to their hellos.
I realized miserably that the whole family was down there without me.
It was like I didn’t exist.
I passed the afternoon restlessly puttering around the nursery. I’d lived there long enough that it felt like my space, too, and so exploring didn’t feel like I was getting into anyone else’s business. As an excuse, I dusted and tidied as I went, fluffing the pillows on the beds, straightening Agatha’s textbooks, sitting up the stuffed animals on her shelf, and tearing out the outdated blank page from her school notebook. I thought about simply erasing today’s date and writing tomorrow’s in pencil—maybe doing the same every day, saving a little paper. But then I had second thoughts. Agatha’s school ritual was purely artificial, and everybody (probably even Agatha) knew it. But the performance was obviously important to Laura—otherwise she wouldn’t dress Agatha up like a doll and do her hair every day. When you thought about it, everything about life at Copeland Hall was a little show. Laura was the director, and we all played our parts.
So I ripped out the old page and dropped it in the trash can.
Outwardly, as I completed these chores, I was calm. But inwardly, I was an anxious mess. Angry, too. What if Barrett w
as, at that very moment, convincing John and Laura to send me away? Of course Laura would defend me, but I knew instinctively that Barrett’s words would hold great power with his parents. Just from the way they said his name, I could tell that he was their great hope for the future. His importance was even more clear because Agatha was sick. He was the heir now. Who was to say they wouldn’t let him start to make decisions about the way things were run?
Another hour passed, and I felt like I was going crazy from the suspense. I imagined them all sitting around a table, deciding my fate.
Finally, unable to stop myself, I brushed my hair, put on some lip balm, and headed downstairs. I would go to the library, and if I came across them and was invited to join, I would do so. Surely they would hear me come downstairs. Surely they’d catch sight of me through an open door. John would say, Come on in, Margot! Where have you been hiding?
Except, nope. I made it all the way to the library unimpeded and then had nothing to do but roam around the room, searching the shelves for something that interested me. On the far side of the room, near a door that I’d always assumed was a closet, I stopped suddenly.
I could hear low, serious voices: Laura’s, John’s, and Barrett’s.
So this door wasn’t to a closet. It must have been a passage to another room. I got as close as I dared and focused all my energy on making out their words. Even Agatha must have been in there with them. I felt profoundly left out.
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