The Last Beautiful Girl

by Nina Laurin

  “Isabella?” I hear Kendra’s puzzled voice and realize it’s not the first time she’s called my name.

  “Huh?”

  “You have your hand up.”

  I do? Well, that’s a surprise. I don’t recall raising my hand. But there it is, pointing to the ceiling.

  “Uh,” I say.

  “Go ahead,” says Kendra, misinterpreting my awkwardness. “We’re just spitballing for now, so all suggestions are equally welcome.”

  I lick my lips. “We should do,” I say, and lick them again. “We should do The Picture of Dorian Gray.”

  The immediate effect this has on the class stuns me. A ripple races through the students. Whispers arise. Even Kendra’s face, I could swear, turns a touch red.

  “Well,” she says. “That’s certainly a bold…suggestion.”

  “There’s a version I know of,” I say. I have no idea where the sudden ardor is coming from. Yeah, I know about this play, but I know a thousand plays. What’s so special about this one? “It’s a deconstruction. He’s haunted by the ghost of Sibyl Vane, who makes him stab the portrait at the end.”

  “Yes,” says Kendra carefully. “I know.”

  Awkward silence hangs over the class as my gaze bounces from one face to another. Alexa’s eyes are like saucers.

  “Anyone else?” Kendra says cheerfully, but the cheer is forced. Someone hastily suggests yet another play by Chekhov, but the mood doesn’t quite go back to normal until class is over. As soon as Alexa and I are out in the hall, Alexa practically squeals with excitement.

  “You figured it out! How?”

  “Figured what out?” I feel a bit hollow. I really should sleep.

  “The costume I made you try on. That’s what it was. You guessed it!”

  “There’s a painting,” I say. “In our house. Of Isabella Granger wearing that same costume. It’s Sibyl Vane from Dorian Gray.”

  “Oh my god, I can totally see it!” Alexa shrieks. “You’ll be such a perfect Sibyl. And I’ve seen you do improv—you can out-act those bitches in your sleep,” she adds with a disdainful nod at Nick’s fangirls, who are walking far ahead of us with their tight little group.

  But then, Alexa grows serious in a heartbeat. “I mean, of course it’ll never happen. The committee and Greer will kill it. I sort of can’t blame them—but it would be so cool! The whole school would talk about it forever…”

  “Why?” I ask, puzzled. “Why would the committee kill it?”

  Alexa’s gaze darts back and forth, checking if anyone can overhear. I instantly get a bad feeling.

  “Oh, right! You don’t know. I suppose you could have guessed, since you saw the costume and all. The theater club tried to do this play once before. You see, it’s kind of like this school’s Scottish play. You know what I mean?”

  I nod. Anyone who’s spent a day at a theater knows about the Scottish play, that one famous Shakespeare play set in Scotland that no one dares name, like it’s the Voldemort of drama. Just saying the name out loud will supposedly lead to terrible failure, or worse.

  “Yeah, so. The thing is, the last time the school tried to do the play, Sibyl Vane…disappeared.”

  Nine

  “Disappeared?” I hiss. “And you’re telling me this now?”

  “I was gonna tell you,” Alexa says evasively.

  “Was that her dress you made me try on? A dead girl’s dress?”

  “Well, technically, she’s only disappeared, and, technically, the dress belongs to the theater club.”

  “Technically,” I echo. “Have you no shame?”

  “It’s the play that’s cursed,” Alexa says. “Not the dress.”

  “I don’t believe in curses. But shouldn’t I have heard something about a girl going missing from the school? In a town this size, it should have been all over social media.”

  Alexa gives me a meaningful look. “This was like the aughts, before social media. I don’t know that much about it, truth be told. Everyone thought she was a runaway in the end. Everything pointed to it, you know? She took some things with her, emptied her bank account. Really, only one thing didn’t add up, but the police kind of just dismissed it.”

  “I’m scared to ask.”

  Alexa shrugs. “She took off right before the premiere. Of the play of which she was the star. Attended by college recruiters…why would she do that, huh?”

  I think about it. To me, it sure as hell doesn’t make sense. To throw away such an opportunity… The thought makes my teeth hurt.

  “Anyway,” says Alexa. “It would be nice if we could do the play regardless. Even better, actually. We could get some real word of mouth.”

  “That’s kind of cold.”

  “It was like twenty years ago, Isa. Life goes on. And I think Nick Swain would make an amazing Dorian, no?”

  I blink. “I’m sorry, what?”

  “Nick,” Alexa says. “The new guy? He’s a bit of a legend around here. Or a legendary asshole—depending on your perspective. First, he lives alone. His parents are in another state somewhere. They rent him a whole house—just so he can live here and go to this school.”

  I find it questionable that someone would go to such lengths to stay in this awful place. Alexa looks at me like I’m a child. “It means,” she says, “that he throws the best parties. Think about it. Whole house, no adults.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Alexa squints. “You seem angry,” she says. “Did he already manage to piss you off in the week you’ve been in town? Oh god. Don’t tell me you already—”

  “Hell, no,” I say, a little too loudly.

  “Hey, the world’s your oyster; you do what you want,” Alexa says. “Just keep in mind, if you want exclusivity or any such thing, that’s not really his strong suit. Since sophomore year, he’s dated, like, the entire school. And I mean the entire school.” She wiggles her eyebrows.

  Great. And to think I sort of, kind of, found him cute…for half a second. Am I that predictable?

  * * *

  On the way home, my phone dings. It’s a message from Eve. An email, of all things. I try to remember the last time we communicated by email. Had to be what, third grade?

  Hey gurl, looks like you’re semi-permanently off-grid so I’m going to try this the old-fashioned way. Hey, if it continues like this, soon I’ll be writing you actual letters! On parchment with a quill. Anyway, I thought you’d like to know. Rehearsals are in full swing, and it’s really starting to shape up. You HAVE to come and see the final play. It’s right before Thanksgiving, so you should be on break.

  Anyway, my driver’s test is IN TWO WEEKS!!! I think I have a good chance of acing this thing, and then it can be a road trip every weekend. My mom doesn’t mind. She knows how much we miss each other (you miss me too, right? You better miss me! LOL).

  Oh yeah, and I’ve been looking up your Isabella Granger. Living history, like you said. Except I can’t find all that much. I mean, if she was such a muse, why isn’t all the artwork hanging at the Met or something?

  I hope you get this okay. Get back to me? Please? I’m starting to feel like I’m talking to myself.

  Cheers,

  Eve

  I immediately start to type up an answer but stop midsentence and lower the phone into my lap. A part of me wants to say that I’ll absolutely come see the play, but a part of me is righteously furious. Doesn’t she even think about how that makes me feel? All that hard work, and I get to watch someone else take center stage. That’s just mean.

  To pacify myself, I let my mind wander to the theater, to the gorgeous, sparkling costume of Sybil Vane playing Juliet. Soon that’ll be me, I think. I conveniently forget that no one has approved the play yet, and that, first, I’d have to outshine all the other wannabes at audition.

  Still, something tells me these things will all
come through.

  * * *

  I spend Saturday morning on edge. My dad makes a comment about me being moody, to which Taylor snarkily retorts that “Isa is more often moody than not these days,” to which I have no choice but to snark back. Then, when I put away the clothes and shoes that are scattered all over my room—to have space for the photo shoot, and for no other reason—Taylor makes a comment about me cleaning up without being asked, for once, and it takes me all the patience I can muster not to lob a Converse at her.

  The bathroom upstairs is an odd mix of antique and modern: there’s an original claw-foot tub, but, above it, a brand-new chrome showerhead that clashes with it furiously. All the other plumbing fixtures also look like they were sitting on the shelf at Home Depot a week ago. The only unspoiled element is the mirror in an ornate baroque frame. While I wait for the water to run hot (which takes forever and a day, thank you for asking), I inspect my reflection. The bathroom has a stained-glass window that’s still in pretty good shape, except for a fragment where the tinted blue glass had cracked and was covered with a piece of cardboard. Multicolored light pours in, softening everything it touches.

  I lean in closer. The roots of my hair have been growing in, a full inch now. But my face looks softer, like the unflattering mirror decided to take pity on me at last. I look paler than usual. Maybe it’s just the tint of the light, but I can’t say I hate it. It makes my eyes look like they’re a different color, their blue tinged with a sea-green. I pull the elastic out of my hair and arrange it in soft waves around my face.

  “‘Dorian, Dorian,’” I say to my reflection. “‘Before I knew you, acting was the one reality of my life. It was only in the theatre that I lived. I thought that it was all true. I was Rosalind one night and Portia the other. The joy of Beatrice was my joy, and the sorrows of Cordelia were mine also. I believed in everything.’”

  I wince. Flat, flat, flat. No good. With an audition like that, I’ll be lucky if Kendra casts me as Servant Girl #2, with no spoken lines. So I try again from a different place.

  “‘I think I shall call you Prince Charming.’”

  But, if I’ve been channeling a Disney princess, it’s a fail. Sarcasm bleeds into my words, and even my expression is off. A smirk. As if to say, I see right through you, bastard, and I know what you’re all about. Nothing like the ingenue Sybil. My look is all wrong, I think and lean closer and closer to the mirror until my forehead almost touches the surface. My skin looks different. No—it is different: the tiny acne scar on my cheek is gone, and my very pores don’t look the same. My skin is finer, somehow, yet sallow, thin and brittle and blue under the eyes, which are—green?

  I squint, and the line that appears between my eyebrows belongs on a different face, a much older face. It’s deep and dark as if drawn on by a single dash of ink.

  What on earth…?

  I raise my trembling hands to my face, and they’re someone else’s hands. My chipped nail polish is gone, and there are rings on my fingers. Not my rings, the thin silver ones, but heavy gold rings studded with dulled gems.

  Something icy brushes against my foot. The cold shoots up my leg and races up my spine.

  With a yelp, I spring back from the mirror, yanking my foot away from the slimy, slithering touch. My ankle wobbles, I lose my balance and go sprawling on my backside.

  Right into a puddle of water. I look around, incredulous: water is bubbling over the edge of the tub, creeping across the floor—fast.

  Cursing, I get back on my feet and splash toward the tub. I hastily turn off the water, which hasn’t grown a single degree warmer. My hands instantly go numb. I grab all the towels off the rack and throw them on the floor. Crap!

  “Isa?” My mom is pounding on the door.

  I hold my breath, bracing for the icy bite of cold water, reach into the tub, and pull the plug, which has been in place this whole time. Because, obviously, I didn’t check before I turned on the shower. The hot water, I realize, is the other knob. I’d turned the cold on full blast instead.

  “Everything’s fine!” I yell out, even though I’m not so sure. “Can I just have an extra towel?”

  When I emerge from the bathroom at last, toweling my hair, I feel disoriented for a moment: it’s darker than when I went in. A glance at the clock makes me gasp. I’ve been in there for over three hours. The sun is setting.

  Taylor gives me a dubious look as I pass by on the way to my room. She’s holding a bunch of albums—the big ones with the heavy covers and parchment paper to separate the photographs. Her portfolio albums.

  “So I spilled a little water on the floor,” I grumble. “No big deal, right? I toweled it all up.”

  Taylor shakes her head.

  “What is it?”

  “Your friend is here.”

  * * *

  I dress as quickly as I can and make my way downstairs, hopefully before Taylor can say something to Alexa that will make her never come back. Instead, I come down to an idyllic picture: Alexa is seated at the dining-room table, dressed in a floor-length black tulle skirt and top with flowing lace sleeves. In this getup, she looks right at home in this room with its heavy, dark oak table, aged Louis XV chairs upholstered in threadbare navy satin, and matching blue-and-silver wallpaper. The only thing that spoils the Victorian Gothic wet dream is the cup of espresso she’s holding, courtesy of our brand-new machine, and one of Taylor’s huge portfolio albums in front of her. She’s leafing through it with a slightly exaggerated look of admiration on her face.

  “Hey,” she says as soon as she sees me.

  “Hey yourself.” What on earth is going on down here?

  “You didn’t tell me your mom was Taylor Brixton,” Alexa says cheerfully, and gives me a wink since Taylor isn’t looking. I strongly suspect that, until ten minutes ago, Alexa had never heard of Taylor Brixton.

  “Aw, shucks,” says Taylor, blushing. “It’s just nice that people my daughter’s age are still interested in my archaic medium.”

  This humility is also fake, as I know full well. Yet the two of them play their parts in the skit flawlessly.

  “There’s something about film,” Alexa says without missing a beat. “It doesn’t allow for mistakes.”

  I clear my throat.

  Taylor gets the hint. “I’m going to leave you girls to it,” she says, gathering up her albums. “Just remember, you promised me you’d be careful!”

  The moment she’s gone, the Stepford-child look drops from Alexa’s face.

  “Sorry about my mom,” I say. “I know she can be a bit much.” In her hunger for approval from the young’uns, that is.

  “Never mind. She’s cool.”

  I wince. “You don’t have to do that.”

  “And this house!” Alexa exclaims. “It’s incredible.”

  “You can say that again,” I murmur.

  She jumps right into it. “Let’s take some test pictures.”

  “But I need to do my makeup first,” I say. “I guess I sort of—lost track of time.”

  Which, once again, is a big understatement.

  “Nah,” says Alexa. “It’s just a test run. You can do your makeup after.”

  “You want to take my picture with no makeup on? Do we know each other?”

  But, to my alarm, Alexa picks up her phone and points it right at me. I barely have time to raise my hands and shield my face. “Stop it!”

  But I hear the shutter sound, and Alexa exclaims: “Get your hands out of the way. You look great!”

  To prove her point, she turns the phone around so I can see. I peer at the screen apprehensively.

  My first reaction is to admit Alexa is right. The frizz in my hair and the shadows under my eyes seem to have disappeared in the click of a shutter. I look like I’ve been photographed with a soft-focus lens, as if my skin and hair glow from within. I never noticed
how my fair eyebrows and eyelashes make me look delicate, not washed out like I always thought, and how the subtle pinpoints of freckles sprayed across the bridge of my nose accentuate the fine shade of my skin.

  Alexa’s chuckle brings me back to earth. “Well, this is going to your head faster than a vodka Red Bull.”

  I blink. Have I spoken out loud? My heart gives a leap, and heat rises into my face.

  Luckily, Alexa shrugs it off. She nods at something behind me, and I follow with my gaze.

  “That window,” Alexa says. “Can you go stand there?”

  “But my outfit,” I protest feebly. I’m wearing a plain white off-the-shoulder tee and yesterday’s plain leggings, my feet bare.

  “It’s perfect.”

  I stand by the window, where the sunset is entering its last phase. At this angle, it looks like the sky is bleeding. I’m so distracted by the incredible view that I give a tiny jolt when Alexa’s phone clicks. There’s a knot in my stomach that won’t loosen. And it’s so silly—not like we’re shooting for Vogue or anything.

  “Yes!” Alexa exclaims. “Like this. Don’t move.”

  Click, click, click.

  “Gorgeous.”

  “Can I see?”

  “In a second.” Alexa squints. “Can you get up on the windowsill over there? I want to get the full arch.”

  My knees feel soft as I climb obediently onto the sill.

  “Good!” Alexa directs. “Now put your hand on the windowpane. Lower. Not that low. Now gaze softly.”