by Nina Laurin
It’s true. They didn’t. We did a shoot with those earrings on Friday, and the photo already has thousands of likes.
“Can you take my picture, Alexa?” Sara has put on the earrings and turns her head sideways so they’re on display. They’re long and massive, studded with heavy, rectangular-cut spinel stones that glint like dark eyes, and with those long gilt tassels that brushed my collarbone just so in the photo.
Alexa aims her camera and takes photo after photo.
“Let’s go to the window in the hall,” she says. “There’s not enough light.”
I follow them with my gaze. Sara is wearing one of Isabella’s dresses, and the hem drags on the floor, collecting dust.
“It’s a great shot,” Ines is saying. “There’s just one thing I don’t like.”
“What?” I ask. It comes out a little more abrupt than what I was going for. “It’ll make a damn great photo.”
“Your hair.”
“What about my hair?”
Ines shrugs. “Your hair’s great. It’s just, do you think Isabella would have dyed hers pink?”
I’m ready to snap at her, well, I’m not Isabella, I’m Isa. But, instead, I stop, my mouth hanging open. “Who knows what she would have done?” I mutter. “She was the most fashionable woman of her time. So…”
“I’m just saying you could have worn a wig, or…”
“Yeah, right. I don’t know about pink hair, but she would never be caught dead in a tacky wig.” I nod at the big painting, the one where Isabella’s hair is so detailed and resplendent. “And, anyway, my real hair is just about the same color.”
A few minutes later, Sara and Alexa come back. Sara is rubbing her ears and wincing. She plunks the earrings back into the wooden box. “Keep them. You were right, Ines.” When she takes her hands away, I can see that her earlobes are indeed blue and swollen.
After everyone leaves, it’s just Alexa and me. Lately, she’s been staying for dinner at our place a lot. I wonder what her parents think of this but don’t dare ask. It’s a little difficult to imagine Alexa having parents at all—she just always seems to come and go as she pleases, and she’s never mentioned them, come to think of it. But Taylor sure seems to love her company. She talks Alexa’s ear off about photography, and Alexa pretends to be politely interested.
“How are the pictures?” I ask, seeing that she’s scrolling through the shots on her camera.
“Hard to say. I have to see them on the big screen. But, basically…blah.”
“Sara doesn’t look that good in that dress. It hangs off her like a rag,” I say.
“That’s kind of mean.”
“Well, it’s true.”
I catch Alexa watching me. “What?”
“She worships you, you know. Don’t be mean to her.”
“I’m just saying. Hey. Do you think I should change my hair?”
Alexa blinks, startled by the abrupt change of subject.
“I’m not going to chop it all off or anything. I was just thinking—”
“Your hair’s great,” Alexa says softly. Once again, she has that odd look on her face. “What do you want to shoot next week? I have this idea for a shoot outside. While we still have the yellow leaves and everything—”
“Why outside? There are so many pretty places in the house we haven’t used yet.”
“I’ve been thinking—we’re going to run out of material inside the house eventually. We should start thinking about that. How to bring in some variety and stay relevant—”
“We’re plenty relevant,” I say, feeling defensive. “And I don’t see why we’d need to go anywhere else when we have this place all to ourselves.”
“I’m just saying,” Alexa repeats. “Branching out would be a good thing.”
At that moment, Taylor yells at us that dinner’s ready, and we go eat. Taylor insists this has nothing to do with our relative isolation, but she’s been coping by cooking. And, since Taylor doesn’t really know how to cook, she’s coping with that by ordering a ton of cookware straight out of a cooking show and cookbooks that have to delivered to the university, since Amazon Prime doesn’t recognize our address either.
The result of all this today is a weird cross between lasagna and casserole, smothered with a thick layer of vegan cheese. One of the drawbacks turns out to be that it’s near impossible to plate without making a mess. So, after a long struggle with a knife and spatula, I end up facing a mountain of noodles and sauce and mushy vegetables with no discernible shape or order.
“Taylor, this is delicious,” Alexa says blithely, ever the kiss-ass. Mom beams, casting a glance around the table, clearly in search of more praise. My dad has his mouth full, lucky him, and, since the vegan cheese has the same consistency as stress balls, he keeps chewing and chewing until she moves on.
I make a noise that hopefully comes across as appreciative. Thankfully, it’s enough, as she moves on to a new subject.
“So, Isa, I snuck a peek at your project today,” Taylor says. She’s using that tone. That cool mom tone, forcedly casual and cheerful, and I just know that something unpleasant is coming.
“We’ve reached ten thousand followers today!” Alexa interjects. “Everything is absolutely beautiful. But especially Isa. It’s like she’s really got that something, doesn’t she?”
“In any event. All these photos are amazing,” Taylor says carefully.
But? I think. There’s always a but.
Taylor doesn’t make me wait. “It’s just—all these filters. Do you really think it’s the sort of thing that fosters good self-esteem?”
“Mom,” I groan. “It’s not like I’m half-naked in them or anything.”
Taylor’s eyes widen in that familiar way—she’s about to get on the defensive. Alexa saves the situation.
“Oh, I never use any filters on Isa,” she says between mouthfuls of the lasagna/casserole. “The other girls, sure. But she doesn’t need it. She’s a natural.”
The truth is, even with the filters and editing, they just don’t look as good as me. Not one picture of Ines or Sara ever got even half as many likes as even the least popular picture of me.
“All I’m saying is,” Taylor goes on, “aren’t you kind of drifting away from your original purpose?”
Puzzled, I throw a sideways glance at Alexa.
“I mean, wasn’t it supposed to be about Isabella Granger, the house, its history? It’s turning into some sort of vanity fest.”
Oh. Right.
“But it is about Isabella Granger,” I say. “If Isabella Granger lived today, I doubt she’d be posing for oil paintings anymore, right?”
My dad chuckles. Taylor gives him a look. It only lasts for half a second, but I notice.
“I doubt she’d be refreshing her Instagram a million times a day either,” she says. “But, fine. In that case, I have good news for you girls. I heard there are archives at the university, thorough records of Isabella, her life, her paintings. They’re valuable historical documents, but maybe I can get you girls a copy for your project.”
“Of course!” Alexa says. “That would be great. Thank you so much, Taylor.”
* * *
“You only said that to get her off our backs,” I whisper to her as she’s about to leave. Alexa giggles.
“Well, yeah, sure.”
“Yeah, sure? You don’t sound so sure.”
“It would be kind of cool. I think.”
I roll my eyes. “We don’t need a historian. All the history we need is right here!” I gesture at the house around us. In the evening, it becomes timeless. The soft light hides all the scuffs and the jarring modern additions. It looks as if everything is in soft focus. Like in the time of the first Isabella. “I think you’re forgetting that the whole project thing was just an excuse.”
She looks une
asy. “Yeah,” she says at last. “Anyway. I’ll see you tomorrow at school. Hopefully I’ll come up with something badass for the next shoot.”
“See you,” I say on autopilot, and close the door.
My parents are in the kitchen, talking in soft voices. I hear the clinking of dishes and the rush of the tap. So, instead of going to my room, I make my way to the fourth floor.
There’s still a bit of tape on the floor, even though everyone seems to have forgotten that it was supposedly unsafe. Even Taylor. Isn’t that strange? I make my way to the portrait room and gently close the door behind me.
It’s so peaceful here when I’m all alone. No other presence or noise to distract me from my thoughts. I can’t believe I used to think this place was creepy.
One of the trunks still sits in the middle of the room. Sara left the pair of earrings on top of the lid. I pick them up: they feel heavy in my hand. Were they always this heavy? They don’t feel like paste or even gilt, but like the genuine article.
I guess I should put them away. I throw open the trunk’s lid and rummage through, looking for the box from which Sara got them. But, when I push aside some folded clothes, my hand hits the bottom of the trunk, and the sound is weirdly hollow.
My heart beats with excitement. I hastily empty the truck and explore the bottom, which is now so obviously false that it’s a wonder I’m the first one to notice. More of Isabella’s things—and they belong to me alone. Like…like she actually wanted me to find this hiding place, not Alexa or the others.
Finally, I hook my fingernails under the edge of the false bottom and ease it out. Underneath is a large jewelry box and, next to it, something large and round, wrapped in layers of dusty cotton cloth. I see the glint of something auburn—
—and recoil. It’s a head. A human head with bright, auburn hair.
Seventeen
I stare at the auburn curls that spill out from under the wrappings in mute horror. Only then it hits me how nonsensical this is. Can you imagine the smell if there was an actual human head in here? None of us could have missed it. And the hair would have been matted and disintegrating.
I reach out—gingerly, still, since my reptile brain is still not fully convinced that there’s nothing to be afraid of—and peel away the edge of the wrapping.
And immediately feel like an idiot. A laugh escapes from me, shaky, echoing under the ceiling. The “head” is a blank mannequin’s head, made of wood, and the hair is a luxuriant auburn wig.
I ease it out. Dust rises up, but not nearly as much as you’d expect. I forget to wonder why that is—surely this thing has been hidden for nearly a hundred years.
The wig is magnificent. It doesn’t take a genius to recognize it right away—its depiction, frighteningly exact, is right there, in the biggest painting. Of course, there was no way to tell Isabella had been wearing a wig in it. Not just because the artist would have masterfully disguised that fact, but because the wig is of a truly stunning quality. Made of real hair—I don’t doubt it for a second. All the shades of red in it catch the feeble light, like fire trapped in strands of fiberglass.
I’m overcome with an urge so sudden and strong that I practically drop the wig in the bottom of the trunk. Hastily, I pull my hair up and tie it with the elastic around my wrist. Then I put the wig on. I’ve been in theater long enough to know that putting on a wig that doesn’t look like a toupee or roadkill atop your head is a whole process, but this one slips on like it was made for me. The hair falls around my face in soft waves. It feels neither dry nor stiff like the wigs we had at theater club.
Oh, if only I had a mirror on hand!
Then it occurs to me that I do. I reach into my pocket and open the selfie camera.
It looks incredible. Even the hairline somehow marries the line of my forehead to perfection. The soft, flattering light probably doesn’t hurt.
I can’t resist the temptation—not that I’m trying. I take a selfie, then another. A moment later, they’re on my Instagram—my personal one, not the Project Isabella one.
Should I change my hair? What do you think? y/n #redhead
The answers roll in immediately at an almost mechanical rhythm.
Y!!!
Yes
Yes yes yes
Definitely!
Queen!!!!!
Goddess
And then the name I least expected pops up. I didn’t even realize until now how much I dreaded seeing it. But I really should have seen it coming, I guess, because I haven’t heard from her in ages.
I don’t think you should change your hair. I like the pink hair. Answer my messages! Miss u! We all do!
I tap on Eve’s profile, which is flooded with photos from theater club. Miss u my ass. It even sounds so fake. Miss u! We all do! She never talked, or typed, this way.
Unable to contain my bitterness, I go back to scrolling through my feed. There are all the posts from my Project Isabella friends and Alexa—suddenly they’re at the top of my feed, like they’re the only people I follow. Those damn algorithms. They really know us better than we know ourselves, because, I have to admit, this is exactly what I wanted to see.
That is, until I scroll down a little bit and see what Ines just posted. It’s a selfie. She may have posted it seconds ago, but it was taken earlier today, because, in the background, I clearly see the bathroom. My bathroom. There’s the arched window with the stained glass and the mosaic tiles and the corner of the antique tub. Ines’s face is edited to hell and back—you can hardly recognize her.
“What the hell?” I say loudly.
“Isa?” Taylor’s voice gives me a start. “Are you still up here? Don’t you think it’s time for bed?”
Moments later, she sticks her head through the door. “Jesus!” she exhales. I remember that I’m still wearing the wig, which I hastily pull off.
“Oh, thank god. I thought there was an intruder,” Taylor says with a laugh that comes across a tad forced. A thought flashes through my mind: the homeless old woman who supposedly fell through the floor of this very room. Does Taylor know something about that? Something she didn’t feel like sharing with me?
“Where did this thing come from?”
“Theater club,” I lie. I’m not even trying. But she seems determined to avoid an argument, so she believes me, or acts like she does.
“Anyway. You have school tomorrow. Is your homework done?”
“My homework?” I chuckle. What am I, in second grade? “Uh, yes, it’s done.”
That’s a lie, too, and just as artless. And how am I supposed to think about pointless things like homework in the face of such an intrusion?
“She just posted a selfie,” Taylor says when I tell her what happened with Ines. “Don’t you post, like, a hundred of them a day?”
“The selfie is not the problem,” I seethe. “She took a picture of our house. Without my permission.”
“But you’re doing a whole project about the house together,” Taylor points out. “Of course she’s going to—”
“No! It’s not part of the project. She had no right to use my house for her own personal glory or whatever.”
I follow Taylor down the hall and down the stairs, and don’t realize how loudly I’ve spoken until the echo rolls down the stairwell. My dad must hear it, because, seconds later, he appears at the foot of the stairs. “Everything okay?”
“Isa, it’s technically not our house,” Taylor gently reminds me. “We just live here.”
But I didn’t say our. I said my house. Mine.
“She’s jealous of me!” I exclaim.
“Who?” Dad pipes up again.
“Ines.”
“Ines Mercato, from school?”
Taylor gives him a look. “Oh, just—girl drama.”
“It’s not girl drama, Mom. She should have asked my permission.
And, tomorrow at school, you bet that the first thing I’ll do is confront her in front of everyone. So they all know.”
“Isa, I’d really rather you didn’t,” Dad says. “Ines’s father is a potential donor I’m courting. For the university. So do you think you can do me a favor and play nice with his daughter?”
“Oh, great. Now I have to put up with this—dissent—so that you can kiss up to her dad for money?”
“Isa!”
“What? This is my house, and my project. And it’s not like it’s my fault that she’s not as pretty or as talented—”
“All right. Time out.” Taylor crosses her arms. “What’s wrong with you? Okay, I see that you’re not crazy about this Ines person. And maybe she’s been giving you a hard time for being the new girl, but still. Who are you to judge her talent, or her looks, for that matter? And attacking someone because of their looks, anyway? That doesn’t sound like the Izzy I know.”
“Well, maybe I left the Izzy you know in Brooklyn, where she belongs.”
With that, I thunder past her down the stairs, past my dad, and down the hall to my room.
* * *
At least Alexa agrees with me.
“It’s unacceptable,” she says, shaking her head. Her outfit today is a bit different from her usual aesthetic, with a distinct 1920s vibe, although everything is, of course, in black.
“Right?” I say in a loud whisper. Class is about to start, although Ines is nowhere to be seen. Alexa posted the remaining photos from yesterday to Project Isabella’s Instagram, and we already have thousands of likes. “It’s so not okay!”
Sara, who’s now sitting next to me on the other side, leans over.
“You know what she said to me the other day?”
“What did she say?” asks Alexa, a little cross at the intrusion. I get the feeling she’s not thrilled about how Sara now follows me around like a newly hatched duckling. She totally understands that having the most popular Insta in the whole school comes with its share of fans and admirers, but I think she’d still rather have me all to herself.
“She says she looks better—in the house.”