The Last Beautiful Girl

by Nina Laurin

  Maybe that’s the solution I’ve been looking for. That dress must still be where I hid it. It seems so pointless to me now. What on earth was I so afraid of—a gown?

  “Anyway,” I say. The last thing I need right now is Ines trying to steal my thunder. “I bet she wrote that to herself.”

  Alexa shrugs. “Oh, I bet. It’s so overwrought. None of the boys at this school would ever dream of writing a thing like that.”

  I say nothing. I’m a bit offended that she called it overwrought. It’s beautiful, and with that dark sensuality simmering right between the lines. The suggestiveness is only made more brazen by the coyness.

  “It’s the oldest trick in the book, second only to the boyfriend who goes to another school,” Sara speaks up. She obviously thinks she’s helping, but that sets my mind on another not-so-pleasant tangent.

  Nick’s been out of school for the last couple of weeks. Which is annoying, because I really need to get him back under my spell in time to practice Dorian Gray. I’m seized with horrible doubt, the dark swarm of anger and envy clouding the edges of my vision. Did Nick write this to her? He’s the only one clever enough to come up with such a letter.

  To Ines. Ines. God, talk about adding insult to injury. No, it can’t be. It wasn’t him.

  “Why are you sulking?” Alexa asks.

  “I’m not sulking. I’m thinking.”

  “Ines can’t hold a candle to you, you know.”

  I give a laugh that comes out super fake and forced. “Ines? I wasn’t even thinking about Ines anymore.”

  “Really? Cause I could’ve sworn…” She gives me a suspicious look.

  “Well, you’ve sworn wrong.”

  “We can do our own Dorian Gray shoot,” Alexa suggests. “In the real costume. It’ll look a million times better than her Photoshop job.”

  “No way,” I snap. “Then she’ll know she got to me.”

  “I thought you just said she didn’t.”

  I ignore her. “And she’ll start thinking that I actually consider her something like a threat and not, like, gum stuck to my shoe.”

  A shadow goes over Alexa’s face, but it only lasts a moment. “You seem really stressed out about this, Isa. The project is going great. We’re getting a steady increase in followers—”

  “Except for that huge drop last Monday. We need new content…like, yesterday.”

  “Mondays are always a slow day. You can afford to take a break.”

  I’m instantly horrified.

  “Oh, don’t I wish I could. I can’t afford to let my relevance lapse, especially now that I’m this close to actually being an Insta celeb in my own right.”

  “I think you’re already there,” Alexa says carefully.

  “If only it were as simple as getting some lip injections or fake hair glued to my head. Isabella is a natural beauty, no filter, no fillers. That’s what makes her—me—different from the million wannabe influencers out there. What I have can’t be faked.”

  * * *

  That Saturday I wake up extra early and head to the kitchen for some coffee and to raid the fridge to see if there are some cucumber slices I can put on my eyes. Can’t afford to look puffy in the photos. I fully expect to be alone, with my parents still soundly sleeping, but, when I walk into the kitchen, I give a start. Taylor is sitting at the big table, cup of herbal tea in hand.

  “Morning,” she says.

  “Morning,” I answer. She better not start meddling and interfering with the shoot, offering her outdated advice on how to light and frame and this and that. She’s tried to do that a couple of times, and Alexa just lets her, which is super annoying.

  “Do we have something cold I can put on my eyes? I’m so puffy it’s a wonder I can see.”

  “Oh, Isa,” she says. “You? Puffy? You’re fresh as a rose. Enjoy it while it lasts.”

  The fridge is empty. No cucumber, nothing except leftover pizza from last night. I heave a sigh and close the door.

  “Isa, I wanted to tell you something,” Taylor says. “Are you going to need the portrait room this afternoon?”

  Oh god, what now? “Uh, yeah. As usual. Why?”

  “Well, you’ll have to make it work. Your dad talked to one of the university’s donors the other day—”

  I brace myself, overcome with a suspicion that it’s not going to be good.

  “—Ines Mercato’s father would like for her to do a photo shoot in the house. With Isabella’s things as props.”

  She might as well have sucker-punched me because all the breath goes out of me at once. The dark swarm of anger pulls over my eyes like a curtain.

  “Please tell me Dad told him to go to hell,” I say.

  “Don’t be ridiculous, of course not. Anyway, it’s one afternoon. The number of photos you take in this house—you can let a friend share in the glory once in a while.”

  “She’s not my friend.”

  “Then why do you spend so much time with her?”

  I’m furious. “As if you don’t know! You told me to play nice so that my dad can kiss up to her dad for donations.”

  For a moment I think I might have gotten to her. Or at least got her to see sense.

  “Isa, enough is enough. Ines is coming here with a professional photographer today, and that’s final. Plus, I remind you that this isn’t your house.”

  Anger blankets my vision. I clench my fists. I want to scream and break things, but, instead, I just turn on my heel and storm out.

  When Alexa shows up, she must notice the look on my face, because she sees me and flinches. “Everything okay?”

  “Yeah.” I can’t bring myself to tell her. I just can’t. “Let’s just get this show on the road.”

  But, as she busily hauls bags and bags of accessories over the threshold, I realize I made a colossal mistake.

  As it all spills out of the bags—costumes, props, jewelry—I’m taken aback at how cheap and tacky it looks up close.

  “We’re not really doing this,” I say, and it’s not a question.

  Alexa looks up like she’s seeing me for the first time. “What on earth are you wearing?”

  I look down, and it’s as if I’m noticing it for the first time. Of course. I never changed out of my nightgown. “I found it in Isabella’s things.”

  “You look like a walking lace doily.”

  “Hey, I’m not giving you my opinion of your clothes.”

  “Since when do you wear a nightgown? Who wears a nightgown in the first place?”

  “I think it’s classy. Better than my old stretched-out cat pajamas. And you sound just like my mom.”

  Alexa sighs. “Fine. But how about you change out of this…nightgown…and into something more photogenic?”

  “As a matter of fact…no. I know what to do. This is going to be the photo shoot.”

  She chuckles. “In Isabella’s nightgown? You’re kidding, right?”

  “It’s scandalous. It’ll be a hit.”

  “Yeah…scandalous for 1910 maybe. Gasp! What will she do next—dare to flash an ankle?”

  We set up the shoot in my bedroom, but not before moving all the modern furniture out of the frame, leaving only the vanity. I sweep all my beauty products into a pile and dump them out of sight. Instead, I set out all the little pots and bottles from Isabella’s things. They look so much prettier and classier than the cheapo packaging we have now. Imagine a modern makeup company bothering to hand-paint a porcelain face cream container.

  I take my place in front of the mirror as Alexa circles me with her camera. The moment I step into the frame, it’s like I’m in a wholly different world—a better world. Why did I bring all the IKEA crap from home? Half of it fell apart in the truck anyway because it’s meant to be cheap and disposable. Isabella’s things are all custom-made with thought and hear
t. Meant to last forever.

  We’ve pretty much wrapped up when everyone else arrives, Ines leading. She has the photographer in tow, a tired-looking woman in a pilling sweater. I can tell she revels in her victory. She even looks better than usual. And the infuriating thing is everyone seems to be circling her again, just like before when she was the “it” girl.

  As I wash my makeup off in the bathroom, I notice she’s putting on hers.

  “What a great idea for a shoot, Isa,” she coos. “Risqué. I like it.”

  She’s mocking, I can tell.

  “But you know what? I have an even better idea.”

  I watch her in bafflement as she crosses the room to stop next to the antique tub. “I’m going to have my picture taken in the tub. Like the painting.”

  I carefully watch Alexa’s expression. She looks incredulous but also—and I hate to admit it—kind of impressed. “You want to sit in the tub naked.”

  “That’s what I said, isn’t it?”

  “Uh…is that legal?”

  “There won’t be any naughty bits. And it’s art, no?”

  “No way,” I hear myself saying. My voice is suddenly kind of…loud. So loud that it carries, echoing under the room’s high ceiling.

  Everyone grows silent, and their heads pivot all at once to look at me. “No way,” I repeat, crossing my arms. “Not going to happen.”

  Ines gives an annoying silvery laugh. “Wow, what happened, Isa? Suddenly shy? Or just jealous that I dared to do it first?”

  “You can’t let her do that,” Sara murmurs.

  “Damn right. And I won’t. This is my house and my bathtub and my paintings. And if I say no, it’s no. You can take your trashy photos at home with a selfie stick.”

  “It’s not your house,” Ines says with a sneer. “It belongs to the university.”

  “It belongs to Isabella,” I say.

  “And Isabella is dead.”

  It feels as though the room gets a little darker. Maybe the sun outside hid behind a cloud, dampening the brilliant light that pours through the stained glass. Anger rises within me, dark and hot. And then, as if by magic, I know exactly what to say.

  “Where did that letter really come from, huh, Ines? The one you pasted under your tacky little photo.”

  “It was in my locker.” She raises her chin, nostrils flaring, and I know instantly, on a near-instinctive level, that she’s lying her ass off. It’s just so obvious. How did I not see it right away? She’s such a lousy actress she can’t even pretend properly.

  “I think everyone here knows it was not. No one would ever write that about you anyway.”

  The words come out dripping with venom, so mean and evil that they shock even me.

  “Isa,” Alexa mutters.

  “My dear,” I quote, and then the whole letter floats effortlessly to the top of my memory. I recite it, and with each line blood drains from Ines’s face. She’s an ashen shadow of herself. I’ve never seen her this ugly.

  “This was not in your locker, Ines. It’s a letter from Samuel to Isabella, November 1904, at the beginning of their courtship. That’s right, you’re not the only one who has access to university archives.”

  She looks utterly terrified. Out the corner of my eye, I catch Alexa staring at me in awe. The truth is, I didn’t go anywhere near the university archives, yet I was just able to recite the letter from memory—after seeing it on Instagram for half a minute. I don’t stop to wonder how this is possible or how I knew when it was written.

  “So what if I did!” Ines snarls. “Not like it was written for you either! It’s for a dead woman. She doesn’t need it anymore.”

  “That’s messed up,” Sara says in a timid voice.

  “Why would you do something like this? And lie about it?”

  “Pathetic,” I say.

  Ines storms furiously out of the room, slamming the door. For a few seconds we all stand still and listen to the thundering of her steps down the stairs. The photographer woman stops fumbling with her setup and gives me a quizzical look.

  “I think your session’s canceled,” I say bluntly. “You better go catch up with our favorite failed Insta model.”

  She shrugs and takes off after Ines. She clearly doesn’t care either way.

  “And, if she thinks she can ever set foot here again, she has another think coming.”

  “That was a bit harsh, don’t you think?” Alexa says softly.

  “No, not at all. She stole from me and then made up a story. She has to learn.”

  “I better go see if she’s okay,” Sara mutters and starts toward the exit.

  “No,” I say. “Stop right there. She has to face the consequences of her actions.”

  Sara looks uncertain but obeys. Of course she obeys.

  “From now on, Ines is no longer allowed in our group,” I say. “Or in the house. None of you are to ever talk to her again. She’s dead to us. Got it?”

  “Isabella,” Alexa says. “Aren’t you overreacting?”

  “No, I’m not overreacting. And the rest of you better take heed. I’m Isabella. I’m the star. I won’t tolerate impostors and liars.”

  They exchange a glance. The anger still boils within me, but, for the first time, my resolve is shaken. Did I get carried away just a little bit?

  “It’s just a stupid Instagram post,” Alexa mutters. “You’re being really dramatic.”

  I clench my fists at my sides. The dark swarm descends, only, this time, I don’t push it away—I embrace it.

  “I don’t want her in my house.”

  My voice carries—carries so well that, for a moment, I think it didn’t sound like me at all but like someone else, a deeper, more powerful voice.

  A voice that can command.

  Hi Eve,

  I know this is super weird, but please read this before you delete it. I’m Alexa Horne, I go to high school in Amory, Mass. And I’m friends with Isa. I don’t know if you’ve seen our Instagram account, Project Isabella.

  I really don’t know how to say this, but I’m just going to go for it. I think you should get in touch with Isa if you aren’t already. Isa is acting really strange lately. She always talks so much about you and her old school and theater club back in Brooklyn—well, at least she used to. I think she might be coping badly with the new situation, or…something. To be honest, I don’t know. I just think it would do her good if you talked to her.

  ––––

  Hey Alexa,

  This is Nick. I know this is kind of weird because we don’t really talk much, but it’s really important. Isa is probably wondering why I haven’t been to school, but please don’t tell her I’ve contacted you. Truth is I can’t come to the house anymore. It’s not safe. And school’s probably been infected too, with everyone walking around dressed like Isabella clones and sharing her photos all over the place. I know Isa is super into Project Isabella—it’s her whole life—but please hear me out. You guys HAVE TO DELETE EVERYTHING ASAP. Everything. And, if you can convince Isa to get out of that house, all the better. I think you’re all in serious danger.

  Twenty-Five

  Alexa has to grudgingly admit that Isa was right. The photo set in the nightgown is a huge hit. It’s now been several days since she posted the photos to the Instagram account, and likes and comments are still rolling in.

  But, for once, it doesn’t make her happy. She’s been in a terrible mood ever since the day of the shoot. Not because of the nutty email from Nick, and not because of Ines. Nick has always been, well, Nick, and Alexa was never crazy about Ines in the first place. She always thought Ines was snobby and arrogant, a show-off always boasting about all the nice things her parents bought her. So Ines’s downfall won’t exactly keep her up at night.

  But Isa, on the other hand…

  Alexa had liked her
right away on the first day of school. She was so different from everyone here. And, sure, it was Alexa’s idea to start the Instagram account, so she had something to do with the change that overcame her friend. But, lately, she’s been forced to admit that things are getting weird. And not good weird.

  It just isn’t like the Isa that she knew to be so cruel to Ines. Even if Ines did deserve it.

  When Alexa arrives in theater class on Tuesday, Isa isn’t there. Which is not like her, to say the least. For once, time in theater class doesn’t fly—Alexa finds herself longing for her phone. It’s in her bag, and her bag is in the pile in the corner as always, but Alexa feels its pull. If only she could scroll through the Insta account one more time, everything would be right again.

  With ten minutes left until the bell, the door clangs. It practically flies open, and Isa strolls in, nonchalant. Like nothing happened. She’s wearing another one of Isabella’s outfits she and Sara retooled for everyday wear: a cream-colored off-the-shoulder dress with layers of ruffles. Only, today, she threw a leather jacket over it. Her hair is in a long, loose braid that brushes the small of her back, and she’s woven flowers into it. Live flowers, at least, Alexa thinks, but it’s been a whole day and the blooms show no signs of wilting. Must be really good fakes.

  She looks phenomenal, Alexa admits. Not without some bitterness. She looks like an otherworldly image in a fashion magazine come to life.

  “Hi, everyone,” Isa says brightly, as if she doesn’t even realize she missed most of the class. Alexa feels a stab of panic as her friend’s gaze sweeps the room. “Hi, Kendra. What did I miss?”

  Everyone falls silent. It’s creepy. Alexa has never seen the theater class so quiet. All the eyes in the room turn to Isa as if on command, but it’s not the admiring looks Isa clearly expected. Her easy smile fades a little.

  “You missed the audition for Sibyl Vane, Isa,” Kendra says in a soft but serious voice.

  Isa erupts with peals of laughter. Alexa now knows what the expression means. Her friend’s laugh sounds like silver bells, or the inside of a music box. Pretty but cold.