We Were Beautiful

by Heather Hepler

  After an hour of staring at the barbed wire cross hung above my bed, I hear the front door. Hard heels on the parquet. The door shutting. The locks. One, two, three. More click-clacking and then the clink of keys on the marble table in the hall.

  Veronica clears her throat. It’s the lamest fake cough I’ve ever heard. The hem-hems get louder. I get up, walk to the door, and pull it open. “I see you’re up,” she says.

  “I’m up,” I say. She looks past me, to the bed, and then up at the ceiling where the cross hangs.

  “Your mother made that,” she says. I stop and look back at her. “I thought you might—” She stops midsentence, lost in thought. I wait, but she doesn’t continue. I walk past her toward the bathroom, where I’m careful not to look in the mirror. Veronica follows me in and watches as I turn on the water in the sink, and hold my fingers under it while it warms up. I splash water on my face and reach for the bottle of soap on the back of the counter. It’s not the same one that was here earlier. I peer at it with one eye as I squirt a blob of it into my palm. I lift it to my face, but immediately pull my hands away. “What is this?” I ask, squinting at my grandmother through the water dripping into my eyes.

  “I picked it up this morning,” she says. “It’s to even out your skin.” I glare at the purplish goo coating my hands. It smells like strawberries that have been left out on the counter too long. I hold my breath and rub the goo all over my face as quickly as I can, then rinse it all off before I take another breath. I grope for a towel on the rack behind me. Once my face is dry, I turn toward her.

  “Better,” she says. “Look.” She points at the mirror.

  “I’ll take your word for it.” I haven’t intentionally looked at myself since I dropped the mirror in the hospital, shattering it into dozens of pieces. I don’t intend to start now.

  “I spoke with Mrs. Brunelli.” I look over at her. “She said you were a very nice girl.” I nod. “She also said I was very lucky to have you as a granddaughter.” She turns and walks out of the bathroom. This is where most grandmothers would hug their grandchildren and tell them that they know how lucky they are. For Veronica, it seems like the revelation came as a surprise.

  I walk down the hall, following the scent of lavender that seems to trail behind Veronica wherever she goes. She walks to the chair by the window and sits, pulling a book onto her lap. I look at her for a moment, wondering if I should say something. She slides a pair of reading glasses from the table beside her and then looks at me.

  “Mia, I’m not going to hover,” she says. “I expect you to use good judgement and make good choices.” She sounds scripted and forced, like she’s repeating lines from a play. “I know teenage girls need a little room.” She presses her lips together as if she’d like to say more, but won’t allow herself to. “You should explore a little. Take your phone. Be back before dark.”

  “What about church?” I ask tentatively, afraid of the answer.

  “I only expect you to accompany me on Sundays,” she says, and I nearly sigh with relief. “It’s a lovely day out,” she says, opening the book. “You should go for a walk.”

  From her tone, I can tell this is not a suggestion, even though I have no idea where I’ll go. I head back to my room and take my bag from the hook on the door. Keys. Phone. Money. I glance at the subway pass Veronica left for me, and take it just in case. I’m halfway out the door before I return and grab my camera for safe keeping.

  Veronica has turned her chair more toward the window to catch the sunlight. “I guess I’ll—” I begin. Veronica raises her hand and half waves at me.

  “Enjoy,” she says. “Just be back by dark.” I practice her wave all the way down in the elevator. It’s something between a royal wave and a dismissive one. I wave Veronica-style at the doorman on the way out. He stares at me and shakes his head.

  The sunlight is so bright when I step outside that it makes my eyes water. I start down the sidewalk, pausing at some of the card tables set up along the curb like an impromptu flea market. One vendor selling handcrafted earrings has half a dozen mirrors arranged around her wares. I catch a glimpse of my red hair as I pass.

  Two men stand arguing over a broken crate of cabbages. A man in a tuxedo walks past me, trailing dozens of pink and white balloons. I press my back against a wall to let people around me, feeling overwhelmed by it all. It’s so loud and bright and busy. And everyone seems to be in a hurry to get somewhere.

  A line of children all holding on to a rope pass by.

  “Stay in line,” their teacher calls. “Anyone caught not holding the rope will be spending their park time on the bench.” I decide to follow them, thinking maybe a park will be less hectic.

  A man stands on a literal soapbox at the entrance to the park. A sandwich board warns passersby of The End!!! “You there,” he yells, pointing at me. “Judgment is coming!” I hurry past his accusing finger.

  My phone vibrates, and I pull it free from my pocket. I have three missed calls, and all are from the same number, a local one but not one I recognize. There’s also a text.

  Call me! Fig.

  While I stand there debating whether I should call her or not, my phone rings. It’s Fig again.

  “Finally!” she says before I can even say hello. “Where are you?”

  “Um—” I hesitate, watching a woman with purple feet arranging crystals on a table in front of her.

  “Meet me at West Fifty-Third in twenty,” she says.

  “Where is—”

  “Just walk to Fourth Street station and get on the M.”

  “Fourth, then M,” I repeat, hoping I can figure out what that means.

  “Hurry,” Fig says. She hangs up before I can respond.

  I pull the subway pass out of my bag and look at it. This should be interesting, given I’ve never ridden a subway before. I think about calling Fig back and telling her . . . what? That I’m busy? I’ve never been a good liar. Besides, the thought of going back to Veronica’s makes me feel claustrophobic. I look up at the street sign on the corner, then check the map app on my phone. If I’m going to meet Fig in twenty minutes, I’m going to have to hurry.

  The subway ends up being better and worse than I imagined. As I’m waiting on the platform, I decide every nasty smell in the universe drifts down into the tunnels and then stays. I freak out the whole time I’m down ther—I blame my father and his jokes about people getting lost underground and being found by Mole People. But I don’t see any Mole People, just a lot of regular people. The stops are easy to figure out, and in no time I’m climbing the stairs back up to the street.

  The sunlight blinds me again as I walk up the stairs from the subway. The buildings are much taller here and people seem even more impatient to get where they’re going. I spot Fig when my eyes adjust to the light. She’s changed from the clothes she was wearing at the diner. Now she’s wearing a man’s suit vest over a tie-dyed T-shirt. Her lower half is covered in blue leggings and—

  “Is that a ballerina tutu?” I ask, walking up to her.

  She nods and smiles. “Awesome, right? I got it for a buck!” She’s carrying a big green duffle bag over one shoulder, and another one rests on the ground at her feet.

  “What’s all that?” I ask. I nudge the duffle on the ground with the toe of my shoe.

  “You’ll see,” she says. “Come on, we’re going to be late.”

  “For what?” I ask, but she’s already walking away from me. And from the duffle on the sidewalk.

  “Can you get that?” she yells over her shoulder. I pick up the bag, expecting it to weigh a ton, but it’s surprisingly light. I follow Fig as she steps off the curb and begins making her way across the intersection. On the other side, she stops and buys a pretzel from the street vendor. She rips it apart and hands half to me; it’s warm in my hand. We stand at the corner, nibbling on our pretzels while we wait for the light to change.

  “Where are we going?” I ask.

  “You’ll see,” Fig say
s. A woman with a triple stroller pushes past, separating me from Fig. A crowd surges around me, and for several moments I think I’ve lost her, until I see her blue hair, bright in the sunlight just ahead of me. She stops, making several people step quickly to the side to avoid knocking into her. “Come on,” she says, pulling at the sleeve of my shirt. We turn at the corner and walk half a block until she stops and faces out into the street. I turn and look.

  “MoMA?” I’ve been to the Museum of Modern Art before. It’s awesome for sure, but not really the big secret place I was imagining.

  Fig shakes her head impatiently and points at the sidewalk in front of the museum. A cluster of kids about our age are standing, bent over at the waist with their hands on their knees, staring at the pavement. One of them spots us and waves. Fig waves back and yanks my sleeve again, pulling me off the curb and into the street. A cab has to swerve to avoid hitting us.

  “Maybe we should use the crosswalk?” I yell over the blaring of horns.

  Fig just pulls me harder, and we finally reach the other side. She doesn’t let go of my sleeve until she’s dragged me up to the trio still staring at the sidewalk. We drop our duffles and step toward them. They shift to one side to give us room. Fig bends over and stares at the sidewalk, and as soon as I look down, I know why.

  Two years ago, I came here on a field trip. Most of the kids spent the train ride complaining about the lameness of spending all day staring at a bunch of paintings and sculptures done by people who’d been dead forever. I was actually looking forward to seeing the special exhibit, but I didn’t say anything. I followed along behind the crowd until we entered the special collection gallery. Right there, separated from me by a velvet rope and about five feet, was a Van Gogh—and not just any Van Gogh, but Starry Night. Of course, I’d seen photos of it before. I mean, it’s probably one of the most famous paintings in the history of art. But seeing it right there in front of me made me stop walking, stop talking, almost stop breathing.

  I just kept standing there, even while everyone else was walking around the gallery, following the droning voice of the docent leading our tour. I kept standing there even when Rachel waved her hand in front of my face and told me she was going to go to the gift shop. Mr. Frank finally came and got me because it was time to leave. The whole time I had the insane urge to reach out and touch the painting, to run my finger along the swirls of color wheeling across the sky. I tried to imagine what it must be like to see the world like that—so beautiful. I tried to talk to Rachel about it, but she just rolled her eyes at me said, “Mia, he was nuts. The guy cut off his own ear.”

  And here I am staring down at the sidewalk, and Starry Night is staring right back up at me. But bigger, way bigger, so that each star is about the size of a bicycle wheel. Though the more I look at it, I realize it’s not really Starry Night but rather something that hints at it. Something wild and beautiful at the same time. Something like a dream you want to remember, but which only slips away from you the more you think about it. And I have the same urge to touch it even though it’s chalk, not oil paint. Even though it’s not hung on a wall in a famous museum, just drawn across the sidewalk in the middle of the city.

  “You can touch it,” the guy beside me says, as if reading my mind. I realize my hand is already reaching toward the sidewalk. I bend and touch the deep-blue streak closest to me. When I lift my finger, it’s covered in indigo chalk.

  “This was a good secret, right?” Fig asks from where she’s standing on the other side of me. I nod and stand up, so I can see more of the drawing. Then I look at the people standing around me. They are all wearing masks like you see doctors wear.

  “The chalk dust is bad,” says a girl with a Yankees hat. She pulls her mask off so that it hangs around her neck.

  “I used to cough for a week after we did one of these things,” a guy with dreadlocks says, removing his mask. He loops his arm around Fig’s shoulder, rubbing chalk dust all over her sleeve. She pretends to be mad and push him away, but I can tell the last thing she wants is for him to stop.

  “It’s amazing,” I say, suddenly shy. I tilt my head a little so that my hair spills over my cheek.

  The guy with the dreads shakes his head. “We’re just workers. Coop’s the artist.” I look over at the guy he’s pointing to, who just shrugs.

  “Don’t be modest, man,” Dreadlock Guy says. “This is your best one yet.” Yankees Hat Girl and Fig both nod. I’m nodding too, still staring at the swirling colors at my feet.

  “You must be Mia,” Dreadlock Guy says. I nod, wondering how they know who I am. I look over at Fig, who smiles at me. “I’m Sebastian, and this is Sarah.” He points to the girl with the Yankees hat, who takes it off and swats him.

  “I can speak for myself,” she says. She turns to me and smiles. “Fig told us she was going to bring you today,” Sarah says.

  I nod, understanding why they know who I am. There can’t be that many girls with half a face in New York City.

  “So, is Fig’s family driving you nuts yet?” Sarah asks. I just shake my head, making her laugh. Her hair catches the sunlight and turns a burnished gold. A guy walking past is staring at her so intently that he trips on the edge of the sidewalk and almost face plants in the shrubbery. Sarah doesn’t even notice.

  The artist guy bends and adds another swath of blue to the sidewalk. He stands up and dusts off his hands.

  “Done,” he says. I look at what he’s drawn and it’s exactly right. It’s like when you eat fresh apple pie and it’s so good, and then someone adds a scoop of vanilla ice cream and suddenly you realize that’s what it was missing.

  “That’s Cooper,” Sarah says, pointing to the artist.

  Cooper looks at her. “I too can speak for myself.” His voice is teasing and Sarah laughs. Cooper’s eyes crinkle as he looks at her. I glance over at Sebastian, who still has his arm resting on Fig’s shoulders. Suddenly I feel like a fifth wheel.

  Then Cooper pulls his mask down. “Good to meet you, Mia,” he says to me, but his voice sounds like it’s coming from far away, because suddenly I realize why no one seems weird about my face. I smile at Cooper in what I hope is a convincing way, but inside I’m sort of a mess. And if Cooper is smiling at me, I can’t tell, because where most people have an upper lip, Cooper has nothing. Well, nearly nothing. His upper lip is fine on the sides, but in the middle it’s twisted, pleated, attached all wrong. It leaves a hole through which you can just see his teeth and then his gums, and right above that is his nose. The rest of his face is totally normal, actually more than normal. Except for the big empty space, he’s what Rachel would have called nuclear.

  But as soon as I think it, I feel about three inches tall because I realize I am the biggest hypocrite in the whole world. Here I am with half my face looking like I’ve smeared strawberry jam all over it, and they’re all being perfectly nice to me. And I’m freaking out inside that the totally cute guy, who also happens to be an amazing artist, has the tiniest imperfection.

  “This is—” I pause both because I’m still beating myself up for being so shallow and because I want to be sure to say the right thing. I look down at the drawing again. “It’s completely amazing,” I say.

  “It’s nothing,” Cooper says, but this time he doesn’t look at me. And I wonder if I blew it—if I just failed some sort of test. And part of me is mad because, Hello? Who wouldn’t be shocked if they saw someone with only half a mouth? But the bigger part of me shrinks in on itself because no one seemed shocked by the girl with half a face.

  “Mia, don’t be fooled by my brother’s humility,” Sarah says. “He’s the real deal. If I had an ounce of Cooper’s talent, I’d be strutting around here like I was empress of the universe, but Cooper? He’s all, ‘It’s nothing.’” She does a spot-on impression of his voice. She then groans. “Where is the justice in the world?”

  Sebastian rolls his eyes and looks at me. “Don’t let her fool you—Sarah is an amazing artist. I’m the one who s
hould be depressed. You guys are talented, good-looking, smart—” He trails off, like he’s in pain. “What do I have?” His eyes dance with laughter as he’s talking, and I see Fig roll her eyes.

  “I’m not going to tell you again how awesome you are,” Fig says.

  Sebastian looks at me. “What about you, Mia?” He nods at the camera hanging around my neck. “Are you one of the artist types who will crush my self-esteem too?”

  “I, um . . .” I don’t know what to say. I’m not really good at anything. Nothing I want to share, at least.

  “She makes killer cannolis,” Fig says, rescuing me from the awkwardness.

  “Seriously?” Sebastian asks, smiling.

  “I can make cannolis,” I admit, silently thanking Nonna for that new skill.

  “And black and whites and rugelach and strudel,” Fig says.

  “And coffee,” I say. “But just regular. Not decaf.” This makes everyone laugh, even Cooper.

  “What about gingerbread?” Sebastian asks, like it’s the most important question in the universe.

  “Not yet,” I say. Sebastian looks crushed. I think of the never-ending baking list. I’m certain gingerbread was listed there. “By the end of the week, for sure,” I say. This makes him grin, his teeth so white against his caramel skin. I steal a glance over at Cooper to see if he’s smiling too, but he’s looking back down at his drawing again.

  Fig clears her throat, making me look at her. The way she’s watching me makes me blush, although I can’t really say why. It’s like she knows what I’m thinking, which makes me a little uneasy.

  “Little help?” Fig asks, kicking the duffles at her feet.