We Were Beautiful

by Heather Hepler

  “Or two?”

  “It’s fine,” she says. “Last winter, Sebastian brought me and Sarah and Cooper.” The mention of his name sends a jolt through my heart.

  “I don’t have anything to wear to something fancy,” I say, thinking about my ugly skirt and the too-tight shoes my grandmother loaned to me.

  “Mia? This is New York. I’m pretty sure we can find you something to wear.”

  “I don’t know,” I say.

  “Cooper will be there.” I shake my head. I know she thinks that will sell me on going, but it has the opposite effect.

  “Just come,” she says. She looks at me for a long moment. “For me.”

  I sigh. “Okay,” I say. “I’ll go.”

  “Yay,” she says. “I’m going to call my cousin, Rina. She’s the shopping queen. She’ll find us the best dresses in all of Manhattan.”

  She pulls out her cell and dials the Shopping Queen. While she talks, I pick up my fortune and turn it over in my hand. Still blank. When we stand up to go, Fig takes it out of my hand and leaves it on the table.

  “You don’t need this,” she says. “Come on. Let’s go shopping.” The owner of the restaurant yells something at us as we walk out. “You too!” Fig calls.

  “You too what?” I ask. Fig just shrugs and starts laughing. That makes me smile. She nudges me.

  “Ready?” Fig asks.

  “Ready.” And part of me does feel ready, at least more than I did a couple of hours ago. Because while I didn’t tell them everything, just telling them something made it a tiny bit easier.

  Chapter Seventeen

  There are two great things about Rina. First, she says she knows exactly where we can find appropriate semi-formal wear. That’s the name she gives the kind of dresses we need after Fig describes the MoMA event. Second, her presence makes it impossible for Fig to question me further about the trip to Coney Island. Though part of me wants to tell her, especially now that I’ve told her a bit about Rachel.

  “When is this event again?” Rina asks.

  “This weekend,” Fig says.

  “I’m glad you didn’t wait until the last minute to find something to wear,” Rina says. She flips her hair away from her face, which she does a lot.

  “Me too,” Fig says. Either she misses the sarcasm in her cousin’s voice or chooses to ignore it. “Last year I just grabbed something out of my closet, but this year I want something . . .”

  “Fabulous,” Rina says. Fig nods. Rina turns toward me. “I know what Fig likes, but what about you?” She pulls her sunglasses down to peer over them, and I notice her eyes are the color of the lake at twilight.

  “I don’t know,” I say. I’m thinking she doesn’t want to know that I like pie and red dogs and artistic guys. Rina looks at my face for a long moment, then she gives all of me the once-over. I’m certain I look less than fabulous at the moment, with jeans still dusted with flour and even the good side of my face red and puffy from crying.

  “She’s an artist,” Fig says, nodding toward me.

  Rina furrows her brow, thinking, and then she looks up at us. “I’ve got the perfect place.”

  She leads us across several blocks, leaving Chinatown behind and threading our way through to what Fig tells me is Nolita (North of Little Italy). Buildings bristle with signs advertising yoga classes and art lessons. We have to hurry to keep up with Rina. Even in her three-inch heels—which she’s already told us are Manolo Blahniks she got for a steal—she is nearly half a block ahead of us by the time she turns and heads up a flight of stairs. We draw even with the shop she is entering. Exit Stage Right is printed in curly gold script on the window. We climb the stairs and push open the door. The inside of the shop is packed—floor-to-ceiling packed—with just about anything you can imagine. A huge orange lounge chair takes up the space in front of the counter. It’s draped with feather boas and belts and mounded with boots and high-heeled shoes and ice skates. While Rina talks to a woman near the back of the store, we wait, looking around at the hills of random objects surrounding us.

  Rina walks toward us with the tiny woman in tow. Seriously tiny. She’s wearing high-heeled boots and yet she still barely clears Fig’s shoulder.

  “Madame Alexander, this is Fig and Mia,” she says, gesturing toward first Fig, then me. “Ladies, this is Madame Alexander. She owns this shop.”

  “Call me Mimi,” the tiny woman says in a thick accent, which makes me think of Doctor Zhivago.

  “Mimi buys old props from plays and movies and then resells them here,” Rina says.

  “Cool,” Fig says. I nod; it is pretty cool.

  Mimi leads us through the store, giving a tour of many of the objects hanging from the walls and draped over pieces of furniture. She stops at a rack and pulls from it a bright blue dress that is the exact shade of Fig’s hair. But when she holds it up to Fig, she quickly shakes her head.

  “Too much blue,” she says. She rifles through the dresses hung on the rack and pulls out another, this one a soft silvery color. “Go try this on,” she says, passing it to Fig.

  Rina leads the way to the back of the store, leaving me alone with Mimi. She studies me for several moments. I duck my head under her scrutiny, but she touches my chin and lifts my face.

  She smiles at me and nods. “Maybe,” she mutters to herself.

  She gestures for me to follow her, but instead of leading me to the dressing room where I can hear Fig laughing, she takes me farther, into what looks like the stock room. After she turns on a light, which illuminates racks and racks of hanging storage bags, Mimi walks straight to the back and then to the right. I wait in the doorway, afraid to touch anything until Mimi returns bearing one of the bags.

  She holds it up, but I can’t see inside. She looks from me to the bag and back again several times. “Perfect,” she says. “Come.”

  We walk back out into the store and toward the dressing rooms. Fig is standing in front of a three-way mirror and smiling at herself.

  “Wow,” I say. Fig’s dress is strapless and falls to the middle of her calf. The best color I can think to call it is pewter. Or Silver Bells or Sterling Dreams. The satin seems to glow like the evening sky. The fitted waist flares into a huge skirt with several layers of fabric underneath, which makes it stand away from her legs. Fig is smiling at me.

  “It is sort of wow, isn’t it?” Rina and I both nod. Fig spins in a circle, making the skirt float upward a little.

  “That’s from an off-Broadway performance of Grease,” Mimi says.

  “Seriously? Amazing.” Fig twirls again, which makes Mimi smile. “What about you?” she asks me.

  I shrug; I still haven’t seen what Mimi is holding.

  “Come,” Mimi says, leading me toward the other dressing room. She hangs the bag up inside the room and unzips it, then lifts out two hangers.

  “Put this one on first,” she says, holding up a silky green sheath. “And this one on top of it.” She holds up a purple dress made of velvet.

  She leaves me alone in the room, pulling the door shut behind her. I kick off my sneakers and slip out of my jeans and T-shirt. I pull the green dress on first, then slip the purple dress over it as Mimi instructed. The green sheath floats almost to my ankles, but even with the two layers, it feels light and soft. The purple dress is cut close near my neck at the front, but has a deep V at the back, making me grateful for the green silk peeking out. I tuck my locket under the collar so it won’t show.

  “Come out!” Fig says. There isn’t a mirror inside the dressing room, so I have no choice but to walk out to the three-way mirror Fig was using. I make my way out, careful to keep my steps short to accommodate the narrow dress. I walk toward where Rina, Fig, and Mimi are standing, looking at me. None of them says anything. I duck my head slightly. I’m not sure who I was fooling. I can barely pull off normal. Forget fabulous.

  “I don’t know what to say,” Rina says.

  “What’s more than wow?” Fig asks.

  Mim
i takes my arm and turns me toward the mirrors. “Look, honey.”

  I peek up at the mirror straight in front of me. I’m careful to keep my gaze on the dress, not on my face. Now I don’t know what to say.

  “It’s from The Great Gatsby,” Mimi says. “One of my personal favorites.”

  “You look amazing,” Fig says, stepping up behind me. Rina just bobs her head. Fig turns to Mimi. “We’ll take them,” she says.

  “Wait,” I say. “I don’t really have very much I can spend.”

  When Fig said shopping, I was thinking some secondhand store where I might be able to find a passable dress. I’m pretty sure I can’t afford anything in this store, much less one of Mimi’s personal favorites.

  Mimi puts up her hand. “They are a gift.” All three of us protest, but Mimi won’t hear any of it. “Rina will bring another one of her clients in here and they will buy thousands of dollars of beautiful things. This is the least I can do.”

  She leads us around the store, putting the finishing touches on our outfits. Fig gets a set of silver satin heels that match her dress and a black silk wrap covered with ornate embroidery. Mimi hands me a pair of black shoes with bows on the backs and long strands of faux pearls that I have to loop around my neck several times to keep from tripping on them. We change back into our regular clothes and bring everything to the front where Mimi is waiting.

  Mimi zips the dresses back into hanging bags and wraps the other items in paper before tucking them into brown shopping bags. The whole time she works, she gives us explicit instructions on how to care for everything. The bells on the door jingle as we are saying goodbye. Mimi hugs each of us, making us promise to bring by pictures of our party. Fig assures her that I’m an excellent photographer and that I’ll be documenting the whole evening.

  Mimi presses something into Rina’s hand and shoos us out the door. We walk down to the sidewalk, where we pause, shifting our various bags so that we can carry them more easily.

  “Look at this,” Rina says. We look at her outstretched hand.

  “It’s a locket,” Fig says.

  “A pretty one,” Rina says, sliding the chain over her head so that the locket rests against her chest. “I’ll have to figure out what to put in it.”

  “You’re supposed to put something inside that brings you joy,” I say, repeating what Rachel told me.

  “What’s inside yours?” Fig asks, nodding at my necklace, which has come free from my shirt. I pause, unsure of what to say. I don’t really want to explain the grains of rice in front of Rina.

  “It’s probably personal, nosy pants,” Rina tells Fig. Fig apologizes, but keeps looking at me. Rina pays for a cab so we don’t have to walk across half of lower Manhattan with our arms full of packages. They drop me off at my grandmother’s building, and Fig follows me out onto the sidewalk when the cab stops.

  “You okay?” she asks. I nod. She narrows her eyes at me. “You call me if you aren’t,” she says. I nod again. “Do it, or I swear I’ll tell Nonna to invite you to family dinner night.”

  This makes me smile. “I promise,” I say.

  The cab driver honks, and Fig climbs back into the cab and shuts the door. She makes a face at me and waves as the cab pulls away. I stand there, my arms full of packages, watching them go.

  I check my phone while I’m waiting for the elevator, hoping for something from Cooper, but there’s only one text, and it’s from my dad. The photo is so blurry, all I can see is his murky reflection in a window. An accidental selfie taken in a window looking out onto a big field. I shake my head and push my phone back into my pocket.

  I consider the conflicting emotions all the way up in the elevator. Happy it was my dad, but disappointed it wasn’t Cooper. I step off the elevator, juggling my packages to reach my keys. It isn’t until I’m almost all the way to Veronica’s apartment that I see her.

  Sarah. She’s sitting beside the apartment door, waiting for me. She stands as I walk toward her. “Can we talk?”

  Chapter Eighteen

  I lead Sarah into the apartment, feeling confused and not a little nervous. I hang the dress in the front closet and slide the bag with the shoes and necklaces in it on the floor below.

  “Want some tea?” I ask, not sure what else to say.

  “Sure,” she says. She pulls her sleeves down over her fingers and I realize she’s just as nervous as I am. She follows me into the kitchen, where I fill the kettle and put it on the stove. Then I pull two mugs down from the cabinet. That’s when I notice my grandmother’s note.

  Planning meeting at the museum. I’ll be home for dinner.

  Please set the table for three.

  Sarah clears her throat. I turn and look at her. “I, umm . . .” she falters, and looks at me. There are tears in her eyes. As she closes them, the tears squeeze out from under her lashes and slide down her cheeks.

  She looks at me again. “You can’t break Cooper’s heart,” she says fiercely. I turn back toward the stove and stare at the blue flame flickering under the kettle. This is one of the last things I want to talk about.

  “I’m not trying to break his heart,” I say. And it’s true. I don’t want to hurt him. I want to protect him. From me. And maybe at the same time, protect me from him.

  “What did he tell you?” Sarah asks. I look at her for a long moment. “About me?”

  I shake my head. “Nothing,” I say. “Not really.” The truth is, he rarely mentions Sarah. I get the feeling she’s off-limits.

  Sarah pulls something out of her bag and hands it to me. It’s an overexposed photo of two kids, a boy and a girl. The boy is tall and thin with dark brown hair that hangs into his eyes. I immediately know who it is. It’s the eyes. Green and intense. Cooper. He has his arm around the girl and she’s leaning against him a little and smiling. Her face is open and happy. It’s Sarah, but not like the Sarah standing in front of me.

  “This was taken two years ago,” she says. “At Christmas.” I look at her, and then back down at the photo. It’s then that I realize what’s wrong, or maybe what’s right. It’s Cooper’s mouth. In the photo his face is whole, unscarred.

  I look up at Sarah, confused. “I thought he was born that way. I just assumed.”

  Sarah nods. “You’re thinking of cleft palates. People are born with that, but usually they have it fixed when they’re young.”

  “Can’t they fix Cooper’s mouth?” I ask, wondering what could have caused his scars.

  Sarah closes her eyes again. “He won’t.”

  I think about how I told him he couldn’t imagine what it was like to be normal one second and then have your whole face destroyed the next. I feel the shame of my words rise in me.

  “What happened?” I ask. It’s out of my mouth before I can stop it. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”

  “It’s okay,” she says. “Cooper doesn’t talk about it much. I guess it’s easier for me. Sebastian told me that he and Fig told you about ‘our group.’” She makes quotes with her fingers and half smiles at me. I register what she just said: our group.

  “Word gets around fast,” I say. The kettle starts whistling, making me jump. I take it away from the heat and turn off the flame.

  “Can we sit down?” Sarah asks. I nod and follow her into the living room, leaving the empty mugs on the counter. I sit on the sofa, letting Sarah have the chair near the window.

  “Our mom—Coop’s and mine—had a lot of boyfriends. Most of them were harmless. Losers who hung around and ate our food and stole money from our piggy banks.” Sarah smiles at me, but it’s not genuine. “But there was this one. Phil. He told us to call him Uncle Phil. Cliché, right?”

  The quick, false smile plays at the corners of her mouth again, but it’s gone almost as fast as it appeared. “Phil was different. Mean. Not loud mean, but quiet mean. Scary mean.” Sarah shivers even though the room is warm, and I realize my arms are covered with goose bumps too. “He used to watch me.” She says this so
softly that I find myself leaning forward. “I tried to stay out of his way. Tried to never be alone with him. Cooper told our mom about him, but she wouldn’t listen.”

  Sarah stares at her hands twisting in her lap. “That Christmas. The one in the photo . . .” She gestures her head toward the picture I still have in my hands. “Our mom went down to the market to buy another bottle of wine, leaving us alone with Phil. Cooper and I remained in his room, but as soon as my mom was gone, Phil was at the door, knocking.” Sarah pauses again and rubs her arms.

  “You don’t have to tell me,” I say, but Sarah shakes her head.

  “I want to. It’s important you understand.” She looks at me with the same intensity I see in Cooper’s eyes. I bob my head in understanding and wait.

  Sarah looks out the window, as if finding courage in the small bit of blue sky visible from the window. “Phil told me he needed help with the dishes. Told Cooper to stay in his room.” Sarah frowns. “Cooper tried to follow, but Phil said something to him. Low, so I couldn’t hear. I remember Cooper getting pale and nodding.” She glances over at me, but looks away almost immediately. “Cooper didn’t follow us. He just stood in the doorway.” Sarah closes her eyes for a moment, and I wonder if she’s seeing a memory that haunts her too.

  “Phil led me into the kitchen. Told me to wash, he’d dry, like we were some regular family.” Sarah shudders again. “I was at the sink. He pressed himself up against me, behind me. He started touching me. I completely froze. I didn’t know what to do. But then Cooper was there, grabbing Phil’s arm and pulling him away from me. Screaming at him.”

  I nod. I don’t know Cooper that well, but I know he would protect Sarah from anything.

  “But Cooper was only fourteen, and Phil was big. And strong.” Sarah looks back at me, but this time she doesn’t look away. “He hurt Cooper, broke his wrist. Had him on the ground and kicked his face.” I feel a wave of nausea wash over me. “I started screaming, trying to pull him off Cooper, but Phil pushed me down and I fell against the sink. I hit my head.” Sarah takes a deep breath. “After that I only remember things in bumps. Like a movie that’s not edited right. You know?”