The Silhouette Girl

by V. C. Andrews

  I started for my homeroom again, as if I had dismissed him.

  That surprised him, but he followed quickly. “I’m glad you decided to go to Jackie’s party,” he said, rushing his words as if he thought I was about to get on a plane. “I mean, I know how hard it must be at home for you right now. We’ll have a good time. I promise.”

  There was the clear note of desperation in his voice. A girl in this school brushing him off? No way.

  I paused and smiled. “It must be a nice feeling,” I said.

  “What?”

  “Being so sure you can give someone a good time.”

  He was speechless, maybe for the first time with any girl here, or anywhere, for that matter. I continued to my homeroom.

  “Hey,” he called, loud enough to be heard by someone the farthest away in the hall. I turned to look at him. “It is a good feeling,” he said, and laughed. Then he shrugged, looking rather innocent for the moment.

  Was I overreacting? Should I be so carefree and just dismiss him? Calm down, Scarletta, I told myself. Maybe you’re misjudging him. Maybe you’re thinking too little of yourself. Perhaps he would have approached me no matter what. He could have looked at me one day and decided I was truly beautiful, couldn’t he? Why belittle myself?

  I smiled back at him. I really couldn’t help it. If any girl my age could create the perfect boyfriend in a laboratory, he would certainly look like Chet Palmer and have his charm. I recalled Janice Lyn once looking around at the boys in the senior high and asking, “If you had your choice, which boy would you choose to end your virginity?” No one offered an answer immediately, so she looked at us all and added, “Those of you who are still virgins, of course.”

  If you laughed, you looked guilty; if you seriously perused the boys, you were probably still a virgin.

  Now, as the day continued, I was confident that Chet Palmer didn’t know what my true feelings were toward him. Perhaps he was now convinced that I wasn’t as easy as Jackie had suggested. I hesitated to give him the compliment tickling the tip of my tongue, but truthfully, he was a great distraction at just the right time. Talking to him and being with him all day actually helped me forget about my mother’s letter to my father in particular. It was as if our family disaster had been put on pause. I listened carefully to what he said to me and to Sean and Jackie nevertheless, waiting to hear something that would convince me my father’s warning was not to be ignored.

  “You’re doing great,” Jackie told me after lunch. I had sat with Chet and her and Sean.

  I had to laugh about her comment. I was doing great? The two boys talked to each other almost as if we weren’t there or maybe because we were there. They were trying to impress us, performing for us. We talked about the plans for the party, and Chet asked if he could pick me up. I revealed that my father wanted me home by eleven thirty and was planning on driving me there and coming for me after. It brought everyone to a surprised silence.

  “He knows it’s a Friday night, right?” Jackie asked.

  “Of course. My father is very accurate with his dates and times. He keeps a calendar with notes on our kitchen wall.”

  “Well, I can do eleven thirty,” Chet said. “My parents will be surprised I’m home that early, though,” he said, laughing. As soon as he started to laugh, Sean followed. They walked in each other’s footsteps.

  Why, I wondered, did everyone need a best friend so much, and why didn’t I have one? Was it me? Had I pulled back every time I began to get close to someone, or did she? My mother never had a best friend. There wasn’t one particular woman in her circle whom she favored, spent more time talking to on the phone, or met to have lunch, go to the theater, anything. The only contacts she seemed to have, as a matter of fact, were the wives of my father’s business associates. When I gave it more thought, I realized she never had made a friend on her own. Was that deliberate?

  Was I more like her or my father? Which would I rather be?

  “I’ll ask him to let me stay out later,” I said. No one added to that, but from the way the three looked at each other, I knew they thought this early curfew was probably all due to my mother’s leaving us. One thing I definitely didn’t want was anyone’s pity.

  “My mother was usually in charge of my social life, time, and transportation. He’s just not used to it. I’ll speak to him. I’m sure he’ll let me stay until midnight at least.”

  “Cinderella herself,” Chet said to break the heavy silence. Sean laughed on cue.

  “Just bring a glass slipper, Prince Palmer,” I replied.

  Jackie laughed, and then the boys did.

  “I didn’t know you were so witty,” she told me afterward, sounding a little more jealous than complimentary.

  “How would you? We really don’t know that much about each other, do we?”

  Maybe that was unkind, but it was truthful, and I was in no mood to be anything other than that with anyone. I was determined not to appear desperate for sympathy.

  She thought for a moment. “I guess not. Maybe that will change.”

  Change? I thought. Really become friends with you? Would that necessarily make me happier? How ironic this all was. My family was shattered, but my social life was taking off? Maybe I was reading too much into this, being too hopeful. Jackie’s purpose was clear to me, of course. I was merely a means to an end. Once she achieved what she wanted, I had no doubt our budding friendship would quickly wither.

  And what about my relationship with Chet? Would that turn into anything more than a one-night sexual encounter? What were his real expectations? Did I want it to be more than a single date? How could I question that? Was there something wrong with me for not immediately falling head over heels? The envy in the faces of other girls was clearly visible when he walked beside me. Or maybe I just wished it was envy. Maybe they were looking at me far differently from how I hoped. Maybe they saw that fish in a net I tried not to be.

  “Hey, I can take you home,” Chet offered when I stepped out of my last class of the day. There was no track practice, which was something he apparently knew. Again, I wondered whether I should be flattered by his interest or worried. He had quickly left his last class to be waiting near my door.

  I had forgotten that seniors were permitted to bring their cars to school, but I did remember that before you could let one take you home in his or her car, your parents had to leave a permission note. It was a particular rule of our school. I reminded him of it.

  He shrugged. “So miss the bus,” he said.

  “What?”

  “Go to the bathroom or something. When you come out, the bus will have left. The driver doesn’t take attendance. Then start walking home, and I’ll come by and give you a ride.”

  I studied him a moment. “You’ve done this before,” I said.

  He shrugged again. “It’s not illegal if you do it my way,” he said.

  Maybe it was clever, but I suddenly saw it as a test. How easy was I?

  “Perhaps I’ll get my father to sign a note in case you offer in the future. See you tomorrow,” I added, and hurried to be sure I made the bus. I didn’t even look back at him. It made me feel stronger, more confident that I could handle him or anyone like him.

  Today, like yesterday, I didn’t run home when I got off the bus. I walked with my head down, thinking. Shelly Myers and Bobbie Lees had sat behind me and tapped me on the shoulder continuously, trying to get me to say something about Chet Palmer.

  “Are you the flavor of the day?” Shelly finally asked, tired of my ignoring them.

  I spun around. “Is that what you were?”

  “She wishes,” Bobbie replied for her. I was quite surprised. Both were telling me they wouldn’t mind being Screw of the Night if it was Chet Palmer who would crown you. They had such wishful, matter-of-fact looks on their faces. Ironically, that made me feel better. They weren’t condemning me for being easy. They were envious.

  “Even if he only pities you, take what you can get,” S
helly said.

  “She’s right. I would,” Bobbie said, practically swooning with the idea. “I’d gladly settle for his pity.”

  “So ask your mother to run off with someone,” I told them.

  They both looked like I had splattered them with piping-hot water. I turned and smiled to myself. They said nothing more to me. When I got up to get off the bus, I didn’t look back. Glancing at Mr. Tooey, I saw him look softly at me, practically giving me permission to do what he complained about each time I had done it, jump off the bus. He wanted me to be my happy-go-lucky, somewhat defiant self. Instead, I walked carefully down the steps again. The only leap I was making was the leap out of childhood. Thank you for that, Mommy, I thought.

  I wasn’t home a half hour before my father called. I had just changed into something comfortable, a pair of sweatpants and a dark gray crop-top sports pullover, the only “slob” look my mother would approve. The house was a little warm because none of the windows had been left open all day, and I had forgotten to lower some shades and close some curtains, almost a cardinal sin to my mother. I took off my socks and put on a pair of slip-on sneakers. As I went downstairs, I was thinking of looking into what my father and I would have for dinner. I heard the phone ring and for a moment froze on the steps.

  Could that be her?

  I charged down to the nearest phone, which was on a small table in the hallway.

  “Hey,” I heard my father say. “I wasn’t sure if you had track today.”

  “No. Coach had something personal she had to do after school.”

  “Oh? What’s that about?”

  Was my father hoping Mrs. Ward had a family issue, maybe? Was it just natural for someone who had suffered an embarrassing marriage disappointment to seek out others who did? Would he now be getting friendlier with the divorced men he knew? Was it just a matter of time until he, like them, started looking for “hot dates”? How was I supposed to react to all that? Feel sorry for him and understand, or ignore it and maybe be ashamed?

  “I don’t know, Daddy,” I said. I wanted to add that some people were able to keep their family problems secret. Lucky them.

  “You okay?”

  “Yes,” I said. Why say anything else? What good would it do now?

  “Stay strong,” he said.

  “I will. I’ll check to see what we have for dinner.”

  “That’s why I’m calling,” he said. “I have to go to a very important dinner meeting. Think you’ll be all right finding dinner for yourself?”

  “Yes. Don’t worry.”

  “Were there any messages on our phone?” he asked after a longer pause.

  “No message lights blinking,” I said. Was he hoping she would call this soon, her voice full of remorse?

  “Okay. I should be home around nine thirty. It’s not close by and will probably take more than an hour to drive back.”

  “I’m fine, Daddy,” I said. “I’ll wait up to talk to you.” I wanted to discuss the party and his curfew. I was also thinking I would like Chet to pick me up and bring me home. I wanted to be treated like a real date and not some event in Jackie’s bedroom.

  “You got it,” he said. “Love you.”

  “Love you, too.”

  I heard him hang up, but I held on to the phone as if I expected him to pick up again and tell me more, tell me how much he was suffering and how much he was worried about me.

  Silence was painful.

  I hung up and went to the kitchen. Now that my father wasn’t eating with me, I settled on a salad with some tuna. Sitting there alone with practically the only sound coming from my eating and lifting and putting my glass on the table, everything thundered back at me. I realized I hadn’t spent much time thinking about the last time I saw and spoke with my mother. Had I missed a clue? Was she trying to tell me something but I was too absorbed in my own thoughts about myself and this social life I was chasing now?

  She had been down earlier in the morning preparing some breakfast for me and my father. Even though I had heard her snap at him when they returned from one of his business dinners the night before, complaining about what he had put her through and what she had to tolerate to help him make money, I had no suspicions about what she was planning to do. I had heard all her similar complaints a number of times. His response was usually to agree that she was making great sacrifices, putting up with the vapid wives of his associates. He would then end up by complimenting her and reinforcing how much he needed and depended on her. In the end, that always calmed her, and they went to bed without any further discussion.

  What had made this time any different? At breakfast, she was quieter, but she didn’t rant and rave about anything. My father came to the table with his newspaper and read, while my mother and I talked about what I should do about my hair the next time I went with her to her hairdresser. Why did she put on such an act, pretend to be a concerned mother, knowing what she was going to do that day? I couldn’t think of one hint. Did she want to avoid any reason to hesitate? She had even stepped up to the doorway with me and fixed the collar of my blouse, something she often did.

  “You should have seen this,” she said. “Mirrors don’t lie; people lie to mirrors.”

  I nodded and hurried out, afraid she would find something else to criticize or fix. Despite how much she stressed my being independent, she was incapable of not pampering me. I was conflicted about it. Was she merely afraid I would embarrass her, or did she really want me to be as perfect as she was? That was a real question now.

  “Beauty doesn’t survive neglect,” she once told me when she was thinking more about herself and her life, “especially when you’re my age.”

  Thinking about how I was often impatient with her and tried to ignore her, especially when she was all over me with her suggestions and criticism, I realized how much I did remember and appreciate. Now that she was gone, as angry as it made me, I couldn’t deny how much I missed her.

  I cleaned up the dinner dishes and silverware quickly and went upstairs to start my homework and not think about her. Fat chance, I thought, and was actually grateful to hear my phone ring and get a call from Jackie.

  “Did you speak to your father?” she asked the moment I said hello.

  What was she so nervous about? Did she think Chet would skip her party if he couldn’t pick me up and I had to be home by eleven thirty? Or did he tell her how I had left him at school? Did that really annoy him? Was he changing his mind about me? And what about how she thought of herself? Where was her self-respect? She knew she couldn’t hold Sean Connor’s interest in her if his best friend wanted to skip her party. What kind of a boyfriend is that?

  “Not yet. He’s at a dinner meeting. Don’t worry about it.”

  She was quiet long enough for me to say, “What?”

  “I don’t know how I’d be if my mother ran off with someone. Did you know she was going to do it?”

  “No. How do you think I should be?” I snapped back at her. “What can I do about it now?”

  “Your father seems all right. He took you to dinner, and he’s working. I guess it’s not like someone dying.”

  “It’s worse,” I said, surprised that I was eager to talk about it with her.

  “How can it be worse?”

  “When someone dies, you don’t have to hope constantly that he or she will come back. You know they can’t.”

  “Oh.”

  She was thinking. I could almost feel it. She was wishing she had never asked and just had gone on being oblivious to anything but her own pleasure.

  “Do you think she’ll come back? And if she did, would your father take her back?”

  “I don’t know. That’s my point, Jackie; that’s why it’s more painful.”

  “Right,” she said. I could feel her burst out of moments of seriousness and the darkness they brought. “Well, now you have my party to think about and Chet. Sean says Chet really likes you. He likes you even more after today, too.”

  “
Likes me even more? As opposed to what? You told me he wanted me to come to the party because he was crazy about me, didn’t you?”

  “Yes. What’s the big deal if he likes you even more? You make everything sound like a national emergency. People didn’t think you were happy even before your mother left. You’re too serious about everything. Chill, at least tomorrow night,” she said. “It’s not a sin to have fun and be happy, you know. Your mother wasn’t worried about it, obviously.”

  “Okay. I’ll go sit in the freezer.”

  “Huh? Oh. Very funny. I’ll see you in the morning. Good luck with your father.”

  “Thanks,” I said, now just happy to get off the phone.

  I went right to my homework but had so much trouble concentrating that I knew I rushed it and didn’t do as well as I could. My teachers would expect less from me anyway, I thought. None had said a word, but it was easy to see that they knew all. Most avoided asking me any questions. However terrible my work was, they’d be generous, at least for a while. Actually, I hated the thought of that, hated the idea that I was the object of mercy. It resurrected all my rage. I tossed my math book like a Frisbee against the wall and got up.

  Despite how I had hated reading it, I returned to my parents’ bedroom to do just that, to reread my mother’s farewell letter.

  I stopped dead in the doorway. It wasn’t there. Maybe my father had realized he left it out and had made a special trip home to hide it from me. For a moment, I felt like ripping the place apart until I found it. Maybe I’d burn it. Perhaps he already had. Where would he put it?

  I opened the door to his closet and gazed at everything so perfectly organized. Anything out of the ordinary would clearly be seen. I carefully searched the pockets of his jackets and pants. The only thing I found was a receipt from a parking garage.

  I went to his dresser. His socks and underwear were folded in such a similar manner they looked painted into the drawers. I hesitated to lift a pair. It seemed wrong to disturb anything, but again, I did so very carefully and found nothing.