Beastly

by Alex Flinn

  She climbed on the window seat, my window seat. I felt a twinge. She must have missed going outside. “Oh, you’re right. You can see all the way to the subway station from here. Which station is that?”

  But I was talking. “You can watch people go from the train to their jobs, and come back in the afternoon.” When she looked at me, I said, “Not that I’ve ever done that.”

  “I would. I bet people did that all the time. You can see whole lives here.”

  She leaned over, staring down into the street. I stared at her, the way her red braid hung thick down her back, turning golden in the afternoon sun, the freckles on her white skin. What was the deal with freckles? Did you get them one at a time or all at once? Last, I noticed her eyes, pale gray, surrounded by whitish lashes. They were kind eyes, I thought, but could any eyes be kind enough to forgive my beastliness?

  “How about the boxes?” I gestured to the stacks in the corner.

  “Oh, you’re right.” But she looked disappointed.

  “The window gets more interesting around five. That’s when people start coming from work.” She looked at me. “Well, I might have sat in that seat…once or twice.”

  “Oh, I see.”

  The first box she opened was full of books, and even though Lindy had hundreds of books, she got all excited. “Look! A Little Princess! That was my favorite in fifth grade!” And I went to her side to look. How did girls get so excited over such dumb things?

  The next Lindy squeal was louder. I hurried over to make sure she hadn’t hurt herself, but she said, “Jane Eyre! It’s my all-time favorite!”

  I remembered she’d been reading it the first time I’d watched her. “You have a lot of favorites. Don’t you already have that?”

  “Yeah. But look at this one.”

  I took the book from her. It smelled sort of like the subway. It was dated 1943 and had these mostly black illustrations that took up whole pages. I opened it to a picture of a couple making out under a tree. “I never saw a grown-up book with pictures before. They’re cool.”

  She took the book from me. “I love this book. I love how it shows how if two people are meant to be together, they will be, even if something separates them. That there’s a magic to it.”

  I thought of how Lindy and I had met at the dance, then I’d seen her in the mirror, and now she was here. Was that magic? Kendra’s type of magic? Or just luck? I knew there was magic. I just didn’t know if it could work for good.

  “Do you believe that?” I said. “That magic stuff?”

  Her face darkened, like she was thinking about something else. “I don’t know.”

  I glanced at the book again. “I like the pictures.”

  “Don’t they capture the book perfectly?”

  “Don’t know. I’ve never read it. Isn’t it kind of a girly book?”

  “You’ve never read it? Really?” I knew what was coming. “Well, you have to read it. It’s the most wonderful book in the world—a love story. I read it every time we had a power outage. It’s the perfect book for candlelight.”

  “Power outage?”

  Lindy shrugged. “We had more than most people, I guess. Sometimes things got in the way of my dad paying the electric bill.”

  Things like feeding his nose and his bloodstream. Gotta have priorities. I thought, again, of how alike Lindy and I were. And how alike our dads were—with my dad, work was his drug.

  I took the book from her. I knew I’d stay up all night to read it.

  Finally, we moved to the other boxes. The second was full of scrapbooks and clippings, all about some actress named Ida Dunleavy. I took out posters: Ida Dunleavy as Portia in The Merchant of Venice. Ida Dunleavy in The School for Scandal.

  There were reviews too. “Listen to this,” Lindy said. “‘Ida Dunleavy will be remembered as one of the great stage starlets of our time.’”

  “Guess not. I’ve never heard of her.” I looked at the date on the clipping. 1924.

  “Look how pretty she was.” Lindy showed me another clipping, this one a picture of a beautiful dark-haired woman in an old-fashioned dress.

  The next clippings were about a wedding. “Actress Ida Dunleavy Weds Prominent Banker, Stanford Williams.”

  Then the clippings about plays and acting turned to news of babies. Eugene Dunleavy Williams, born in 1927, Wilbur Stanford Williams in 1929. The pages were covered with notes in fancy, old-fashioned writing and golden locks of hair.

  A clipping from 1930 said, “Banker Stanford Williams Takes Own Life.”

  “He killed himself,” Lindy said, reading. “Jumped out a window. Poor Ida.”

  “He must’ve been one of those guys who lost everything in the ’29 market crash.”

  “Do you think they lived here?” Lindy fingered the yellow-gold paper.

  “Or maybe their kids or grandkids.”

  “That’s so sad.” She flipped through the rest of the scrapbook. There were a few more articles about Stanford, a photo of two little boys of about three or four, then nothing else. Lindy put the scrapbook aside and reached underneath. She took out a box, opened it, and removed wads of tissue paper that crumbled to powder in her hands. Finally, she removed a green satin dress, halfway between the color of mint and the color of money. “Look! It’s Ida’s dress from the photo.” She held it in front of her.

  It seemed exactly her size. “You should try it on.”

  “Oh, it’d never fit me.” But I noticed she kept holding it, fingering the yellowed lace on the front. A few beads were hanging by threads, but other than that, it looked pretty good.

  “Try it,” I said. “Go downstairs if you’re worried about me looking.”

  “It’s not that.” But she lifted the dress high and spun around with it. Then she disappeared downstairs.

  I went to the trunk. I was going to find something cool to show her when she got back. In a hatbox, I found a top hat. I tried it, but it kept slipping off my animal head. I hid it behind the sofa. But there was also a pair of gloves and an evening scarf. Those fit with a little pulling. Stanford must have had big hands. I opened another box and found an old Victrola and some records. I was about to take them out when Lindy returned.

  I’d been right about the dress. It fit her like it had been sewn on her body—her body, which I’d assumed was nothing special because of the way she hid it under sweatshirts and baggy jeans, usually. But now, with satin and lace hugging every curve, I couldn’t stop looking. And her eyes, which I’d previously thought were gray, now seemed exactly the same green as the dress. Maybe it was because I’d had minimal access to girls lately, but she looked hot. Had she transformed as much as I had? Or had she always been this way, and I’d never noticed?

  “Take your braid out,” I said before I thought. Was that a weird thing to say?

  She made a face, but obeyed, taking down her hair so it spilled down her shoulders like a waterfall of flame.

  I stared at her. “God! You’re beautiful, Lindy,” I whispered.

  She laughed. “Oh, right. You only think I’m beautiful because…” She stopped.

  “Because I’m ugly?” I finished for her.

  “I wasn’t going to say that.” But she was blushing.

  “Don’t worry about hurting my feelings. I know I’m ugly. How could I not?”

  “But I really wasn’t. What I was going to say was you think I’m beautiful because you don’t know any other girls, any beautiful ones.”

  “You’re beautiful,” I repeated, imagining how it would be to touch her, what it might be like to run my hands over the slippery cold satin, and feel her warmth beneath. I had to stop thinking like that. I had to keep in control. If she knew how much I wanted her, it might freak her out. I handed her a mirror—the mirror. And as she examined her reflection, I checked her out, secretly, the way her red hair crinkled down her back. She’d put on makeup too, cherry lipstick and a pink blush. She never had before. But, of course, I told myself it was because of the dress, not me.


  “I saw an old Victrola in one of the boxes,” I said. “We should see if it works.”

  “Oh really? Cool.” She clapped her hands.

  I showed her the old windup record player. The label on the small, fat disc said “The Blue Danube.” “I think we put this like this.” I positioned the needle over the record. “Then wind it up.” But when I wound, no sound came out.

  Lindy looked disappointed, then laughed. “I don’t know how to waltz anyway.”

  “I do. My f—” I stopped. I’d been about to say that my friend Trey had dragged me to some fancy dance class his mom made him take at their country club when we were eleven. But I caught myself. “There was a dance lesson on TV once. I could show you. It’s easy.”

  “Easy for you.”

  “For you too.” I pulled the gloves and scarf from the box. I wanted to touch her, but I didn’t want to gross her out with my disgusting animal paws. I held a gloved hand out to her. “May I have this dance?”

  She shrugged. “What do I do?”

  “Take my hand.”

  She did. I stood there, dumbly, for a second. “What about the other hand?” she prompted.

  “Um, on my shoulder. And mine…” I slid it up to her waist, looking out the window as I did. “And then just mirror what I do.” I showed her the simple waltz step. “Forward, side, close.”

  She tried and didn’t get it.

  “Here.” I pulled her closer than I should, so her leg was against mine. I felt every nerve, every muscle in my body tense, and I hoped she couldn’t feel the quickening of my heartbeat. Still, I guided her along, and after a few tries, she got the steps.

  “There’s no music,” she said.

  “Yes there is.” I started to hum “The Blue Danube” and glided with her away from the boxes and across the floor. We got a little tangled in each other, doing this, and I was forced even closer. Not that I minded. I noticed she was wearing perfume too, and between that and the humming, I felt a little dizzy. But I kept gliding, now taking her around in a little circle like the dance teacher had taught us, wishing I could remember more of the song, to make it last longer. But finally, I ran out of notes and had to stop.

  “You dance divinely, my dear Ida,” I said. What a dork I was!

  She giggled and released my hand, but she stayed close. “I’ve never known anyone like you, Adrian.”

  “Huh. I guess not.”

  “No. I mean I’ve never had a friend like you, Adrian.”

  Friend. She’d said friend, which was better than the words she’d used before. Kidnapper. Jailer. But it wasn’t good enough. I wanted more, and not just for the spell. I wanted everything about her. Did it bother me knowing that the only reason we weren’t kissing, the only reason she didn’t want me was because I looked like I looked? You bet. But maybe if I worked harder, she would look past it, see the real me. Except I didn’t even know who “the real me” was anymore. I had been transformed—not just my body, but all of me.

  “I hated you for forcing me to be here,” Lindy continued.

  “I know. But I had to, Lindy. I couldn’t be alone anymore. That’s the only—”

  “You think I don’t see that? You must have been so lonely. I understand.”

  “Do you?” She nodded, but I wished she hadn’t, almost, wished I could let her go and have her say, “No. I’ll stay. Not because you’re forcing me to, or I feel sorry for you, but because I want to be here with you.” But I knew I couldn’t, and she wouldn’t. I wondered that she didn’t ask me to let her leave. Could it be that she didn’t want to anymore, that she was happy? I didn’t dare to hope. Still, I smelled her perfume, the perfume she’d never worn before. Maybe.

  “Adrian, why are you…like this?”

  “Like what?”

  “Nothing.” She turned away. “I’m sorry.”

  But I remembered my cover story. “I’ve always been like this. Am I too horrible to look at?”

  She didn’t say anything for a moment, didn’t look at me. For a minute, it seemed like we both forgot to breathe, and everything was ruined, ruined.

  But finally, she said, “No.”

  We breathed again.

  “Your looks mean nothing to me,” she continued. “I’ve gotten used to them. You’ve been so kind to me, Adrian.”

  I nodded. “I’m your friend.”

  We stayed up there all afternoon and didn’t do a bit of studying. “I’ll ask Will to start late tomorrow,” I told Lindy. “I have pull.”

  At the end of the day, Lindy removed the green dress and folded it back into its box. But that night, I snuck upstairs by moonlight and secretly carried the dress downstairs with me. I put it under my pillow. The faint smell of her perfume was clear to my animal senses, and I remembered reading that smell is the sense most connected with memory. I slept with that dress by my face and dreamed of holding her, of having her want me to. It was impossible. She’d said I was her friend.

  But the next morning, when Lindy came down to breakfast, her hair was down, brushed and gleaming. I smelled her perfume.

  I began to hope.

  3

  Lindy’s room was two floors above mine. It made me restless knowing she was there, in the same house, asleep, alone. At night, I could almost feel her body, slipping between cool white sheets. I wanted to know each golden freckle on her skin. But now I was restless. My own sheets felt hot, sometimes sweaty, and itchy. I ached for her, lying in my bed, imagining her in hers. I went to sleep thinking of her, and woke soaking wet, sheets tangled around my legs. I imagined what it would be like to be tangled around her. I wanted to touch her. I’d seen her softness the day she’d tried on the dress. Somehow, I knew she would be soft enough to make up for me.

  “I wish we could go to school together,” Lindy said one day when we’d finished studying. “I mean that you could go to my school, my old school.”

  She was saying, I realized, that she still wanted to go, but she wanted to be with me too.

  “Would I like it?” It was late afternoon. I’d opened the shutters—brazenly—and the light streamed across her hair, making it gold. I longed to touch it, but didn’t.

  She thought about it. “Probably not. The kids there, they’re all rich and snotty. I didn’t fit in.”

  I had. It amazed me now. “What would your friends say if they saw someone like me there?”

  “I didn’t have any friends.” She smiled. “But I’m sure some of the parents in the PTA would have problems with you.”

  I laughed, imagining it. Of course, I knew exactly the parents she was talking about—certainly no one related to me, but there were parents who went to all the PTA meetings and volunteered at the school and just generally complained about stuff. They would care. I helped her gather her books. “‘I don’t want any beasts in school with my child!’ That’s what they’d say at the PTA meeting. ‘I pay good money for this school. You can’t let in riffraff.’”

  She laughed. “Exactly.” She left her books on the table and started toward the greenhouse. It had become our daily routine. After our tutoring session was finished, we would have lunch, then read and discuss what we’d read—homework for people who never left home. Then we’d walk through the greenhouse, and she would help me with the watering and other work.

  “We could start studying out here now that it’s cool,” I said.

  “I’d like that.”

  “Do you need any flowers?” I asked her this every day. If the blooms in her room had wilted, we picked some. It was the only gift I could give her, the only thing she wanted from me. I’d offered other gifts. She always said no.

  “Yes, please. If you won’t miss them.”

  “I’ll miss them. But it makes me happy to give them to you, Lindy, to have someone to give them to.”

  She smiled. “I understand, Adrian.” We paused before a white tea rose. “I know what it is to be lonely. I’ve been lonely all my life, until…” She stopped.

  “Until what
?” I asked.

  “Nothing. I forgot what I was going to say.”

  I smiled. “All right. What color do you want this time? I think you had red last time, but the red ones don’t last, do they?”

  She leaned forward, fingering a white rose. “You know, I had a huge crush on this guy at my school once.”

  “Really?” Her words were an ice pick, and I wondered if it was anyone I knew. “What was he like?”

  “Perfect.” She laughed. “The typical guy you’d have a crush on, I guess. Beautiful, popular. I thought he was smart too, but maybe I just wanted him to be smart. It bothered me that I could like someone just for his looks. You know how that is.”

  I looked away so I couldn’t see my animal hand on the roses. Between the roses and her memories of this hot guy, I felt particularly hideous.

  “It’s strange, though,” she said. “People make such a big deal about looks, but after a while, when you know someone, you don’t even notice anymore, do you? It’s just the way they look.”

  “You think?” I edged closer, imagining what it would be like to trace the line of her ear with my clawed finger, smelling her hair. “So what was this guy’s name?”

  “Kyle. Kyle Kingsbury. Isn’t that an incredible name? His father’s this big network anchor. I watch him sometimes and remember Kyle. They look just alike.”

  I crossed my arms in front of me to hold in what I was feeling. “So you liked this Kyle guy because he was so great-looking and had a rich father and an incredible name?”

  She laughed, like she realized how shallow it sounded. “Well, not just that. He was so confident, fearless like I’m not. He spoke his mind. He didn’t know I existed, of course, except this one time…it was silly.”

  “No. Tell me.” But I knew what she was going to say.

  “I was helping out at a dance. I hated helping at dances. I felt stupid and poor, but it was…encouraged if you were on scholarship. Anyway, he was there with his girlfriend—this completely evil girl named Sloane Hagen. I remember he’d gotten her a corsage—a glorious white rose.” She fingered the roses in front of her. “Sloane was having a hissy because it wasn’t an orchid, wasn’t expensive enough, I guess. But I remember thinking that if I could have a rose like that from a guy like Kyle Kingsbury, I’d be happy forever. And just as I was thinking that, he walked over and gave it to me.”