Deviant

by Helen FitzGerald

  HALF AN HOUR LATER, they parked out front of a ramshackle house in another run-down area. Once you were down from the hills, LA seemed to be an endless sprawl of flat slums. Stick jumped out the back and walked around to the driver’s side window. Becky pressed the button to roll down the window

  “The final letter,” he gasped. If it was a triumph, whatever it meant, he sounded more resigned than pleased. “Joe did it.”

  “He did it,” she agreed.

  “So where are we at?” he asked breathlessly. His puppy-dog eyes flickered past Becky to Abigail. She stared down at her lap.

  “Nearly ready,” Becky said.

  “When?” he pressed.

  “Two, three days tops. We’re running out of time. I think Dad’s off the scent, but we need to be careful, you know?”

  “Yeah,” he said. “Mine’s still sniffing around a bit. Don’t think he knows though.”

  “Give me my phone. All the pics on here?”

  Abigail shot them a quick glance out of the corner of her eye as Stick handed Becky the iPhone he’d used to take pictures.

  “You sort the stuff in his den in case?” he asked.

  “I did,” she said. Her tone was grim.

  “So, see you soon?” Stick leaned on the door, in no hurry to leave. He poked his head through the window, bringing his tired, sweaty face close to Becky’s. “Sooner rather than later?”

  Ah, right, Abigail thought. Stick was in love with her. Made sense.

  “Off you go, sweetie. I’ll let you know when.” Becky kissed him on the cheek and pressed the button for the window to close. Stick jumped back. He frowned and chuckled, shaking his head. So: Becky didn’t feel the same way. Despite her desire to ignore Stick, Abigail watched him in the side mirror as they drove off. He stood on the curb, staring back, until they were out of sight. That was a very un-Billy thing to do, she thought to herself.

  THE SUN WAS THREATENING the east’s black horizon when they parked the van in the driveway. After keying the alarm code and treading softly through the hall, Abigail noticed the grey backpack in the living room where she’d left it the day before—untouched by her father and Melanie. Whew. Grabbing it, she followed her sister up the stairs and into her new bedroom.

  “Shut the door,” Becky ordered, lighting a joint and flopping down on Abigail’s bed. “Go on, have some. It’ll help you sleep.”

  “I told you, I don’t smoke.” Abigail opened the window and tossed the backpack on the floor. She’d been hoping to unwind after the insanity of the evening with an actual conversation. But she realized that it was a stupid pipedream. Despite the luxury of their surroundings, this wasn’t and would never be some Jane Austen story. She found herself imagining Miss Elizabeth Bennet painting graffiti on the walls of Mr. Darcy’s mansion (Darcy is a prick! Screw Darcy and his pride!) then getting shit-faced and giggling with Miss Jane Bennet afterward. It didn’t fit, and it wasn’t right—not after what happened with that kid, Joe. And she didn’t feel like showing Becky the letter or giving her the money. Maybe some other time. Right now, all she wanted was for Becky to get out of her room.

  Becky exhaled a huge cloud of smoke. “You’re angry.”

  Abigail waved it away from her face. “No, I’m tired. Anyway, what are you protesting against? Kidney-shaped swimming pools?”

  Becky’s smile widened. “Touché. What would a rich kid like me know about anything, right? But this, it’s about everyone. All of us. Joe, too. Joe especially. More than you can imagine. You’re worried about him, aren’t you?”

  Abigail swallowed. Funny. (Or the opposite of funny.) All she could think about was the scene in The Shining, when the little boy Danny asks the hotel chef if he’s scared. The hotel chef lies, saying he isn’t, even though both he and Danny know he’s lying. They both know because the hotel chef has the “shining,” too. So they both know that they’re both terrified. All her life, Abigail had dreamed of a bond like this, hadn’t she? And now that it was staring her in the face—not supernatural, but still undeniably bound, by blood—she was … what, exactly? Worried? Yes. But also grateful. Her sister knew exactly what was going on.

  “You’ll understand soon,” Becky added.

  “Stop with all the big mystery crap, okay? I don’t care!” Abigail spat. “If we’d been caught, all that’d happen is they’d make you paint over your graffiti in an orange uniform. Me, I’d have been turfed back to Glasgow. And in case you’re wondering, my life wasn’t great there.”

  Becky’s face softened. “I can only imagine. I’m sorry.”

  Abigail shrugged. She hadn’t meant to play the sympathy card. But now she had, and her bottom lip was quivering.

  “I didn’t mean for you to be involved,” Becky went on. “It was just bad timing. It had to be tonight. That’s all I can say. And I care about Joe, more than … I care about him.”

  Abigail rolled her eyes. She got it. More mystery. She paused for a moment, then reached down and grabbed the joint from her sister’s hand. After a long drag, she handed it back with an almost-smile. “Bollocks. Get outta here, okay? I need some sleep.”

  Becky managed a small laugh. She stood and touched her sister’s face, gently placing her thumb on Abigail’s still-quivering lip to steady it. “G’night, little sister.”

  “Morning, sunshine!” For the second time, Abigail woke to a strange voice.

  “I have clothes! For you! And they’re fantabulous!”

  Abigail rubbed her eyes, squinting up at Melanie. “Hi. What time is it?”

  Her stepmom was dressed in a white skirt and bright pink 50s-style halter top. “Nearly noon, sleepyhead!”

  Abigail stretched and yawned. Melanie had placed a tray with orange juice, rye toast, and watery poached eggs on the table under the window. The snot-like eggs made Abigail gag a little. Plus, she hated rye bread. Perhaps she would ask Melanie for her favorite some other time: white toast with the wondrous and infamously “love-hate” black vegetable spread, Marmite. She suddenly panicked that she might not be able to get Marmite in the States. Then again, her father could “pull strings.” He could probably arrange for a truckload.

  “Voilá! This is for tonight.” Melanie held up a bright red dress, very tiny, with only one strap. “What do you think?”

  “Wow.” Abigail wondered which tenth of her body the dress would cover. “It’s … So, do you wear it over leggings?”

  “Oh, just put it on.” Melanie took Abigail’s glass of orange juice and placed it on the table. “I want to see you.”

  Standing in front of the full length mirror moments later, Abigail wondered how to say it. I look stupid. If I bend over, you will see the curry I had for dinner. In the end she went for a blubbering: “It’s, ah … wow. Um … I don’t usually wear things like this.”

  “Well, that is a sin,” said Melanie. “You could be a model, you know that? And these are the shoes, definitely!” She placed a pair of four-inch red heels at Abigail’s feet. “On! On!”

  There was no getting out of this. Abigail would have to wear the dress, and worse, she’d have to wear the shoes, even though they were so high they made her bum salute the ceiling. She’d read about the purpose of high heels in one of her “serious” library books—a text related to evolution. Apparently, heels were designed to make the female butt pout upward as if to say: Here, here is my female monkey bit! Please bring on your male monkey bit so we will never be extinct. Save yourself. Save us monkeys. Wear the heels.

  Some of the other clothes were better, at least: jeans, T-shirts, trainers. The bikini was a little slinky. But the underwear was worse.

  Melanie had guessed the correct bra size. Still, the sexy black embroidered lace-and-floral pattern were clearly not aimed at sixteen-year-olds. Abigail had no idea what Melanie was thinking. In honesty, she was a bit creeped out. (Are you doing your bit for the monkeys, Abigail?) As she touched the come-get-me lingerie, Abigail found her mind wandering in strange directions. Did Melanie want her to find a
boyfriend? Did Becky have a boyfriend? (It clearly wasn’t Stick, and Joe was too young; there was some deeper brotherly connection there.)

  Abigail had never met a boy who’d tempted her back in Glasgow. She’d had offers, right enough. There was a sweet boy she kept bumping into at the Hillhead Library, for example. They chatted about Golding and Stephen Hawking a few times. Eventually, he’d asked her if she wanted “to go for a coffee.” She’d said, “No, thanks.” She switched to Mitchell Library after that. If their arms ever touched, she hadn’t noticed. Her hairs definitely hadn’t prickled. Library boy was nothing. He was blah. If he’d ever become something, he would have delved, asked questions, tried to make her need him. She didn’t want any of that shite. She made a mental note to remember the mantra—I don’t want any of that shite—in case she ever saw Stick again. It would probably be best if she didn’t. Right. She had to snap back into robot mode. Robots needed nothing. No more late night “bombing” with Becky. It was settled. The see-through and lacy numbers would be for her eyes only.

  At least she had clothes now. Most importantly, she had a swimsuit.

  “Are there rules about the pool?” she finally asked.

  Melanie laughed. “Yes. Don’t drown in it.” She rolled her eyes. “Of course not. This is your home. The pool is your pool. You hear me?” She placed her hands on Abigail’s shoulders. “This is your home.”

  Abigail nodded. My home.

  Melanie went on: She’d organized driving lessons (with Alberto, “who is wonderful!” starting next week). She’d bought Abigail a laptop and printer and had printed out information about the car service, local transport, shops, and her school, which would start in three weeks’ time. And she’d made her an appointment to get her hair done.

  “Oh actually, do you mind if I go somewhere else?” Abigail asked, retrieving the card Bren gave her from her backpack. “My friend is a hairdresser.”

  Melanie’s eyes glazed over for a moment, as if the words didn’t register. Then she smiled abruptly. “Of course! I’ll drop you on the way to the caterers’.”

  Before heading downstairs, Abigail knocked on Becky’s door.

  No answer. Without thinking, Abigail opened the door an inch, then regretted it and shut it again. She didn’t have a clue how to be intimate with this girl. Hell, she didn’t even know who Becky was, really. Only that wasn’t true. Becky had shared something last night, hadn’t she? But it was nothing Abigail could define. Passing concern for a kid in orange coveralls? No. It was more. It was crazy. Like the arm hair thing. A fuzzy thing that makes no sense and screws you up. Best ignored. Her mantra would be handy in relation to Becky and Stick.

  I don’t want any of that shite.

  As she made her way through the sprawling house, she noticed that her father’s den was closed again. She could hear a drawer banging shut, papers shuffling. She wondered if she’d ever even consider knocking on that door. But she already knew the answer to that one, too. Probably not until I suss it out with Becky first.

  ABIGAIL WAS ASTOUNDED THAT Bren managed such a good job at the same time as talking non-stop.

  He was a genius, it seemed. When she looked in the mirror she saw that he had maintained the essence of her personality—wary and tough—while adding never-before-seen elegance to her short, feathery blonde hair. In forty-five short minutes, he had given her the impossible: actual style.

  Only twenty years old, and he was already co-owner of a salon in Beverly Hills. There must have been risks, Abigail imagined. But the squat premises were shiny and bustling and the phone rang constantly. Two movie stars were being worked on in the V.I.P. area. (“I could tell you who, but I’d have to smash your head against the Italian marble sink till you bled to death.”) And everyone there seemed to love him, of course.

  “When are you coming to my crib?” he asked. “None of this ‘we must do lunch’ crap. Before you go, we diarize.” His house was on the Venice Canals, he told her. The back windows looked out onto the water, and there was a cute little bridge a few hundred feet away. “And I have a boat! A sleepover! How’s a week from next Friday?” He wrote the date on a card, along with his home address and telephone number. “Bring booze and a toothbrush.”

  As she shambled back outside into the bright LA sunshine, trying to adjust to her new hair, she couldn’t wipe the silly grin from her face.

  Strange—she hardly knew Bren—but she knew she’d take him up on his offer. Another outsider, she supposed. But no, that sold him short; she’d known from the moment they’d parted at the airport that they were mates. There was no “shining.” But there was no agenda, either. He cared. That was it. No weirdness at all like she felt with Becky. Or Melanie. Or Grahame. Or even Stick, for God’s sake. Just comfortable. Watched out for.

  LATER THAT NIGHT, GRAHAME, dressed in a kilt, caught Abigail hovering at Becky’s door. “She’ll be tapping away on that computer of hers,” he said. “Leave her to it for now. Come join us.”

  When she was in the place called “care,” the word “party” meant something awful and depressing. Christmas party! (Cheap tinsel, ten-year-old plastic tree, self-harming children ripping open thoughtless and impersonal cash-and-carry gifts). Birthday party! (Shop-bought cake for tearful abuse survivor). Leaving party! (Outdated disco music on cheap old-fashioned CD player that nobody would dance to. Why dance, when you knew you were leaving nowhere to go nowhere?)

  But this party—for her, she kept having to remind herself—was a proper affair, one that should make a person feel happy. Over half of the grown-up men were dressed in kilts, all rented, no doubt, from the same extortionate and pretentious LA shop. Women attempted to outdo each other in dresses so glamorous they looked like a parody of some red-carpet movie premiere. Waiters carried trays of blue cocktails, “the same color as the St. Andrew’s flag!” (said Melanie, of course.) Waitresses served delicately presented vegetarian haggis and smoked salmon on oatcakes. Celtic music drifted through the garden and pool area. People smiled, talked, and laughed. There were only a few young people. The rest were friends, family, and colleagues of Grahame and Melanie’s.

  Abigail would never remember all the names. She wondered if she would ever, ever find anything to say to any of them. They were all aliens.

  The chat was the same, over and over.

  You look so like your father.

  Sorry, what did you say?

  What a change this must be.

  I cannot understand that accent! Hilarious!

  How wonderful that you finally found your family.

  What? What are you saying?

  Marlborough! You’ll love it.

  I didn’t catch that. You sound just like Billy Connolly!

  Do say something Scotch–let me hear the brogue …!

  Exactly like Billy Connolly! You just have to laugh!

  No one mentioned her mother. Either no one knew about her or she was a dirty word. In the whirl of being presented like an object, Abigail could once again slip back into robot mode. There must have been a reason her mother distrusted her father. But perhaps it was only resentment. While £50,000 was no small sum, this party alone probably cost half that. Maybe Sophie resented the fact that Grahame could have always taken care of Abigail without a second thought. If so, why the hell would Sophie have kept Abigail from him? Why the hell would she have left her to Nieve? And Abigail wasn’t angry at Nieve; she loved Nieve. She loved Nieve more than she would ever love Sophie Thom. But was it that simple? Had her mother been as misguided as Becky and her friends? Was Abigail’s fate all some part of some stupid protest against rich people?

  Melanie, a tireless and gracious host, tugged Abigail this way and that and she played her part as best she could. It was surreal, perfect. Underneath, Abigail was only left with two desires: she wanted this to end, and she wanted to find Becky.

  Then her father reappeared.

  “This is Matthew,” he said, tugging a lanky boy alongside him. “He and your sister are friends.”r />
  Abigail blinked. The guy was gorgeous, over six feet tall, with wavy dark hair that defied his Fudge hair product (she could smell it) and fell into his eyes—

  Jesus Christ.

  Matthew was Stick? Stick was Matthew? This guy?

  Her pulse quickened. Her right hand was damp, she realized to her embarrassment, as she shook his. Those puppyish eyes flickered. He smiled politely.

  She lowered her gaze. He wore smart trousers and a crisp shirt with a couple of buttons undone. She found herself staring at what she could see of his chest. Tanned. No hair. She shifted her gaze to the shoulders she’d not noticed the night before. Broad and straight. Inappropriate. She didn’t know where the hell to look.

  “Although Becky calls him Stick on account of his height,” her father said.

  “That’s right,” Matthew said evenly. He continued to stare back at Abigail as if she were a stranger, and released his hand. “I grew to this height at twelve. Used to be even more of a rake.” His stare hardened, as if commanding: Don’t say anything, not a thing.

  “Nice to meet you,” she croaked.

  The words stuck. Time stopped. Everything in the room, everything but his eyes, faded.

  “Well, you’ve certainly filled out now!” Grahame exclaimed, snapping her out of her trance. “And this is Matthew’s father, my oldest and dearest friend, Mr. Howard.”

  Abigail forced herself to shake hands with a shorter, sterner, grown-up version of Stick. His father’s hand was even clammier than hers.

  “Friends since kindergarten, Dennis and me,” Grahame said jovially. “Just like our kids. Dennis is the Lieutenant Governor of California.”

  “Oh! I heard you on the radio,” she said automatically, mostly to distract herself from Stick. Bad move. How could she have heard him on the radio? She hadn’t even been to the States when he’d been interviewed. And she couldn’t explain what had really happened, that Becky had played the interview as Exhibit A of his evil ways.