by Traci Finlay
Ian jerked his eyes toward me. “Is this the same clown who messaged you on Instagram?”
“How did you know that? Have you been reading my messages?”
“Damn right I’ve been reading your messages! And your texts, and your emails. I want to know what these perverted little boys are saying to my little sister.”
Anger boiled through my entire body, spilling over and I was seeing red. “You have no right to read my private messages, Ian. I don’t owe you explanations. I can go out on dates if I want. I’m changing all my passwords.” I crossed my arms and glared at him.
“Does Dad know?”
I dropped my gaze. “I was going to tell him. Before we left.” I perked back up. “But he wouldn’t have acted like that! He knows Jason’s a nice guy. What you did was just out of control! Now he’ll probably never speak to me again.”
“You’re lucky I didn’t sock that guy in the mouth,” he said as he grabbed a cone and started scooping Superman ice cream. “You should be thanking me.”
I grabbed the cone from him. “Ian, I’m serious! Don’t ever do that again. You can’t just sabotage my dates for no reason.”
“Oh, Charlotte, knock it off! You’re fifteen. I’m older than you, and I know what guys want. Just relax. That guy was a loser.” He snatched the cone back and tore a huge bite out of the side, like it was a turkey leg from the fair.
“Don’t tell me to relax! He was a perfect gentleman, and you just ruined it!” I punched him in the arm again. It took everything inside me not to punch his stupid face.
“It’s in your best interest to stop hitting me,” he said calmly. “Oh, and it’ll be two hundred dollars to fix my truck.” He tossed the ice cream in the trash and turned to Chrissy, who had made like a porcelain doll in the corner. “Thanks for the kiss, Chrissy.” He winked at her, hopped over the counter, and strolled out of the shop, the bell jingling at our appalled faces.
Today marks the two-week anniversary since my arrival in Bay City, and Nikka’s decided that’s grounds for celebration. I try refusing her high-maintenance primping with excuses like not having nice clothes, nor the money to buy any.
Nikka rolls her eyes. “Don’t you know me by now? I have something for you to wear. And I’ll do your makeup for you.”
I imagine myself looking like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman after Nikka’s through with me, so much so that I stupidly blurt out that I can’t walk in boots that go past my knees. She laughs and promises no Vivian Ward appearances, but I can tell I hurt her feelings, and now I feel like crap.
So here I am, seated in Nikka’s bathroom with makeup and curlers coating every inch of the counter. Nikka tilts forward, carefully stroking eyeshadow across my brow bone. “Now that you’re a brunette, your blue eyes can pull off this bronze color a lot better.” She dabs the brush in the palette and works the other eye.
Bronze was Chrissy’s favorite eyeshadow color. If she knew I had this on she’d be rolling over in—god, I can’t even say it. My broken heart pulls itself together just enough to shatter all over again.
Nikka gently blows on my eyelids and backs up, critiquing her masterpiece. “Beautiful,” she decides, clicking the compact shut. “Okay, let’s take those curlers out.” She twirls me toward the mirror and unwraps the rollers, leaving my freshly layered hair bouncing in wavy ribbons around my face.
“Wow,” I murmur.
Nikka laughs. “You look great, right?”
I angle my head in all directions and stare in the mirror. “Yeah. I mean, I’ve just never … done stuff like this.” But the parietal lobe in my brain is telling me I’m lying and the frontal lobe is screaming that it’s impossible to lie about Things That Never Happened, and I’m in no state to play referee with my brain lobes. Not with this spookily familiar image of a feminine brunette staring at me in the mirror.
I can’t handle this. Dying my hair brown isn’t going to keep Ian from killing me; I don’t know what I was thinking. I gulp. I miss Chrissy so much right now. “Nikka? Did you say this brown dye washes out?”
“Yeah. In a couple weeks it’ll start fading. Why? Don’t you like it?”
“I … I’m just not used to it. I want my blond hair back.”
“We can dye it back if you want, but this’ll wash out soon.”
The doorbell rings just as Nikka removes the final roller. “That’s Jack. Let’s go.” And she poofs from the bathroom.
I stand slowly, brushing stray hairs and wrinkles from my dress. I don’t want to do this. I don’t want to be dressed up, don’t want to celebrate, don’t want brown hair, don’t want to confront Jack. Why did I have to stereotype prostitutes and get myself into this mess?
Nikka hollers at me from the door, but I’m frozen in the hall. “Charlotte?” she calls again. “C’mon. Reservations are for eight.”
I physically can’t walk into the kitchen. I hear Nikka coming, and I duck back into the bathroom. “What’s the matter?” she asks solicitously.
“This is dumb. I’m sorry, Nikka, I don’t want to do this. This isn’t my thing.”
Nikka looks like a child who’s just discovered a dead puppy in her toybox. “Oh, Charlotte. Why not? What happened?”
“Hey, ladies!” Jack calls over the jangling of his keys. “Let’s roll.”
Nikka looks at me impatiently. “Well?”
I shake my head, and she stomps her stilettoed foot. “Come on! This dinner is in honor of you, and if you don’t go, then it’s just me and my dumb brother. You’re going.” She grabs my wrist and forces me down the hall.
I advance to bargaining. “The pub downstairs, let’s go there! Jeans! Wings! Oh, takeout!” But Nikka ignores me until we’re in the kitchen, where she swiftly releases my wrist like a bowling ball, presenting me with a heartily degrading, “Ta-da!”
I hate being presented. I linger, staring foolishly at Jack, who gives a low whistle and steps forward. His heels click on the linoleum, and I look down to see shiny black wingtips poking out from under black dress pants. My eyes launch past the silver belt buckle and beyond his dark blue dress shirt, and orbit around those spooky irises, the looming silver and haunting gray looking at me from beneath his tousled tresses.
I burst out laughing.
Nikka and Jack blink, confused grins following suit. “What’s so funny?” Nikka asks with a giggle.
But I can’t speak. Jack shoves his hands in his pockets and sighs. “She always laughs at the most inappropriate times. Some sort of weird defense mechanism. She does that when she’s trying not to cry.”
His eerily accurate diagnosis sets me off into a more hysterical, higher-pitched laughter, and Nikka looks like she’s about to explode. “What? What’s that mean? How do you know that about her, Jack? Charlotte, why are you trying not to cry?”
Jack pipes in before I can reply. “I’ll handle this, Charlotte. You just keep laughing.” He turns to Nikka. “I know this because I’ve nearly fired her ass for her lack of professionalism at work, laughing during awkward situations. Yet when I approach her, I see her poorly masked attempts not to cry, and I can’t fire her. And she’s trying not to cry now because she doesn’t want to go to dinner because she’s finally feeling the stress of moving to a new city and starting over with no one but your sorry ass to help her.” He grins haughtily at Nikka, whose arms have gone akimbo, then he turns to me. “Did I miss anything?”
I nod and dab at my mascara. “I don’t think Nikka has a sorry ass. But everything else is pretty spot on.”
“You really don’t want to go to dinner?” Nikka blinks at me.
“Of course I do, Nikka. Come on, let’s go.” I turn toward the door and we file out onto the landing.
Jack leans down to my ear while Nikka’s locking the door and whispers, “Liar.”
We arrive at 8:07 and are ushered to a round booth in a shadowy corner of the restaurant. I open my menu, numbers popping at me like holograms. I can’t afford this. Holy crap, I can’t even afford the tomato bisque.
&
nbsp; “Nikka, these prices are a nightmare,” Jack says. “I was gonna be the gentleman and pay for you both, but sweet Jesus…”
Nikka waves a finger. “Don’t even sweat it. I know the owner. He’s totally hooking us up.” She takes a sip from her drippy water goblet.
Jack slaps his menu on the table. “Nikka? Exactly how do you know the owner, pray tell?”
Confused, I look at Nikka, who’s giving Jack a deer-in-the-headlights stare.
Jack looks like he’s about to hit her. Consciously controlling his demeanor, he glances around the restaurant and turns back to her with a finger in her face. “You tell me how you have ins with him. Right now. Because if it’s the reason I think it is, I’m walking out.”
“Sorry, Jack. I’m sorry.”
Oh, yeah. Vivian Ward.
He slams his fist on the table and goes to stand, but I grab his sleeve and Nikka begs him to sit back down. “Jack, please,” I whisper. “I’ll pay for it.”
He jerks his sleeve from my fingers. “No, you won’t! Nikka did this on purpose, and you’re not going to condone this by spending your money.” He turns to Nikka. “And neither am I!”
Nikka’s eyes dart around the room as heads start turning. “Jack, please. I’m sorry. Charlotte, I’m really sorry. I shouldn’t have done this.”
“Charlotte and I are leaving,” Jack announces, and Nikka bursts into tears. He scoots out of the booth and stands, looking at me. “C’mon.”
My jaw is basically drawing crescents on the table as I look back and forth between the sobbing and the defiant. I catch Jack’s attention. Don’t do this, I mouth to him. She’s your sister.
Jack sighs and sits back down, throwing Nikka a napkin and telling her to mop up her face. The server had delivered a basket of breadsticks, but I’ve lost my appetite. I look at Jack, who’s huffing and staring at the ceiling, blatantly avoiding Nikka. But when his gaze finally lands on her, his teeth jut out like a Rottweiler.
Nikka chomps into a breadstick. “Come on, Jack. It’s over. Put your fangs away.”I’m surprised at the quick demeanor change—the crying, sniveling girl has morphed into this composed and slightly irritated alpha, and I’m seeing that Nikka will do and become whatever it takes to control men. That’s a legit superpower.
Jack sits up. “I can’t even look at you right now. You sicken me. Every time I think of my little sister and…” He looks around the restaurant again, his hands balling into rocks. “Don’t point him out to me. If the owner’s here, you better tell him to steer clear of our table. I’ll kill him.”
The server returns to take orders, and Jack tosses his menu on the table. “I’m not eating. Thank you.”
The server blinks and turns to Nikka and me, feels the tension in our statuesque appearance, and whispers that he’ll be back before scampering away, and I can’t blame him. Jack looks like he’s about to rip someone’s head off, and I’m regretting ever talking him into staying. Nothing about this evening is fun. I wish I would’ve stayed home. I’d rather have Jack creepily predict more things about me in the comfort of Phineas while in my pajamas with a plate of hot wings.
“What do you want from me, Jack?” Nikka says curtly. “You want me to conform into this angry celibate, like you?”
Jack manages to rip his index finger out of his tightly bound fist and point it at her. “No, I want you to act like a human being! I want you to have some self-respect and act like a lady. Not a fucking whore.”
“Jack,” I intervene as Nikka’s eyes fill with tears, and she says, “You see, Charlotte? You see what I have to go through?”
“You, nothing!” Jack hisses. “I’m the one who has to deal with the embarrassment of what you do! You make me sick to my stomach.”
I bite my lip as Nikka breaks down. “Jack, stop insulting her.”
“What, are you on her side?”
I look at Nikka and back at Jack. “You don’t have to be so mean about it.”
“But you agree with me, right?” Jack spouts, and I shut my eyes. I can’t even handle my own sibling rivalry, let alone manage these two. I look at Nikka, who’s pouting—arms crossed and glaring at Jack. The Red Pixie has resurfaced, the one who has a defiant way with men, even her own brother. And Jack, the no-nonsense one, isn’t about to tolerate her lifestyle or even contribute to it.
I clear my throat. “I … I don’t know how you guys deal with this stuff on a regular basis, but … but you obviously love each other, or this—” I gesture to our little party of three— “wouldn’t be happening right now. I mean, you two have an established relationship that involves some amount of respect for one another.”
Both Swaring siblings deflate. “Jack’s way too demanding, Charlotte. You have no idea. I do what I have to do to get by, and he can’t handle it.”
“Whatever, Nikka. There are millions of women in this world who get by without doing the things you do.” Jack’s brought his voice down to a reasonable decibel, and I see what could be a light at the end of this terrible tunnel I never want to enter again.
Nikka turns to me. “I’m sorry, Charlotte. You were right. We shouldn’t have come. It wasn’t supposed to be like this.”
Jack rolls his eyes in an attempt to squash the guilt trip Nikka just laid on him. “Nikka, you’re so worried about helping everyone else that you won’t even take the time to help yourself. Your self-loathing. That’s what breaks my heart the most.”
Oh, no. I’m going to cry and then laugh and then ruin this moment.
Nikka rests her chin in her hands. “I … I quit smoking, Jack.”
We both look at her. “You did?” Jack asks.
“Well, I felt bad that Charlotte had to breathe that every night, and I know you hate it. It was two against one, and I was outnumbered. So, you’re welcome.”
Jack turns his surprised eyes to me. “You told her to quit smoking?”
I shake my head frantically, like I’m denying the accusation of throwing a baseball through a window.
“Charlotte never said a word. She didn’t have to,” Nikka says. “I’m doing it cold-turkey, and it’s tough, but it’s been ten days.” She gives an exaggerated smile that could double as a grimace.
Jack sits back and stares at her. “I am really proud of you.”
Nikka actually beams. She beams like a praised child, and I see how much she craves her brother’s approval, more than the approval of anyone else in the world.
“Thank you. For your influence.”
I realize Jack just said that to me, and I swallow. I haven’t done anything worth being thanked for. Besides, the anticlimactic resolution to that fight unsettles me. Is that how brother/sister squabbles are supposed to end? Where’s the broken glass? The combusting of drywall? Where’s the screaming? Where is Ian, anyway?
“So what are you going to wear to that interview?” Nikka asks as we traipse down the stairs and head toward Oliver’s.
“I don’t know. It’s an office job, so probably something nice, right?” I guess.
“What’s the position?”
“Just answering phones and filing paperwork and stuff. It’s just part-time, a few days a week.” I heave the door open, and Nikka whisks past me into the restaurant. “Wait, so you’ll be working here, too? That’s a lot of hours, Char.”
“Yeah, well, according to Jack, I’m one inappropriate laugh away from being fired.” I grab my apron and throw it over my head. “I actually thought he was going to fire me last week, did I tell you?”
“No.” Nikka grins, sorting through papers on top of the register.
I tie the apron in back and fix my ponytail. “He’d just yelled at me for ‘disrespecting’ him when he got an email from someone I’d interviewed with … what are you doing?”
Nikka looks up with squirmy eyebrows. “Weird. I can’t find my timecard.”
My nerves spark and pop like fuses blowing in an electrical breaker. “What did you say?” I squeak.
“My timecard is missing,” Ni
kka repeats as she continues searching through piles of receipts and stacks of timecards.
I gnaw on my fist and grab onto a barstool to keep from fainting. My eyes pinball around the restaurant. It has to be a coincidence. There’s no way. Nikka could’ve just legitimately lost her timecard, no? That seems like a real hooker thing to do, and Ian isn’t here, there’s no way.
“What’s wrong?” Nikka finally asks, her eyes following my crazy line of vision, then she giggles. “Charlotte, it’s okay! I’ll just get a new timecard. We have a whole box of them right here.”
I’m trying to regulate my breathing as Nikka whips a box out from behind the counter and removes the lid. But she freezes, her eyebrows scrunched as she stares into the box. “What is this?” she says, and she picks up the top card. She turns it horizontally, then holds it up to me.
And there it is, black ink scrawled across the entire card like a ransom note: I SEE YOU, LITTLE SPIDER.
I rip off my apron and bolt out the door, running as fast as I can to Nikka’s apartment. Tears sting my eyes as I try keeping my head low, but as I turn the corner to fly up the stairs, I slam into someone. I scream because it’s Ian, I know it, but I look up into the alarmed face of Jack.
“What is wrong with you?” he shouts, grabbing my arms to balance me and to avoid a flailing limb to the face. “What happened?”
“I have to go!” I dart past him up the stairs. He follows me into the apartment, and I slam the door behind him and lock it with a fierce pivot of my wrist, as if that’ll make the lock more effective. I erupt into the living room, snatching up a duffle bag I’d bought—just in case—and shove my clothes in it.
“Charlotte, what are you doing?” Jack asks frantically, following me around. I truck into the bathroom and grab my toothbrush and push past him, howling like a lunatic. “He’s here! He found me! He’s gonna kill me! Hail, Mary, full of grace—”
A loud knock causes me to scream again, and Jack claps his hand over my mouth. I throw his hand off. “It’s Ian! He’s here! Don’t answer it!”
Jack grabs my face between his hands. “You. Have. To. Relax. It’s probably Nikka.” Then we hear her voice calling from the landing. I can breathe again, and Jack raises his eyebrows. “See?”