by Amy Cross
"Huh," I say, trying to make it look as if I'm paying attention.
"She was quite the chess player," Mr. Todd continues. "I always thought she could have turned professional if she'd just focused on it properly, but I don't think she was really very interested. Maybe she thought it was too easy, or maybe she just wanted to do other things. I tried to get her to stay in the club, but her focus shifted. I think maybe that was her problem all along. She never focused on one thing for very long. Her attention always shifted".
"Huh," I say again.
"She was more interested in helping younger players to develop, anyway. You know, taking them under her wing and helping them get better. She always said that her aim wasn't to work on the child's skills, but to work on confidence issues. Did she ever try to get you to play, Juliet?"
"Huh," I say, before realizing that I need to give a more direct response. "Oh, no. Not really. I was never any good". I smile, before glancing over at my father and seeing that he's sitting alone, looking bored. I don't really understand why he insisted on coming today, when he clearly doesn't want to be here. It's almost as if his sole objective was just to put me in an awkward situation, in which case he's succeeded admirably. Fortunately, it looks as he's not doing much better. Sometimes, just for a moment, I get a glimpse of my father's discomfort in life and I realize that we have certain similarities. I mean, it's definitely a little weird that he doesn't seem to be talking to anyone. I would have thought he'd know most of these people.
"I think the last time I saw her was about fifteen years ago," Mr. Todd continues. "I just bumped into her in the street. I suppose you were still a little girl at that point, but you must have been off with your father or something, 'cause she was all alone in the middle of town. Anyway, we talked for a while, and it was really so good to catch up with her. I always meant to give her a call and arrange dinner, but I never got around to it, and the next thing I heard was a few years later when Mary told me that poor Amanda had passed away. What was it that got her, again?"
"Leukemia," I say, wondering when this infernal conversation is going to end. I'm not interested in listening to this Mr. Todd guy as he rambles on about my mother; as far as I'm concerned, it doesn't matter what he thought about her, when he saw her, or how much he regrets not seeing her more often. I'm far more interested in Samantha, who has spent the past half hour sitting quietly in the corner. You'd think, given that this is supposed to be her engagement party, that she'd be having a good time. She's certainly engaged in conversation with a couple of people, but I can tell her heart's not really in it; her eyes keep darting over to me, and it's pretty clear that she hates me. For as long as I'm sitting here, her blood is boiling, and I kind of like that. I expected her to be annoyed when she saw me, but I never thought she'd be so irate. Still, I guess some people can really hold a grudge, even after eleven years, and some wounds take a long time to heal.
"Wretched illness," he says. "I've seen what it does to a person. Horrible, humiliating condition. I really hope they find a cure some time. No-one should have to go through that kind of thing. Do you happen to remember what type she had?"
"Acute," I say. "Myeloid, I think, or something like that".
He nods. "One of the worst. Just eats you up from the inside. The pain is..." He pauses for a moment. "You know what? This isn't really the kind of thing we should be discussing at a party, is it?"
I smile, feeling as if I'm in a spotlight of pure awkwardness.
"So what are you up to these days?" Mr. Todd asks, clearly attempting to change the subject to something more cheerful. "Studying?"
"I'm going to college in a few months," I say, turning back to him, even though I'm not really sure whether the whole 'college' story is true anymore. Lately, I've been thinking more and more about staying around here. After all, my 'job' at Crestview is giving me everything I could possibly want in life, and I'm terrified at the thought of moving away from Jennifer Mathis. If I'm going to stay, though, I need to work out how I'm going to break the news to my father; he's been focused for years on the idea that maybe someday I'll be a normal girl and go to college, and he seems determined to wave me off at the end of the summer. I can't help thinking that he'd be crushed if I told him I wanted to stay on at Crestview. He'd see it as a failure. I don't care what he thinks, of course, but I need to consider my circumstances before I do something that might affect the course of my life forever.
"Good choice," Mr. Todd says. "A college degree is the bare minimum these days. Even a smart young lady such as yourself, Juliet, needs to have certain qualifications in order to get your foot in the door. What area are you planning to study?"
"Arts," I mutter, staring over at Samantha and waiting for her to look at me again.
"Just like your mother," he says.
I turn to him. "Really?"
"She always had her nose in a book," he continues. "When I knew her, at least. That woman had a wonderful mind, I don't mind telling you".
"I guess," I reply, realizing with a shiver that perhaps I'm making it too easy for people to assume that my mother and I had a lot in common. As far as I'm aware, we were pretty different people, although I've never really found out very much about her. My father has made it pretty clear that he's uncomfortable discussing her, and there's not really anyone else around who knew her. My own memories are kind of fuzzy; I remember what she looked like, and I have specific recollection of certain events, but I don't remember much about her personality.
"Sorry," he says. "This is supposed to be a party, right?" He clinks his glass against mine. "Cheers! To the future!"
Smiling, I look over and see that Samantha is walking out of the room. When she gets to the door, she glances back at me before disappearing from view. I hear footsteps going up the stairs, and I realize she wants me to follow her. Looking down at my glass, which is still full, I realize that this is perhaps the one eventuality for which I didn't make any plans. I kind of thought I'd turn up, feel awkward, and leave. All of a sudden, though, I feel compelled to poke around a little and find out some more about Samantha's life in the eleven years since I last saw her. I want to know if I had a lasting effect on her life.
"Excuse me," I say to Mr. Todd, before getting to my feet and hurrying across the room. As soon as I'm in the hallway, I pause and take a deep breath. Do I really want to do this? A one-on-one confrontation with Samantha might bring up some difficult questions, and I've learned over the years that I'm particularly bad at talking to people directly. On the other hand, the prospect of getting deeper under her skin is kind of tempting, especially now that I've got a new-found sense of confidence thanks to the way things have been developing at the retirement home.
"Do it," whispers a voice in my ear.
Turning, I realize there's no-one there, but I'm pretty sure I recognized the voice. It was Jennifer Mathis, and whether I imagined her or she reached out to me for a moment, I know she's right: I can't pass up this opportunity. That afternoon with Samantha, many years ago, was one of the most important days of my life; it was the moment I really showed everyone that I've got this dark core, and it was the moment I finally allowed my evil to show. I still remember the look of horror on my father's face; back then, he was constantly trying to force me to be more like other girls, but he soon realized that he needed to take a more subtle approach. For many years, he backed off completely, and it was only fairly recently that he started pushing me to consider applying to college.
I start making my way up the stairs. When I get to the top, I see that there's a light on in one of the rooms, so I walk over to the door and knock gently.
"Come in," Samantha says.
I pause for a moment, before pushing the door open and stepping into the room. I'm immediately shocked to find myself in some kind of pink paradise: the walls are pink, as is the carpet, while the four-poster bed is a kind of white and pink construction covered with pink sheets and pillows. There are stuffed toys on all the surfaces, and poste
rs all over the place showing various cartoon animals. It's like wandering into the bedroom of a kid, except Samantha is in her early twenties. She's sitting on a stool over by a make-up table, upon which there are scores of boxes and bottles of powders, creams and gadgets. There's an over-powering smell of perfume in the air, and the overall impression is that I've wandered into the boudoir of some kind of cartoon heroine.
"How's it going down there?" she asks, staring at herself in a small mirror as she applies some fresh mascara. I swear to God, I've never seen someone wear so much make-up. "Are people enjoying themselves?"
"It's okay," I say, loitering by the door. "Everyone's talking and drinking champagne, so..." I pause, feeling that shouldn't really be here. It's as if I've fallen down a rabbit-hole and ended up in a fantasy world. "I don't really like champagne," I say, holding up my glass. "Do you want this?"
"No," she says, carefully applying some fresh lipstick.
"You use a lot of make-up," I say, setting the glass down on top of a small bookcase.
"Yes," she snaps back at me. "I do. Have you got a problem with that, Juliet?"
"Not really," I reply. "So is your boyfriend coming today?"
"No," she says firmly. "I told you, he's working. Please don't ask the same question repeatedly. It stresses me".
I sigh. "What about the wedding? Have you got a date yet?"
"August fifth".
"You got it all planned out?"
"Yes". She starts applying rouge to her cheeks. "Why? Are you offering your services as a planner?" She laughs. "Thanks but no thanks".
I smile. "I guess it's pretty stressful. All that stuff you have to organize".
"Yes," she says, clearly not enjoying the conversation at all. "You're right. Planning a wedding is very stressful. It's hardly something you can do in an afternoon, jotting down a few ideas on the back of a napkin". She glances over at me. "Then again, I don't suppose you know what I'm talking about. Not really. Have you got a boyfriend, Juliet?"
"No".
"Girlfriend?"
"No".
"No-one at all?" She stares at me. "What are you? Asexual?"
I shake my head.
"Whatever. If you don't make an effort, you won't get a proper man. You know that, right? You'll just get a guy who wants you for one thing, and..." She pauses, and for a moment she seems to have stalled; she just stares at me, her mouth hanging open a little. "One thing only," she adds eventually, frowning. She turns back to the mirror and checks her teeth for lipstick. "Scott and I are waiting for our wedding night before we consummate our relationship. We believe it's worth treating sex as something special. I'm keeping my purity in a special place, and I'll give it to him once we've been joined together in the eyes of God. It's a gift. It's my gift to him, and his is his gift to me. We're very happy".
"Huh," I say.
"Do you still have your gift, Juliet?" she continues. "To give to your future husband on your wedding night?"
"I guess".
"How old are you now? Twenty-one? Twenty-two? Same age as me, right?"
I nod.
"You have to take these things seriously, Juliet. If you don't, nothing means anything anymore, and you're left in an empty world. If you don't give a damn, everything flattens out and becomes bland, and gray. Scott and I are totally the same in almost every possible way. The same values. The same likes and dislikes. The same hobbies. The same interests. Even the same weaknesses. It makes getting through life together much more satisfying. I really don't know what I'd do without him". She turns to me. "You don't understand any of this, do you? Have you ever had a boyfriend?"
I shrug.
"Of course not," she continues, smiling. "Poor Juliet Collier. No-one wants you. I'm not surprised. They can probably smell your weirdness from a hundred paces off. I'm not even sure there's much you can do about it. I mean, I suppose you could try to get some better clothes, and maybe fix your hair, but in general there's just this weird quality about your face. I don't think there's any way to hide your true personality".
"I guess not".
"And you don't really care, do you?" She pauses for a moment. "It's okay, Juliet. I know you don't give a damn". It's as if she's working herself up into more and more of a rage, getting angrier by the minute. "After all, you can't even be bothered to get dressed up for a party, can you? Standing there in your filthy fucking jeans. Are they even clean on, or are they the same rags you've been wearing for a few days now?"
"I -"
"Not a fucking clue," she says firmly, interrupting me. "Anyway, where do you get off, telling me I use a lot of make-up? How fucking dare you?"
"Sorry," I say, "it was just -"
"Do you really think I use a lot?" she asks, standing up and walking over to me, grabbing a small bottle of make-up remover as she approaches. "Do you think I use too much, Juliet?"
I shrug. "I was just saying".
"You think this is too much?" she says, stopping just a couple of feet from me. "Well, you little bitch, let me show you something". Angrily, she squeezes out some make-up remover and slaps it on her face, rubbing all the lotions and creams from her right cheek until finally I see the scarring underneath. I stand in silence and watch; when she's done, I see the truth: the entire right side of her face is mottled and scarred, and the skin around one of her eyes looks loose and saggy. "Do you see why I wear make-up?" she continues, raising her voice.
"Yeah," I say, my heart racing.
"Did you think it would just go away, Juliet? Did you think some nice doctor would come along and wave a magic wand, and it's just clear up like it was a bad rash?"
I shake my head.
"This is what you did to me!" she shouts, stepping closer. "You! All you! So if you're wondering why I wear so much fucking make-up, here's your answer! It's all your fucking fault!"
Chapter Four
Eleven years ago
"Hi!" says Samantha, grinning at me.
"Hi," I say, trying to smile but feeling kind of inadequate compared to my cousin's all-encompassing luminosity. She's one of those girls who just seem to be always, totally, completely happy. It's as if there's some bright, shining force that sparkles in her heart, its rays of light shining out of her eyes. She's wearing a dress that would, I suppose, be considered beautiful; she looks eager and enthusiastic; and the way she's smiling at me, I can't help feeling that she might actually be part of a conspiracy against me. After all, I know that my father is keen to find me a friend, and I'm sure he's discussed this plan with Samantha's mother Mary; is it really that hard to believe that Samantha has been told that she's here to help me?
"Give Juliet the gift you brought for her," Mary says.
Samantha holds out a paper bag. Opening it, I find that it contains a model kit for a scale recreation of a fighter jet. "Thanks," I say, feeling a little confused. After all, this is hardly the kind of thing I like, but I guess they don't know me very well. Besides, they're probably re-gifting.
"You look very nice today, Juliet," says Mary, ruffling my hair. Damn it, why does everyone do that?
"I think Juliet wants to show Samantha some things in the garden," my father says. "You know what kids are like, always wanting to get dirty".
"If it starts raining, you must come straight back in," Mary tells Samantha.
"Of course," Samantha replies. She's such a good little girl, always being polite to her mother. I can tell that she's exactly the kind of daughter my father would like; I'm sure it pains him a little to see us side-by-side and to realize how much of a disappointment I've become. In many ways, Samantha and I are total opposites.
"Off you go, then," my father says, walking over to the kitchen counter. "You want some coffee, Mary?"
"Please," she says.
I turn and lead Samantha out the back door. The sky is getting darker and darker, as if there's a huge storm coming, and there's a slightly cold wind starting to whip up. As we step out onto the grass, it suddenly occurs to me that a 'no
rmal' girl wouldn't want to be out in this weather.
"We can go inside if you want," I say, turning to Samantha. "We don't have to be out here".
"I want to be out here," she replies, suddenly seeming a little different. "I'm hoping it might rain".
I stare at her for a moment. "You like the rain?"
"It's the best thing ever," she says. She glances back at the house, as if she's making sure that no-one can hear us. "Ignore my mother," she says eventually, turning back to me. "She can be a bit of a bitch sometimes".
"Huh," I say, unable to suppress a smile.
"What about your Dad?" she continues. "He seems weird".
"I guess," I say, trying to work out what's happening. Every assumption I had about Samantha seems to have been wrong; despite her sweet and innocent appearance, she seems to have a dark streak.
"My mother told me to help you," she says suddenly. "On the way over here, she kept going on and on about poor little Juliet, and about how you've lost your mother and you're all messed up. Apparently your Dad asked us to come today. They think I'm going to make it all better, but they're full of shit". She pauses. "What's the sickest, most disgusting thing you've got in this garden?"
"I used to have a rotten cat corpse," I say, "but my Dad threw it out".
"That would have been cool," she replies. "I've never seen anything rotten, but I've thought about it a lot. I'd like to see a maggot".
"I had a maggot," I say, starting to actually enjoy the conversation. "My Dad killed it".
"Your Dad sounds like a jerk," she says.
"He is". I pause for a moment. I'd expected to spend the afternoon hating Samantha, and now suddenly it's as if I've found a kindred spirit. I'm completely at a loss, and I have no idea what we should do, but for the first time in my life, I actually feel as if I'm enjoying hanging out with someone. I don't want to get too carried away, but I can't help wondering if this is what it's like to have a friend. My father wanted me to spend time with someone 'normal', but it seems he's accidentally introduced me to someone just like me.