Phobic

by Cortney Pearson

  “Who are you?” I whisper, roving over the wall of faces. I catch movement from the corner of my eye and jerk in its direction, heart hammering, startled to find nothing but the hardwood flooring and silent furniture. The chills at my arm won’t stop.

  I’m almost sure she’s a servant, though I didn’t realize they took pictures of their servants back then. But she wears a frilly white cap across her hair, while none of the other women on the wall have one. They all have these crooked, straw hats, or wide-brimmed concoctions covered in feathers.

  I sink onto the cream chaise lounge and plunk my head into my hands. It’s hopeless. Whether I failed or not, those pictures are reminders that nothing matters. I don’t even know who these people are, what they accomplished. Now they’re just nameless faces. What I might as well be.

  “What more can I do?” I ask the silent room, feeling crappier than ever.

  Cold rushes over me like a thousand tiny spiders. I lift my head, and the room ripples as if I’m looking at it under water. Imperfections appear as the ripples slow: cracks along the crown molding; smudges of soot surrounding the fireplace. The house looks more real than ever—less like a newly renovated showroom and more like a well-worn and loved item. It takes on a golden sheen, like color fading from a photograph.

  It’s too real to be a dream, but it makes me wonder if the illusion shifting over my eyes is genuine. I blink. The washed-out haze doesn’t lift.

  Footsteps snap my spine—I thought I was alone. An elegant young woman in a wine red dress cascades through the room, solidifying the scene so it’s more reality than vision. I wait for her to notice me, to say something, but she pays me zero attention.

  Short sleeves trimmed with fringe hang off her shoulders, exposing a bit of cleavage. Her waist is tiny, and then the skirt thickens with a bustle at her backside and a train dripping in layers of ruffles.

  Fear seizes me for several moments, moistening my skin, but it fades to intrigue. I nearly open my mouth to ask who she is, but I’m afraid to speak or even move, in case the vision or whatever it is vanishes.

  “It’s lovely on you, Ada,” says a man’s voice. I jerk; I hadn’t noticed him, but he’s behind me, below the arched ceiling in front of the curved bay windows. He wears a vest and high-necked white shirt and bow tie beneath a dark suit. Talk about dressed up.

  “Miss Havens, if you please, sir,” she corrects. Half of her dark hair is piled high on her head, and the rest of it twists in ringlets down one side of her neck.

  “If you wish.”

  Ada, Miss Havens—whoever she is—can’t be much older than I am. Black gloves climb up to her elbows, and she tugs on the fabric at her hips.

  “It is too much, sir,” she says, fiddling with the ringlets in her black hair and the flat straw hat tipped forward on her head. “I fear I am overdressed.”

  “Nonsense,” says the man, stepping toward her, a top hat tucked under his arm. Wrinkles sprig around his eyes, but he’s not bad-looking. For an old guy. He pulls white gloves onto his fingers. It’s obvious he’s at least ten years older than Ada is, if not more.

  “To anyone who asks, you are merely my guest, nothing more. No one will suspect—”

  “I am your servant, Mr. Garrett. You should not expect so much of me.” She tips her head to the side while worry makes lines on her pretty face.

  A servant? Now I recognize her. She’s the girl from that picture! She’s way more sophisticated now than she was in that shot.

  Mr. Garrett’s expression darkens. An air of blackness clouds his face, and the look sinks my stomach. He storms at her, the top hat falling from his hand. It lands with a soft clunk on the hardwood floor. Ada shrieks, and her skirts rustle as she dodges back like she’s afraid he’ll hit her.

  “As you say, Ada. My servant. I gave you your life. And in return you will do as commanded. Shall I toss you back into the streets with none but extreme measures to make a pathetic excuse for a living?”

  I tiptoe around so I can see her face. She’s pale with fear, but she never breaks from his gaze.

  I try to figure out if being his servant means he owns her, but I’m not sure. I’ve seen Jane Austen movies and stuff, but I don’t really know that much about how things were back then.

  He gives her a small smile. It’s anything but reassuring. “You will accompany me on this sojourn.” She opens her rosebud mouth to answer, but he cuts her off again. “A party. That is all it is.”

  I can tell it takes all she’s got to keep her head level with his. She smoothes her hands over the skirt again. “I have never been an actress, sir. I shan’t be able to pretend I don’t know why you are there—”

  “You shall pretend,” he says with threatening softness, baring his teeth. “Or I won’t have to go to this gala to find what I need.”

  His dark eyes bore into hers, and she lowers her chin, her ringlets hanging around her face. I shudder at the unspoken threat that he’ll use her for whatever it is instead, and I spring forward.

  “Who do you think you are?” I say, unable to help it. “It’s obvious she doesn’t want to go.”

  Neither of them even flinches. His glower holds Ada’s obstinate attention, as if I’m not there at all. I want to step between them, to yank the girl away, but Ada’s eyes turn glossy.

  “Very well, sir,” she says.

  More footsteps join the room, and the three of us turn to find a boy in a long-sleeve cream shirt, brown vest, suit coat and pants. He has chiseled features and an innocent charm, like his chin, those brown eyes and the curve of his mouth can’t help being so appealing. I’m talking crazy pretty-boy hotness.

  Ada dips her chin to her chest and smoothes out her skirts. And the boy can’t keep his eyes off her. I wouldn’t be surprised to find drool leaking from his mouth.

  “Miss Havens—” he begins.

  Mr. Garrett doesn’t seem to notice. “Is everything in order, Thomas?”

  Thomas pries his devoted stare from Ada long enough to look at his boss. It takes a few ticks before he seems to remember the protocol. He tucks his hands behind his back and gives a slight bow.

  “Yes, sir. Your arrangements have been made in the lower level. The tables are set—”

  “Very well, very well,” Mr. Garrett says, waving Thomas to be quiet. Thomas admires Ada from a distance, winning her regard in return. A soft blush travels from her throat up to her cheeks, and the room fills with a heat so scorching I want to shield my eyes. A thousand words travel between their gazes, a thousand promises, a thousand secrets.

  Mr. Garrett cottons on, and a resentful expression darkens his face. He steps backwards, one hand at his chin, analyzing the two of them.

  “Does she not seem the very peak of a blossoming maiden, Thomas?” Mr. Garrett asks.

  “She does indeed, sir,” Thomas says, straightening and resting his hands at his sides like a trained pony.

  Peel your eyes off her, idiot! Can’t you see he’s setting you up? I want to shout it, but I keep my mouth shut.

  Mr. Garrett slinks along, circling the two like a snake. “Won’t it be a shame she must don her work attire once the night disperses?”

  “Not so,” Thomas says, “for Ada—Miss Havens—looks well in any attire.”

  I snag my lower lip between my teeth. Ada notices, too. Instead of following Thomas, her glance traces Mr. Garrett, who closes in at her side. He takes the dangling black ringlet closest to her cheek, leans in, and smells it. The girl stiffens. Her bare shoulders tremble.

  Thomas seems to realize his slip in praising the girl, because he sniffs and straightens. “Will that be all, sir?”

  Ada’s face blanches from across the room, like she’s saying, Please don’t leave me.

  “Yes, society will look favorably on my blossom. While I—” His white-gloved finger trails down her cheek, and a tear follows. Her hands shake, but she holds as still as a street sign.

  A racket comes from outside. A carriage with huge wheels and being pulled
by a white horse stops in front of the house. Some guy in a suit and squat hat sits at the front with the reins in his hands.

  A carriage?

  “Your ride awaits, Mr. Garrett,” Thomas says with a crack in his voice. Mr. Garrett offers Ada his arm, but she lifts her chin and glides forward, ignoring the gesture and the sinister satisfaction on his face. The elaborate, ruffled train of her red dress shuffles in her wake.

  My legs grow rubbery. In place of a river of asphalt outside, the street is made of dirt. Another horse-drawn carriage rickets past. The brick homes I’m used to are gone, and only a few houses are there instead. Extravagant Victorian homes, with wide porches like mine.

  Ada lifts her skirts and climbs into the black carriage, displaying her dark, heeled boots that lace up the sides; a style I’ve only ever seen in pictures or museums. Mr. Garrett follows her into the carriage, and then the image is shattered by Joel’s old Ford Taurus rattling its way into the driveway.

  I blink again as color sifts back through, refreshing my surroundings. I try to regain my bearings and readjust to the world as I know it. The pavement. The trees and short brick homes. Little Davy Stevens riding his bike down the sidewalk. Night air tacks goose bumps all down my arms, and I rub them away.

  “You okay?” Joel asks, grabbing a briefcase and his suit jacket from the backseat. All along Hemlock Avenue windows overflow with brilliant light, and cars dot the curb. Everything from the vision is gone, as though it never happened.

  Joel’s yellow tie is loose, and he looks tired. “You’re as pale as paper.”

  I shake myself, trying to break free of the memory and the worry. Ada—whoever she was—obviously didn’t want to go with that Mr. Garrett guy, and he threatened her. I replay their banter and wonder what Garrett was going to find at that gala thing. And why it was something he could use Ada for instead. But my thoughts don’t connect.

  I shiver. Ada. Her uh-mazing dress, and the longing way that Thomas kid looked at her. The house has never shown visions before. I wonder if she was real.

  Joel slumps into his usual chair at the dining table, fingers at his temple. He seems distressed, but my thoughts are so jumbled, I hardly know what to say. She was so beautiful. I can’t get a grasp on what that Garrett guy was making her do.

  “How did it go?” Joel asks, though worry lines his eyes. I draw in a long breath. The audition. Reality.

  “Don’t ask.”

  I refuse to think about it, to think about anything. Stomping up to my room, I fling myself onto the bed. I hug a pillow to my chest and curl into a ball, letting my frustrations fester in my chest.

  The low end of my mattress gives, letting me know Joel’s rested on the edge of my bed. I didn’t hear him come in. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I wish I could have been there.”

  I hold in my scoff and fling an arm over my face. Yeah right.

  “I haven’t been here for you much lately,” he goes on.

  I lower my arm and watch the wooden canopy above my bed and the violet curtains hanging there.

  “I messed up,” I say, and then it all gushes from me. “Todd and I got in a fight on the way there and I accidently left my music in his truck and I screwed up the easiest part of the piece! And now Todd hates me, and I heard a voice in the basement while we were down there and then I saw something just now. And everyone at school knows, Joel. About Mom.”

  “I—what?” His hands rest on his knees, and he stares off as if trying to register everything I just spewed. Finally, he looks at me. “You had people over the other night. I thought you were finally making friends.”

  I give a fake laugh. “Friends.” What a joke.

  Joel’s hand ambles over and finds mine. Gently, he pulls me upright, and I don’t fight his arms when they wrap around me. He smells like spicy cologne. I settle in, appreciating the gesture. It’s nice to know he cares.

  “Joel, have you ever—seen things?”

  He stiffens. “What kind of things?”

  Maybe it’s just me. That voice in the basement. The invisible table or whatever it was, covered in blood. The figure passing through the library, and now that vision or whatever it is I just saw. Maybe I’m losing it.

  “Like, people? From, I don’t know, the past?”

  Joel takes a long breath before pulling away from me. “Sometimes it’s better not to ask questions, Pipey.”

  I bristle. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Just that, sometimes it’s better not to know.”

  “Not to know what?”

  He stands and runs a hand through his hair. Then he puts a hand to his hip and gestures with the other arm like he’s explaining a difficult concept. With him still in his buttoned shirt and tie, I picture what he would look like in a courtroom. “I don’t know any more than you do, Piper. I’m just telling you what Dad told me.”

  “You asked Dad about the house?”

  Joel’s head slopes to one side. “More than once. I never got a thing out of him. What’s this about?”

  I draw in a breath through my nostrils. If he doesn’t know anything, there’s no point in telling him.

  “Nothing,” I say.

  The next morning a fifty-ton rock sits in my chest. My mouth tastes like I’ve been sucking sewage all night. I tread to the bathroom, keeping my sleep-muddled sight on the carpet, on my toes coming in and out of view with each step. The TV blares from the kitchen downstairs.

  I splash water on my face. My hands rest on the edges of the porcelain sink and I wait there, head hanging and watching the beads of water drip from my nose. I don’t even have the energy to reach for my towel.

  You’d think after sleeping for eight hours I’d feel all refreshed, but the nasty decay-feeling in my chest from last night still rankles in there. I don’t want to go to school. If only I could drop out. Get my GED online. Except the house won’t let us drill for wireless. It was a pain in the tush to convince the house to get electric sockets and a microwave, my dad said.

  Eyes closed, I reach for my towel and pat it against my face, letting the soft fibers soak up the water. With a sigh, I flip the light on.

  When I turn to the mirror, the face staring back at me isn’t mine.

  “Are you okay?”

  I gape at the underside of the sink. The plumbing looks peculiar at this angle, and the floorboards are cold where my arm lies. The rest of me lies on the floral rug.

  I groan, rub my elbow and sit up. Joel puts an arm behind my back to help me.

  “Did I pass out? What happened?”

  Stubble pokes out all over his chin, and he’s in an unbuttoned, white shirt, like he was in the middle of getting dressed. I can see the swirly hair on his chest.

  “I was hoping you’d tell me. I heard you scream and then this big thud. I hurried down here to find you on the floor and your face, well…I mean…” He clears his throat like he doesn’t know what else to say.

  My face! I clamber up and gawp at the mirror. My hands shoot to my cheeks, peel over my forehead, my nose, my chin. I’d been wrong before. This face is totally mine. Just acne free.

  “Where—I mean, the zits! They’re…” Gone. Zilch. Nada.

  “Did you buy that stuff even though I said no? You know we don’t have the money—”

  “No! I didn’t even go to the mall or anything! Joel, look at me!”

  All I can do is stare. My skin is flawless. Not a red spot, no whiteheads, just milky skin, like someone poured cream over my bones and it solidified. My eyes—have they always been that blue? And my lashes are so long! They always have been, but now they’re actually noticeable. Delight swells in my chest, and the smile lifts my face of its own accord. I don’t get how this happened. I went to sleep feeling crappier than I ever had, wishing I had no acne, and now…

  Wait. Wishing I had no acne.

  “Joel?”

  “What?” He’s adjusting the rug on the floor, disheveled from my fall.

  “Does the house grant wishes?”


  Joel pauses with his hands on the towel rack. He speaks over his shoulder without looking at me and begins buttoning his shirt. “Not that I’ve ever heard of.”

  “Hmm.”

  “Why?”

  Not going to tell him. “Oh nothing. Just a thought.”

  “The house doesn’t deal with anything besides itself, Piper. Maybe your skin type changed.”

  “Overnight?” I say, feeling skeptical and a little let down.

  “There is this thing called puberty.” Like I’m stupid. There is this thing called a douchebag, I want to say, but I hold it in.

  Joel tucks his shirt in and pulls the electric razor from a drawer. It gives off a soft buzz. He grazes it over his chin. “Is it true you ditched yesterday?”

  “Yeah.”

  He shuts off the razor and wets his hair down, then douses it with gel. He meets my glance in the mirror. “Don’t do it again. I have to know you’re where you should be.”

  Is he for real? He never cared this much before, why now?

  “Joel,” I say, uncertain if I should. I’m not sure whether he knows I opened the library door or not. And his strange reaction to my question last night—and the fact that I heard him talking to someone who wasn’t there—makes me wonder if he has seen Ada and Thomas. A million questions zip through my mind. I don’t know where to start.

  “Can you give me a ride today?” I ask instead.

  “What about Todd?”

  I drop my head with a prick of anguish. “I think his mom wants him to have a break from me.” Mrs. Dawes is always a great excuse, seeing as how she’s hated me since we moved here. I don’t add that I want a break from him, too.

  “Well, hurry, I guess. I’m leaving in fifteen minutes.” He spritzes some cologne on and leaves the bathroom.

  The smell of Aqua Di Gio wafts around, and then a wave of panic hits. Todd will see me like this. I’m anxious to know what he’ll say. Or the other kids at school, for that matter.