Rebel

by Rachel Manija Brown

  Dinner and no dread of what she’d find when she walked in the door. Becky was so lucky!

  Her happiness dimmed as she peered anxiously toward Mom’s dress shop, but the windows were dark. Her mother was surely at home. Did Henry have to cook every day now?

  She wasn’t going to ruin one of the best days of her life by thinking about home. Not home. Her old house. Aunt Rosa’s was home.

  As she approached the house, she saw several silhouetted heads against the gold-lit windows. Aunt Rosa had company? Brisa! And maybe her favorite cousin? She opened the door, a smile ready—

  It was like she’d stepped on thin ice and plummeted into freezing water. There was no Aunt Rosa in the parlor, no Brisa. Mom stood on the rag rug, arms folded across her chest, with Grandma Ida ramrod-straight and forbidding beside her. Both wore their best dresses like battle armor.

  “About time,” her mother said. “Where have you been gadding about? Never mind. Go put on some proper clothes. That pink silk I made for Christmas will do nicely. We are going to Jack’s for dinner, and to hear some music afterward.”

  Becky’s stomach lurched. Probably they’d been standing there, waiting for her, the whole time she’d been talking to the sheriff. How could she have been so stupid, to imagine that she could change her life? Mom would never let her.

  “Don’t stand there like a lump,” Mom said, anger spots appearing on her cheeks. She took a step forward, hand upraised. Becky flinched, her face tingling. Mom stopped short and dropped her hand, but the crimson splotches spread to cover her entire face. “Go get dressed. We’re meeting Henry at the corner. This town is going to see a civilized family dinner.”

  Grandma Ida said, “You’ve already done enough harm to this family. The least you can do is make an effort to put it right.”

  Becky walked to her room like a doll on strings. She couldn’t feel her feet hitting the floor. Jack’s food was delicious, but the thought of eating anything now was sickening. She wouldn’t be able to eat a bite, and then they would glare at her for wasting food. They’d lean across the table and hiss, because they couldn’t yell at Jack’s. And every hateful look, every threat and warning and comment about how disappointing and worthless she was would cut pieces out of her. By the end of the dinner, there would be nothing left of her but threads and tatters.

  She opened her closet in automatic obedience, though she knew that the pink dress was gone. All her old dresses were gone. Her room contained nothing but the clothes Aunt Rosa had given her and the ones Becky had bought for herself.

  Becky had begun to feel tall and strong at the jail, or at least like maybe one day she’d be tall and strong. If she gave in to her mother and grandmother, they’d make her small and weak again.

  She remembered Grandma Wolfe quoting from a book in the schoolhouse, “No man can serve two masters.”

  Becky could serve the sheriff, or she could serve her mother. She couldn’t serve both.

  She returned to the parlor in her pants and shirt, walking like she did with Sheriff Crow. Her feet hit the floor hard with every stride, sending a vibration all the way through her body.

  Becky faced her mother and grandmother. “I’m not going.”

  “What?” Her mother sounded like she couldn’t believe it.

  In the voice Sheriff Crow had taught her, the voice that made people obey just because she expected them to, Becky said, “I’m. Not. Going.”

  She forced herself to meet her mother’s blue eyes. Mom and Grandma Ida were much scarier than Ed Willet. The worst Ed could do was hit her. Mom could rip her to shreds inside. And when Becky had faced Ed, she’d had Sheriff Crow backing her up.

  Becky was alone now. But she pictured the sheriff touching her eyes, then her mouth.

  Power comes from within.

  Becky raised her chin and straightened her back. “You go to Jack’s. I’m staying here. I have a new life. Don’t come back to this house unless Aunt Rosa invites you.”

  For an ice-cold moment, Becky was afraid her mother would hit her again. Mom’s hand twitched. But this time Becky didn’t flinch. If Mom knocked her down again, Sheriff Crow would arrest her again. Either way, Becky wouldn’t have to face her across a dinner table.

  Grandma Ida caught Mom’s arm. “We’ll leave the ungrateful brat here. Don’t let her ruin our evening.”

  Becky didn’t let her breath out until her mother slammed the door behind her. Then she collapsed into a chair, trembling. She’d done it! She’d stood up to her mother! They’d go to Jack’s and say how ungrateful and worthless she was to anyone who would listen, but she didn’t care.

  “I don’t care,” she said aloud. Her voice came out strong and clear. And at the sound of it, she knew that she’d meant every word.

  Becky sat and savored that feeling for a while. Then she remembered who she’d expected to meet. Where was Aunt Rosa? She went to the kitchen, and found a message on the chalkboard.

  Having dinner with friends. Help yourself to the meat pie in the larder. Hope you had a good time with the sheriff. Love you! Aunt Rosa.

  Becky’s eyes prickled with tears. The note was so sweet, and so different from what Becky was used to. Brisa’s family was always asking if they’d had a good day and telling each other they loved them. She’d seen them argue and get angry, but they never got mean. The Rileys were like that, too. And so was Felicité’s family, and Sujata’s . . .

  What was wrong with her family?

  With Becky’s Change power, she could actually find out. They’d lived at the same house for generations. And it would be empty for hours.

  The thought of being there alone made her sick. But if she wanted to be powerful, she had to face it. Becky took a hesitant step toward the door, then stopped. Being strong didn’t mean facing everything alone. Even Sheriff Crow had deputies. And Becky had Brisa.

  She ran all the way to Brisa’s house.

  “Of course I’ll go with you,” Brisa said, as Becky had known she would. “Race you!”

  They arrived at her old house flushed and breathless. Brisa looked it up and down as if she’d never seen it before. “Do you know this is the first time I’ve ever been here?”

  “We never invited anyone,” Becky said. “Felicité’s never been here either.”

  “Felicité? Really? I always thought you could only be friends with people on the Hill. Until that day you smiled back at me.” Brisa hugged Becky. “My favorite day! One of my many favorite days.”

  “You’re in my favorite days, too,” Becky said. “Until we started dating I didn’t have favorite days. It seemed normal, never to have company. I grew up knowing that Grandma Ida had all these feuds going with so many people, starting with Grandma Alice. Mother, too.” Becky’s eyes moved over the tall windows, each blind, that should have let in air and light. She’d always remembered every room as dark and cheerless, and yet the same sun shone on this house as on Aunt Rosa’s. But here, the sun was shut out. “I didn’t know that Mother forbade Aunt Rosa to set foot in this house more than fifteen years ago.”

  Brisa’s eyes widened. “I always wondered why we could visit her at her house, but never here.”

  “Aunt Rosa won’t tell me the details, but I’ve heard Mother say nasty things about interfering spinsters for years. How they know nothing about raising children, and how nosy they are, always poking into others’ business.” Becky crossed her arms, feeling a chill that had nothing to do with the temperature of the air. “It never occurred to me she mostly meant Aunt Rosa. But when you’re small, you don’t put things together. Especially if asking questions can get you punished just for asking.”

  Brisa wordlessly hugged her again. Becky hugged her back, then straightened her spine. She was a sheriff’s deputy now. She could do this.

  She opened the door, then flinched back from the smell: starch, dried roses, cleaning lye. It was the same aroma the house always had, but she’d been away long enough to notice it. Becky had smelled much more unpleasant odors in
the infirmary, but none carried that weight of emotion. It was the smell of fear and misery.

  What’s wrong with my family?

  “I’ll get a light.” Brisa felt her way toward the kitchen table.

  “Let’s not. I want to do it this way.” Becky held up her hands.

  Brisa’s profile was half-lit against the window, her round cheeks glowing gold in the light of the neighbor’s house. “Sure, Beck. My eyes are getting used to the dark anyway.”

  Becky didn’t need to see at all to get around the house. She was used to sneaking in late at night, hoping to avoid her mother’s wrath. She knew the shadowy furniture by heart, every silhouette menacing with years of remembered fear. Maybe if she could get a sense of how it looked to Brisa—just chairs and tables, nothing more—it would lose its power over her.

  “No. I changed my mind.” Becky lit the lamp. “Tell me what you see.”

  Brisa’s bright eyes took in everything. “Huh. It’s not that different from my place. I always pictured your house like Felicité’s, full of beautiful things. Like your dresses! When I was a little girl, they made me jealous of you. They were so pretty, and you had so many of them.”

  “I hated every single one. I wish I could’ve given them to you.” Becky pulled off her gloves, stuffed them in her pocket, and ran her fingers through Brisa’s hair. It was cool and silky, smoother than satin. The sense of peace she gained helped her to breathe deeply, and lay her palms on the kitchen table.

  The most vivid images were the most recent. Mom sat in her green dress, sawing through a piece of tough meat. Becky saw her through Grandma Ida’s eyes, nearly overwhelmed by corrosive bitterness and disappointment.

  That stupid girl should have done better. But Martha was always her father’s brat—and he was the most worthless loser in town.

  Becky pressed deeper into the past. She found Dad, first seen through Mom’s eyes . . . then his mother’s, Grandma Alice’s . . . and then Becky’s. Dad leaning back in his chair, smiling with a glass of red wine in one hand. Dad frowning, elbows on the table, ignoring the plate of food before him. Dad pushing his chair away from the table, about to stomp out of the room. In each successive image, he looked younger.

  A distant part of Becky’s mind, the part that was solely her own, thought, I’m getting so much better at this. I can sort through them now, without getting stuck in one when I don’t want to.

  She stopped at one where Dad was as young as Julio Wolfe was now. He was smiling as he held up a plump baby with a fuzz of yellow hair.

  Mom’s thoughts were warm with unexpected happiness. He’s already got such a strong personality. Tommy Horst isn’t even crawling yet. Henry Callahan, future mayor of Las Anclas.

  That was so Mom. Always looking to an impressive future that never happened, and furious at what she actually got.

  Becky reached deeper.

  A teenage girl flinched, cowering away. But not fast enough. A strong hand blurred and struck her, and pain flashed through Becky as in memory she fell away from the table to land on the floor. A middle-aged woman—could that be her grandmother?—sobbed in the corner. A man’s bitter rage, acid with contempt, scoured through Becky with toxic power. It was her grandfather’s rage, her grandfather’s anger at his useless daughter, his coddling wife, his family that did nothing but defy and disappoint him—

  Becky jerked her hands away from the table. The room swung around her, the emotions and images dissipating in a wash of dizziness and nausea.

  A pair of warm arms encircled her shoulders, and she smelled the scent of crushed flower petals. “How are you doing, Becky? What did you see?”

  Becky leaned into Brisa’s comforting softness. “This didn’t start with Mom. Or even my grandparents. I think something’s been wrong with my family for much longer than that. But I still don’t know why.”

  “Want to keep looking?”

  Becky nodded. “I have to know. If I don’t know what went wrong . . .” I won’t know how to stop it from happening to me. “I have to know,” Becky repeated.

  To her relief, Brisa didn’t ask her to explain. She followed as Becky moved further into the house, touching walls and furniture and household items. Becky skimmed past memories, not dipping too deep into any, but even the most ordinary moments had a pall over them, a faint dusting of unhappiness or frustration or boredom or disappointment. Sometimes fear. And anger.

  When Becky touched the coat rack, she saw her mother as a bride, hanging up her wedding dress. It was a good memory, bright with happiness and hope.

  It left her unprepared for the gut-punch of bitterness she felt when she touched the latch to her grandmother’s room. I deserve better than this stupid heap.

  Becky snatched her hand away. Her heart thumped hard against her ribs as she eased Mom’s bedroom door open. She didn’t need to have a Change power to know that bad things had happened in this house.

  Even Brisa seemed to sense it. Uneasily, she said, “Beck, are you sure you want to be here?”

  Becky nodded. She already knew this wasn’t a good place. But maybe she’d finally find out why.

  She touched the dresser. Pain flashed across her shoulder as a woman fell against it; she saw thin hands clutch at the wood. A woman stared back at her from the mirror, blood trickling down her face. A man loomed behind her, his fist raised to strike again.

  Becky staggered backward, her heart pounding, her breath whistling in her throat. She’d never seen either of those people in her life. Who were they? Her great-grandparents? They had to be relatives—the man had blond hair and blue eyes the exact shade of Becky’s own.

  She leaned against the wall, as she had so often in the past, pressing her aching head against the cool adobe. This had been a terrible idea. All her ideas were terrible. She’d upset herself, she could see that she’d also upset Brisa, she’d learned nothing but the totally unsurprising information that her ancestors had been just as horrible as her parents, and she still didn’t know why.

  But she’d come this far. She’d make one more try.

  “Henry’s room?” Brisa asked as they went inside.

  “Yeah. Don’t worry, Brisa. Whatever I see, this’ll be my last try. We’re almost done.”

  Becky reached out at random. Her palm touched the wall.

  She was half-sitting, half lying. Her back and head hurt—she’d been thrown against the wall.

  Her vision was blurred with tears. But she saw a tall man, looming over her—Dad, but a much younger Dad. She was in Henry’s mind and body, scared and angry and desperately trying to figure out what Dad wanted from him. What could he do to make the pain stop?

  “Smile, Henry,” Dad said. He raised his fist. “If you pout, you’re asking for it again. Smile!”

  Henry forced his lips to stretch into a grin.

  Becky jerked away from the wall, pulling her arms tight into her body. She didn’t want to touch anything in this house, ever again.

  “This is awful. I wish I hadn’t come.” A tear slid down her cheek, burning like acid. “Dad hit Henry. A lot. I never knew how much. Henry never told me—I never asked—”

  Brisa reached out, her arms wide open, ready to pull Becky into her warmth. Her love. There was nothing Becky wanted more, but she forced herself to step away.

  “Don’t!” Becky saw Brisa’s confusion and hurt as Becky backed away from her, but that made her even more sure that they shouldn’t touch. Brisa was sweet and loving and kind, and Becky had repaid her by dragging her into this house of cruelty.

  “There’s something wrong with us.” Becky’s voice shook as she forced the words out. “Not you and me. My family. It goes way back. My mother and father loved each other once. And they loved me and Henry. That love was real. I felt it. But they stopped loving each other, and I don’t know why. And Dad hit Henry and Mom hit me, and I don’t know how that happened, either. All I know is that I don’t want to do that to you. But I don’t know why any of this started or why no one stopped it,
so I don’t know how to stop it from happening to us.”

  “It’s not going to—” Brisa began.

  “No!” Becky’s voice rose, not with anger but with desperation. “Don’t tell me it won’t happen, because you can’t know that! Just wanting something to happen doesn’t make it happen, or my family wouldn’t be like this! None of us sat down and decided to be horrible, but we are. I’m broken and awful and I don’t want to hurt you, but I will because I don’t know how to stop it!”

  Tears ran down Becky’s face, and her chest heaved with sobs. Brisa opened her mouth, then closed it. Creases appeared between her black eyebrows as she seemed to think hard about something. Finally, she said quietly, “Come outside, Beck. I want to show you something.”

  Becky struggled to stifle her sobs as she followed Brisa out. Becky had ruined everything, without even meaning to, just as everyone else in her family had. She’d never touch her girlfriend again, and it was all her fault. Her entire world was falling apart.

  But instead of leaving her, Brisa caught her by the shoulders and gazed steadily into her eyes. “Listen to me. You’re not broken. You’re not awful. And you’re not going to hurt me. I don’t care about your family. I care about you. Let me show you how I see you.”

  Brisa untied one of her ribbons. “I was wearing this on a day I’ll never forget, and I remember you touching it. I remember every single thing you’ve done the entire time we’ve been together. Here.”

  She pressed the scarlet ribbon into Becky’s palm.

  Love suffused Becky, warm, sensual, joyous. It took a moment for Becky to recognize her own face, it was so different from what she saw in the mirror. In Brisa’s eyes, her ugly freckles were charming, and her washed-out blue eyes sparkled like a sky after rain. Her hair didn’t look like old straw, but shone like sunlight on summer hay. Becky had never even known that she had a smell, but to Brisa, Becky carried the scent of fresh laundry, both comforting and enticing.