by Julia Day
She reached for a picture frame decorated with chipped seashells and multicolored sand. “Who is this with you?”
The photo showed six-year-old me with Marnie in our Easter finery. “My stepmother.”
Mundy put it down and grabbed a second frame, her eyebrow arching in inquiry.
“Heather.” My bio mom sat on the hood of a car, holding me at four on her lap, laughing into the camera. “A month after that photo was taken, she abandoned us.”
We’d had macaroni and cheese that night. And broccoli, which she’d burned. The smell was horrible. Heather had set the table for three. When my dad asked her who wasn’t eating, she’d said, “I’m not. I have other plans.” A few minutes later, she was gone. She never returned.
Just like that. Said good-bye to two little kids and a husband because she had “other plans.”
Mundy shook her head, set the frame down, walked over to my bed, and fell backwards until she was lying in the middle. “This is fabulous.”
I stared at her, arms crossed.
She rolled her head toward me. “Something wrong?”
“The quilt is wrinkled.”
“Yes, it is. I’m sure that’ll change the minute I leave.”
“It’ll change before you leave.”
She laughed. “You might as well sit. I’m going to be here a while.”
I slid down the door until I was sitting on carpet. “How did you find me?”
“Your stepmom. I called. She gave me directions.”
“She didn’t bother to mention that detail.” Marnie had conspired on this surprise. No wonder she’d disappeared. Payback was hell. “How’d you get Dad’s cell-phone number? Through Dr. Holt?”
“I’d rather not say. To protect the guilty.”
“You went to a lot of trouble.” Which was arguably nice, in a screwed-up way.
“I sure did.” She flipped to her belly and propped her chin in her hands. “Are you ready for the MIM?”
“I guess.” It was weird to see her from this angle, as if she were a disembodied head floating above my yellow quilt.
“What’re you doing?”
“An improv.”
Her eyes widened. “Ash Gupta and Eden Moore have planned something that isn’t tightly controlled and scripted?”
“Yeah.” Why’d she have to put it that way?
“Bold choice for the two of you.” She tapped a fingernail against her lips, her brow scrunching in concentration. “What are you wearing?”
“I haven’t thought about it.”
“You’re playing Elizabeth Bennet. You have to look the part.”
Did I look like the kind of girl who wanted to talk fashion? “I’ll figure it out.”
“Please, not your normal stuff.”
“What’s wrong with my normal stuff?”
“Elizabeth Bennet was a member of the gentry. Not a bag lady.”
Bag lady? Mundy had better read the expression on my face. “What fails to meet with your approval?”
“You wear big plaid shirts, like an old guy going off to fish.”
“They’re comfortable.”
“Your jeans don’t fit.”
“They won’t fall off. I tie them on.” Goodwill hadn’t had much in my size on my last visit.
“Of course. Jeans that are three sizes too big can be forgiven if they’re tied on.” She scooted to the end of the bed, hooked my desk chair with her foot, and rolled it closer. “It’s time for a Mundy Makeover. You’ll hardly recognize yourself when I’m through.”
“No thanks.”
“This isn’t an offer. It’s an order.”
“Do you honestly think that crap works with me?”
“I’m very good. You’ll be gorgeous.” She patted the chair. “If you turn me down, you’ll be eaten up with curiosity, wondering if I was right.”
Her expression dared me. I held out for a few seconds and then caved. “You get fifteen minutes.”
“I get as long as it takes.” She scowled at the bare surface of my dresser. “Where’s your makeup?”
“I don’t have any.”
She strained backwards until her fingers snagged the corduroy bag. “Glad I came prepared.”
“You don’t wear makeup either.”
“I don’t need to.” She emptied the bag’s contents onto my bed. There was an entire artist’s palette of eye shadows. A dozen shades of blush. Loose and pressed powder. Lipsticks, pencils, and glosses.
I frowned. This didn’t make sense. “How can you know what you’re doing?”
“My mom’s an actor. I’m her makeup artist.”
“What kind of actor?”
“She’s done regional theater in California. You’ve never heard of her, though. She’s also a drama professor at the community college where Cam’s been teaching art.” Mundy organized a set of sponges on my dresser before selecting several metallic tools whose purpose was fearsome. “I’ll leave some of this stuff for you.”
A war erupted within me. I was fine the way I was. No use trying to screw with nature; she’d had her say.
Yet I did feel nervous about being in front of the classroom. I’d be sharing the spotlight with the perfectly beautiful Ash. Stared at by fifteen other students. Verbally assaulted. Judged.
I studied the array of objects with a mixture of dread and longing. What if Mundy were as capable as she was confident?
Okay, deep inside, I knew how amazing it would be if this makeover went well.
After she had everything arranged, Mundy pointed at the chair. “Sit.”
The two warring Edens compromised. I sat obediently while maintaining an attitude of doubtful resignation.
Mundy picked up a pair of tweezers.
I eyed them unhappily. “What are you planning to do with those?”
“Pluck your eyebrows.”
“Why?”
“Because they’re ugly.”
“You didn’t learn your conversational skills in the South.”
“No, thank God. Now hush.”
She worked without speaking. I kept my eyes shut since I was skeptical about how this would turn out. Marnie never wore makeup. Heather had worn too much. I sided with my stepmom on this issue, so I was wary.
Of course, I could always scrub my face afterwards if I didn’t like the result.
Once the tweezing was out of the way, the makeover wasn’t too bad. I dozed while Mundy brushed, dabbed, and powdered.
She tapped my shoulder. “Where’s a hairbrush?”
“Top right drawer of the dresser.”
Mundy had a feather-light touch as she tamed my damp hair. It was soothing.
“Done.” She spun the desk chair around until I could see the mirror over my dresser.
I concentrated on my reflection. A prickly sensation fluttered over my skin. Mundy hadn’t lied.
It was as if the good parts of me had been highlighted while the bad parts faded away. My eyes looked enormous and vividly blue, framed with thick lashes and smoky lids. There was a rosy glow to my cheeks and mouth. My face seemed less gaunt and angular. I could hardly believe it was me. “I’m in awe of your skill.”
“The raw materials made it easy.”
“Yeah, right.”
“Humble doesn’t suit you.” Mundy frowned, hands on hips. “Okay, costume next.”
“The makeup is enough.” I couldn’t take my gaze away from the mirror.
“The makeover isn’t done. Where’s your closet?”
“Behind there.” I gestured toward the cranberry curtains draping the opposite end of the bedroom from ceiling to floor.
“Wow. Nice.”
“Yeah, my dad did that. He can do anything with his hands.” The original closet had been too tiny to be worth anything, so Dad had made me a curtained storage area with special lighting and built-in cabinets.
Mundy disappeared from view and rummaged through my clothes, making distressed noises. “Is this all?”
Why had I le
t her back there? Here was proof that my new look had distracted me. Otherwise, I would never have given her permission to glimpse the entirety of my public wardrobe. Five pairs of jeans, one pair of khakis, ten shirts, and a black skirt. “That’s all you have to work with.”
“What about shorts?”
“I don’t wear shorts to school.”
“Most of your stuff makes me cringe.”
With her back to me, she would miss my scowl, but it would likely still be there when she turned around.
She drew out a hanger. “Unbelievable. I found a pair of jeans that might actually fit.”
I knew exactly which pair she meant. They did fit. Too well. “Marnie’s fault. I’ve never worn them.”
“You will tomorrow.” She tossed the pair onto the bed. “Where are your camis?”
“Middle drawer in my dresser.”
Kneeling, she slid the drawer open, pawed through it, and pulled out several items. “Aqua cami. No overshirt.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
She smiled at me.
“No, Mundy. Not going to happen.”
My resolve must’ve sunk in because she nodded as she stood, clutching tank tops. “We’ll layer tanks, then. White under ice blue. Your eyes will pop.”
So would my breasts. “No, I’ll feel naked.”
“Elizabeth Bennet would’ve wanted to look as good as possible.”
“I won’t be comfortable.”
“Your comfort isn’t what we’re going for.” The wide-eyed excitement left her face, replaced by something akin to sympathy. “A lot of girls would go through painful plastic surgery to get a body like yours.”
I looked away. I’d inherited this body from Heather. It wasn’t something to be proud of. It was something to hide.
“You’re playing a theatrical role,” Mundy said. “You’ve got to use every asset, especially the natural ones.”
As much as I didn’t like her conclusion, I couldn’t fight her logic. I had to be a modern Elizabeth. She would’ve done everything she could to look attractive. So would I, within reason.
I tried to imagine what my classmates would see tomorrow. Tight jeans and tanks, revealing a waist, ass, and breasts they didn’t know I had. Bare arms. Makeup. I’d feel ridiculous. Exposed.
Yet it had been my choice to do an improv. Since it was part of the role to look good, I would. “Fine, but I’ll wear a big shirt for the rest of the day.”
She smiled. “Sounds like a plan.”
* * *
After straightening my room and packing my overnight things, I left with Mundy, who dropped me off at the Fremonts on her way home. I walked into a quiet house. The kids were fed and in their pajamas, both parked on the den carpet, glued to their favorite DVD. I peered at the counter on the player. There was another hour left.
I pulled Mrs. Fremont aside. “Do you want me to put them in bed at the normal time?”
She didn’t meet my gaze. “If you wouldn’t mind.”
I would, actually. I hated being the one to wrench Kurt away from a movie. “Why are you leaving this to me?”
“I can’t take much more today.”
“That bad, huh?” I swallowed hard. “Go on. I’ve got this.”
She shuffled away guiltily. Seconds later, the garage door slammed.
“Fifteen minutes,” I warned. The statues in front of the TV ignored me.
I curled up on the leather couch with a textbook. But after reading the same page twice without taking in any information, I snapped the book shut and watched the grandfather clock, my tension growing with each tick.
“All right, guys, bedtime. You have school tomorrow.”
With a noisy huff, Marta clicked the remote, tossed it onto a table, and rose. Kurt leaned forward, fumbled for the remote, and smacked a button. The movie came back on.
Crap. He was going to be a problem. “Kurt, we’re done for tonight.”
He didn’t budge.
I walked around the table and touched his shoulder. “Come on.”
His hand flew up and raked fingernails along my arm.
I screeched as I stumbled backwards, landing on my butt. Blood welled up in reddened streaks on my aching forearm.
“Kurt, what are you doing? You hurt Eden.” Marta snatched the remote away and clicked the movie off again.
“Give it back.” He lunged for his sister.
Her frightened gaze skittered to mine before she dodged behind a chair. My heart started racing. Kurt had had meltdowns before, but they were rare when I was around. The steps to get him to chill out didn’t sound that hard, but I’d never had to use them by myself.
Say his name often. Speak with calm authority. Don’t give in.
How was I supposed to do all that?
He crawled on his hands and knees, shrieking in odd barks, moving closer to where his sister huddled behind a chair.
First I had to rescue Marta. With a confident expression that hardly matched my feelings, I ran to the chair, planted myself between brother and sister, and said, “Marta, go.”
She took off for her room, still clutching the remote.
He crawled after her.
“Stop acting this way, Kurt.” I caught him by his elbows and hauled him to his feet.
His legs went liquid. It was like cradling sand. He slipped through my arms to the floor.
As much as that pissed me off, I had to be the grown-up here. I had to get myself under control. “Get up, Kurt.” My voice was firm, but I’d have to work on the calm part.
“No.”
“If I need to, I’ll carry you to your room.”
“No.” He lay on his back, his feet churning wildly.
“Yes.” Careful to avoid any flying limbs, I scooped him up. “It’s a school night, Kurt. Time for bed.”
He bellowed with rage, arching his back and bucking in a strange spiraling kick.
Down we went, rolling and grunting in the hallway.
I was wrestling a six-year-old boy, an unrecognizable creature that I loved. “Kurt,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper, “calm down.”
The words seemed to incite him to greater fury. His fists flailed about. When one brushed my hair, he wove his fingers in and yanked with all his might.
I gritted my teeth against a scream, not quite successfully. He yanked harder.
“Kurt. Stop. Now.” I flipped him onto his belly, locked one of my legs over both of his, and pulled his hand away from my head. Strands of hair fluttered from his fingers.
He went still.
My joints ached with the effort to hold him gently. “Good. You must chill.” Was the reminder for me or him?
“No,” he said, but the intensity had lessened.
“You’re doing better, Kurt.” I spoke in bursts as I tried not to think about the agony of my scalp. “We’ll lie here until you’re okay.”
He buried his face in the carpet and sobbed, his shoulders shaking.
We sprawled there, the two of us, for a couple of minutes. After the AC kicked off, the house grew quiet. The door to Marta’s bedroom opened, and feet padded down the hall to the bathroom.
I eased my hold. Nothing happened—a hopeful sign. “If I let go of your hands, will you scratch me again?”
A muffled “I won’t” wheezed past my ear.
I curled on my side beside him, breathing as hard as he did, cheek against the rough carpet, face a few inches from his.
He sniffed.
“What’s wrong, buddy?”
One fist scrubbed at his eye. “I don’t want to go to school.”
The words grated against my ears, plaintive and unexpected. “I thought you loved school.”
“I don’t.” He smashed his fist against his forehead again and again.
It broke my heart to see that. “Kurt, don’t hit yourself.” I rocketed into a sitting position and drew him onto my lap. His body stiffened, but he didn’t fight to be free.
We sat there silently in the h
allway. Moment by moment, his body relaxed. When at last he slumped against me, I staggered up, carried him into his room, and knelt beside the bed. “I’m listening if you want to talk about school,” I said, smoothing the covers over him. Something was off here. Did his mother know what it was?
“It’s very bad.” He hiccupped his way into a sob, eyes closed. “Eden, I’m sorry I hurt you.”
“I understand, but don’t do again. Okay? It’s not all right.”
“Okay. Will you rub my back?”
“Sure.” I perched on the edge of the bed and patted his back until his breathing gentled into soft puffs.
I said good night to Marta and went to sit quietly in the den, staring into the fireplace, wondering if I really did want a career filled with an hour like the one I’d just spent. Was teaching right for me? More importantly, was I right for it?
10
The Same Dazed Regret
Mrs. Fremont dropped me off in front of the high school at the last moment Monday morning. I hurried through the school, with one of my father’s old plaid shirts covering me from shoulders to knees. The only sign of my Elizabeth costume was the jeans peeping below the shirt’s hem. They were as tight as leggings.
With each step closer to the senior hallway, every spare muscle on my body quivered harder. What had I been thinking? In a few minutes, when I yanked off Dad’s shirt, it would be my version of naked. My classmates would see what I’d tried for years to hide. Would I ever be able to fade into the background again?
It was a horrible possibility.
I made it to Ms. Barrie’s room without making eye contact. Mundy was in her seat.
She leaned across the aisle. “How are you?”
“Here.” The word came out as a croak.
“You’re nervous, which is good. My mom always says an actor who’s too calm will suck.”
“Then I’ll be a star.” I shrugged off the big shirt.
“Wow, Eden. You look—”
“Not now.” My fingers feathered over the scratches from Kurt, their livid red marks glowing against my fair skin.
“What happened to your arm?”
“I don’t have time to explain.”
“Take this.” She handed over a silver cuff bracelet.
I slipped on the shiny camouflage and grunted my thanks.
Ms. Barrie stood and made one quick announcement. Then she rapped on her podium. “Ash and Eden, you’re on.”