Shadow Girl

by Liana Liu

  And now that I’ve made my decision, I want to go to her room immediately and get it over with. But it’s after midnight, so I’ll tell her tomorrow. Or maybe . . . maybe I should wait until after the surprise party—it’s in just over a week and it’s Vanessa’s pet project and she has invested so much time and money and energy into it. And she’s so excited about it.

  Yes, I decide, I’ll tell her after the party.

  Then I turn out the lights and lie down. It’s such a relief to have finally figured out what I’m going to do. To have a plan. Maybe I’ll be able to sleep now. . . . But for the first time in a long time, I feel wide awake. And extremely hungry.

  I jump out of the pink bed and go downstairs. In the kitchen I open the enormous refrigerator and poke around for something that seems okay for me to take. Finally I grab a container of leftover spaghetti, turn around, and walk right into something warm and solid. Somebody.

  I scream.

  “Shh . . . it’s just me,” Henry says.

  I stop screaming. “You scared me! What are you doing awake?”

  “I never go to bed this early. Do you?”

  “Yes. I have a job, you know.”

  “So what are you doing down here?”

  “I’m hungry,” I say. I hold up the container of spaghetti. “You think it’s okay if I eat this?”

  “Yeah, if that’s what you want. But I’m having apple cake with caramel ice cream for my midnight snack. Sure that’s not what you want?”

  I consider. “I want both,” I say.

  “Both?”

  “I’m really hungry.”

  We sit at the counter. I eat the leftover pasta. And a huge slice of apple cake with caramel ice cream. And a smaller slice of apple cake. I scrape every crumb and fleck and drip into my mouth. Then I look up and find Henry watching me with amusement.

  “I told you I was hungry,” I say.

  “I’m impressed,” he says. “Was it homesickness?”

  I frown. “What do you mean?”

  “Whatever you’ve been going through lately. You’ve seemed kind of bummed. I figured you might be homesick.”

  “Not at all. I’m glad I’m not home,” I say.

  Then I realize what I’ve said and clamp my hand over my mouth.

  Henry laughs. “The truth finally comes out.”

  I unclamp my mouth so that I can say, “No, no, no, I didn’t mean that. It’s just complicated there. My mom needs a lot from me. And my brother is a screw-up.”

  “In what way?” asks Henry.

  “A couple of years ago, he dropped out of high school and got involved with gang stuff. We’d only hear from him when he needed something. Like money. Or when he got in trouble. He’s been arrested a couple of times. Mostly for small things—vandalism, underage drinking, that kind of stuff. But once he and his friends held up a liquor store. My brother went to jail for that.”

  “Crazy.” Henry looks shocked. I’m reminded of how different his world is from mine.

  “Yeah . . . anyway, he’s back. He moved home last month and is pretending to be all reformed. He got a job and is supposedly taking college classes in the fall.”

  “Maybe he is reformed.”

  “I doubt it,” I say. “But my mom believes he is, so when he disappears again, I’m the one who’s going to have to deal with it.”

  “Why you?”

  “There’s no one else.”

  “What about your dad?” asks Henry.

  “My dad’s not . . .” I stop. I stand up, collect our dirty plates and forks, and bring them to the sink. I turn on the water.

  Henry comes over. I can feel him looking at me; I don’t look at him. I’m afraid of what he’s going to say. But he only says, “Hey, I’ll wash the dishes.”

  “You know how to wash dishes?” It’s supposed to be a joke, but I say it wrong. I sound mean, harsh, judgmental.

  He laughs anyway. “Yes, allow me to demonstrate my awesome dishwashing skills.”

  I watch as Henry awkwardly swipes a soapy sponge across the plates and forks. He scrubs cautiously and thoroughly. In the time it takes him to wash three plates and three forks, I could have washed a sink full of dishes. But I’m glad it takes him as long as it does. I need a moment to calm down.

  I’m embarrassed to have told him so much about my family. I’m not sure why I did. Maybe it’s the stress of the past week. Maybe it’s the comfort from all the food I just ate. Or maybe it’s this feeling of late night, how the darkness and stillness and quiet makes it seem as though we’re the only two people in the world.

  “Well?” Henry says when he’s finally done washing the dishes.

  I clap. He bows. I yawn.

  “I should get to bed. It’s way past my bedtime,” I say.

  “I’ll walk you to your room.”

  “Thanks, but you don’t have to.”

  “If I don’t, who’ll protect you from the ghost?”

  “What?” I stare at him.

  “Kidding!” He stares at me.

  “Very funny.” I walk out of the kitchen.

  Henry follows. “You looked really scared. I better come with you.”

  “Are you sure you’re not the one who’s scared?”

  “You found me out,” he says.

  We go up the stairs, down the hallway, and we stop in front of the door of the pink bedroom. I turn toward him to say good night. And suddenly my face is so close to his face that even in this dim lighting I can see the sheen of stubble on his chin, the faint freckles on his nose, the curl of his eyelashes. I notice he has extremely long lashes.

  I take a step backward. “Good night,” I say.

  “Can I tell you something?” Henry says softly. “I missed our swimming lessons this week. As your swim coach, I’m really concerned about your progress.”

  I get it; it’s a joke. But I don’t laugh. And he doesn’t laugh either. He doesn’t even smirk. He leans toward me.

  I think: He’s going to kiss me.

  I think: I want him to kiss me.

  Yet I say: “What are you doing?”

  He pauses. “Should I stop?”

  “Yeah,” I say. “Stop.”

  “Sorry, I thought . . .” Henry grimaces.

  “Don’t apologize. The thing is . . . I don’t want to be unprofessional. I work for your family; I’m tutoring your little sister. It’s not right,” I say.

  His expression relaxes. Then he actually grins. “That’s why? It doesn’t matter. No one in my family cares about that kind of stuff. Don’t worry, you’re not going to get fired or anything.”

  “You don’t know that for sure.”

  He is still grinning. Then he actually laughs. “Relax. It’s not such a big deal.”

  “Then why bother at all?” I say, annoyed. And a little hurt. I turn around and reach for the doorknob, and as I do, I remember Emma Rose telling me, “Henry’s practically every girl’s first boyfriend.” I feel so dumb for falling for his tricks.

  “No, sorry, I didn’t mean it like that. It’s just that you worry too much. About this, about your family, about everything. You shouldn’t worry so much.”

  I let go of the doorknob and turn back toward him. I’m no longer annoyed or hurt. I’m furious. “Don’t tell me not to worry. You have no idea what it’s like for me, how hard it is. Everything I have I’ve had to work for. I’ve had to make sacrifices. I can’t take anything for granted. You have no idea.”

  His face reddens. “Right. Because I do nothing, make no sacrifices, and don’t work at all. And take everything for granted.”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “But that’s what you meant.”

  “No,” I say. “Though it’s true, isn’t it? You’ve had every opportunity in life, and what do you do? Mess around all day and barely graduate from high school.”

  Henry stares at me, his eyes cold and hard. “It’s funny I ever thought you were nice. I’m glad I know the truth now,” he says. Then he walks away. />
  4

  WHEN I COME INTO THE LIBRARY THE NEXT MORNING, ELLA IS already sitting at the table, doodling with the sparkly silver pen I gave her as an attempt to bribe her into working hard my first week here. It seems like years ago. I can’t believe it was only a month and a half ago.

  “Good morning!” I say, and smile.

  “Hi.” She does not smile back. She looks tired.

  “How’d you sleep?”

  “Bad.”

  “Why?”

  “Eleanor was so loud last night. I tried asking her why she was so upset, but she wouldn’t answer. You didn’t hear her?”

  “Nope. I didn’t hear anything.” I slept well, deeply and dreamlessly, and woke up well rested for the first time in days. It was surprising, considering . . .

  “Really?” Ella looks incredulous.

  “Let’s get to work,” I say.

  “Wait,” she says.

  I wait. She doesn’t continue. “Yes, Ella?” I prompt.

  She frowns down at her workbook and mumbles, “I’m worried about the party. I think Eleanor is upset about the party.”

  “Why would she be upset? Is it because she isn’t invited?” I ask, thinking of uninvited fairies wreaking terrible revenge in folk tales.

  Ella snorts. “She doesn’t care about that. Why would she want to go to the party?”

  “Then why is she upset?”

  “It’s going to be so loud and crowded. Eleanor doesn’t like that. She doesn’t want all those strangers coming to her house.”

  “Yes, I can understand why Eleanor wouldn’t like that.”

  “I’m scared she might do something.”

  “Like what?” I ask.

  Ella shakes her head vigorously. I ask her again, but she still doesn’t answer. It makes me nervous, but I just tell her to open her workbook and turn to page one hundred and twelve.

  At noon we go downstairs for lunch, and I brace myself to see him. But then he’s not there. And this makes me even angrier with Henry, irresponsible Henry Morison, who’s always late for lunch—no, that’s not true. Lunch is the one meal he’s usually on time for, because it only takes him a minute to saunter from the swimming pool to the gazebo. So where is he?

  I don’t ask. I don’t care. I smile and say hello to Vanessa and old Mr. Morison. They are sitting across from each other at the table but not talking to each other, or even looking at each other. I wonder if something happened before Ella and I arrived.

  “Can you believe there’s only a week to go before the party? I’m so excited,” Vanessa chatters. She doesn’t look well. Her face is flushed. Her golden hair is in a tangle. Her pretty purple dress has a jagged stain on the chest.

  “One week,” Mr. Morison grumbles. He doesn’t look well. His complexion is chalky. His eyes are red. His hand trembles as he reaches for his water glass.

  “What time is Daddy getting home today?” Ella asks.

  “Oh, honey, he’s not coming,” Vanessa says.

  “But it’s Friday!”

  “I know, Ellie, but he has so much work, he has to stay in the city this weekend. Hopefully he’ll make it here next weekend. Otherwise we’ll have to have his birthday party without him. Wouldn’t that be hilarious?” Vanessa laughs. Haha. And keeps laughing. Hahahahahahahahaha.

  “I’m sure he’ll be here!” I say. I’m glad I decided to wait to tell her what I overheard. She already seems so close to breaking.

  Vanessa stops laughing. She straightens her back and lifts her chin. She smiles broadly at us. Her eyes are bloodshot, so bloodshot that it seems impossible that she can actually see us. But then she says, “Ella, posture please.”

  Ella straightens her back and lifts her chin.

  Mrs. Tully brings out lunch: grilled salmon and lemon pasta and salad with carrot-ginger dressing. They all start eating, so I do too. Even though Henry still isn’t here. And no one mentions his absence.

  Perhaps because Vanessa only wants to talk about the party. She tells us about the gift bags she ordered for the guests. She tells us that there will be oysters served on an ice sculpture. She asks us how surprised we think Jeffrey Morison will be.

  “Daddy’s going to be so surprised!” Ella says. “I just hope that Eleanor—”

  I look at Ella and raise an eyebrow. She looks at me. She clamps her lips together.

  “Eleanor? You mean Eleanor, Fred and Minnie’s daughter? Is she coming to the party? I thought they weren’t bringing the kids. I’ll have to check the list again later,” Vanessa says.

  “Enough! I can’t take any more of this nonsense.” Mr. Morison jumps up and hurries back into the house.

  Vanessa watches him go with annoyance. Ella watches with concern.

  “Is Granddad all right?” she asks.

  “He probably has a stomachache. He has problems with his digestion, you know,” Vanessa says scornfully. She takes out her cell phone and starts tapping at it.

  “Maybe I should make him a get-well card,” Ella says.

  “That’s a great idea,” I tell her.

  “Mom, do you want to help me?”

  “Hmm? Help with what, sweetie?”

  “The get-well card. For Granddad.”

  Vanessa blinks. “I’m sorry, honey. I have a hundred things to check up on, like . . .”

  “Never mind,” says Ella.

  “I can help you,” I say. “If you want my help?”

  “Thank you,” she says softly.

  Mrs. Tully comes back to clear the table. She picks up Mr. Morison’s half-eaten plate and looks at me accusingly, as if I must be the reason he left before finishing his lunch.

  I stand. “Come on, Ella, let’s get back to work.”

  After we finish our lessons, Ella goes to her bedroom and comes back with the most enormous box of colored pencils I’ve ever seen—nearly a thousand pencils arranged by shade in layered metal trays. Her father gave them to her for her birthday, she tells me.

  I nod. “What can I help you with?”

  “I don’t know. Just stay here?”

  “Sure.”

  While Ella makes her card, I review my lesson plans for the next week. But I glance over every so often to check on what she’s doing. I don’t see much. She has her arm curled protectively around her paper.

  “What are you drawing?” I finally ask.

  “The beach,” she says without looking up from her work. “Granddad loves the beach. It’s why he bought this house.”

  “Can I see it?”

  “Um . . . when I’m finished. Maybe.”

  “Okay. You don’t have to show me.”

  She keeps drawing. I keep reviewing my lesson plans.

  “Does ‘regards’ have a u in it?” Ella asks after a while.

  “Regards? Why are you writing regards?”

  “I’m signing it ‘Best regards, Ella.’”

  “Are you sure you don’t mean ‘Love, Ella?’”

  “I like ‘Best regards, Ella,’ and I think Granddad will too.”

  “You’re probably right. Anyway, there’s no u in ‘regards.’”

  “Best thanks,” she says.

  I laugh.

  “Knock, knock!” Vanessa says as she walks into the room. She has changed into a clean dress, but her hair is still tangled, her face still flushed. “How are my girls doing in here? Let’s see your card, Ellie-Belly.”

  “I’m not done yet,” Ella says, tightening the protective circle of her arm.

  Her mother reaches right down and picks the card right up.

  I expect Ella to throw a tantrum, but she merely stiffens.

  “What a beautiful drawing!” Vanessa says. “That’s the beach, right? Granddad loves the beach. Oh, Ellie, you’re such a wonderful artist. So talented.” She sits down next to Ella—right next to Ella, on the same chair. Ella wiggles over to give her mother room. I watch them nervously. The chair is really too small for two people, even two very slender people.

  “Best regards?” says Va
nessa.

  “Yes,” says Ella.

  Vanessa laughs and says, “You’re such a funny girl.” She curls her arm around her daughter’s rigid shoulders and pulls her close. Ella resists, her body stick straight. Vanessa tightens her hold. Ella ducks away from her mother.

  “I forgot my other markers. I have to get them,” she says.

  Vanessa watches her daughter scurry away. She continues watching, even after Ella is gone. Then she exhales heavily and covers her face with both of her hands. She makes a noise, a sob. “What am I going to do?”

  I think: She knows about her husband and Lorraine.

  I say: “About what?”

  “Ella.”

  I’m startled. “What about Ella?”

  “I love my daughter, of course I do. But sometimes . . . I don’t understand her. She can be so cold. So withholding. Not like a little girl at all. I don’t understand what’s wrong with her.” Vanessa sighs heavily.

  And something inside me snaps.

  “There’s nothing wrong with her!” I say, my voice shrill in the quiet room. “She’s not cold or withholding, she’s shy. She’s different from you, and her interests are different from yours. But that doesn’t mean there’s anything wrong with her.”

  “I know, I’m a bad mother, but—”

  “Stop,” I interrupt her. “You’re not a bad mother. You’re fine. If you just paid a little more attention to her, maybe spent some more time together, I think you’d be happier, and so would Ella. But stop trying to change her so much.”

  Vanessa stares at me. She inhales sharply.

  Then I can’t believe I interrupted her. I can’t believe I spoke to her like that, and said what I said. I wonder if she’s going to fire me. “I’m sorry,” I say, “I shouldn’t have—”

  “No,” she interrupts me now, with a tearful smile. “You’re right. I’ll try.”

  5

  HENRY DOES NOT COME TO DINNER THAT NIGHT. NOR DOES HE appear at breakfast the next morning. A missed breakfast is not unusual for him, but at this point I’ve come to the conclusion that he’s no longer here in this house on Arrow Island. So where is he?

  I don’t ask. I don’t care. I smile and ask Vanessa what she has planned for the day.