Shadow Girl

by Liana Liu

  “Which friends? Doris?”

  I don’t know. I don’t think so.

  “Oh. Okay. How are you?”

  My mother tells me she’s doing well. She tells me she is really looking forward to next week, when I come home. It’ll be so nice for us all to be together again, she says, though this summer did pass quickly.

  “It really did,” I say, startled. I’d been so busy I’d barely noticed that the summer was almost over. I can’t believe it. It seems too soon.

  How are you? What have you been doing? she asks.

  I tell her about the party. I describe the lights, the tablecloths, the waiters, the ice bar, the food, the band.

  It sounds very beautiful, she says.

  “Yes, it is,” I say.

  But so much money spent for one night.

  “Yeah. . . .” I glance at the clock. “Mom, I have to go now.”

  When Vanessa opens her bedroom door, she is wearing a lacy silky something in white that I am almost certain is a bathrobe.

  “I like your robe,” I say to make sure. I don’t know why it matters to me, but it does.

  “Thank you, dear. It’s an old one, but one of my favorites. I bought it for our honeymoon.” Vanessa smiles dreamily. Her face is all made up. Skin smooth. Cheeks glowing. Eyelashes a long, thick sweep. Only her lips are still human: a little pale, a little dry, a little wrinkled. She has not yet applied her lipstick.

  “You look so pretty,” I say.

  “So do you,” she says.

  “Thanks.” I know she is being polite. I’m wearing my black dress. At graduation I felt sophisticated. Now I think I look like I’m going to a funeral. My flat black hair doesn’t help.

  “But I have a surprise for you.” She goes into her walk-in closet and comes out with a dress on a hanger. It’s the dress I tried on at the boutique last week, the beautiful green-blue dress that I could never afford. And now Vanessa is handing it to me, telling me it’s mine.

  “No, you shouldn’t have; it’s too much,” I say, barely aware of what I’m saying. But then the beautiful dress is in my hands, the fine fabric flowing through my fingers.

  “It’s my pleasure,” Vanessa says. “I wanted to thank you for everything you’ve done for us this summer. It’s the least I could do. Ella is doing so well, and you’ve helped me so much too. So please, put on the dress.”

  “I can’t,” I say.

  “You must,” she says. “Oh, don’t cry.”

  “I’m not crying,” I say. And I’m not; it’s just moisture welling in my eyes, just one tear slipping out. I wipe away that one tear and go into Vanessa’s bathroom—an enormous marble room—and put on the dress.

  Then Vanessa does my makeup; she insists. Her touch is light and nimble. It feels strangely calming to have her working on my face. She smells sweetly clean as the air after a good rain; she smells like her perfume; she smells like Vanessa.

  “Ta-da!” she sings when she’s done.

  I open my eyes. I look at myself in the mirror. I look, honestly, beautiful. In blue-green silk. With ironed-straight hair. With shimmering eyelids and noticeable lashes and a slight flush. With a glossy rosy mouth. I look beautiful and not at all like myself.

  “Thank you. Thank you so much,” I say.

  “You’re very welcome.” She gazes at me proudly, as if I am something she made. In a way, I suppose I am.

  “Um, Vanessa?”

  “Yes?”

  I know I should leave it alone. They seem happy; I should be happy. But I can’t stop myself from asking. “Did you tell your husband I told you?”

  “Did I tell him what?”

  “About the phone call.”

  To my surprise, Vanessa laughs. “Oh, the phone call. Yes, I told him.”

  “And he wasn’t angry?”

  “No, he was glad to explain. It was just a misunderstanding.”

  “A misunderstanding?” I ask. Hoping she will now explain.

  “Yes, that’s all it was.”

  “Oh. Okay. Good.”

  I nod. I zip Vanessa into her golden gown. She looks amazing, and I tell her so.

  “Thank you, darling.” She smiles at me. “One more thing. You know those earrings I gave you? You have to put them on. They’ll be the perfect finishing touch.”

  Back in the pink bedroom, I hang my graduation dress in the mirrored wardrobe. Then I stare at myself, this beautiful version of myself, in the glass.

  I’m confused by what Vanessa said: that she talked to her husband about the phone call and he wasn’t angry. I’m confused by how Jeffrey Morison seems to have offered me an internship in exchange for my silence, and even though I broke my silence, he’s still giving me the job. None of it makes sense. It feels wrong.

  Though maybe it’s just me. I’m not used to everything turning out fine. I don’t believe in happily ever afters—I haven’t for a long time. But maybe it is possible.

  I go to the dressing table and take out the small white box in the top drawer. I look at the pretty earrings Vanessa gave me. Then I look at my ears in the mirror. I’m already wearing earrings: the tiny gold studs that my mother gave me that her mother gave her.

  Slowly, I remove my mother’s earrings from my ears.

  Slowly, I put Vanessa’s earrings into my ears.

  She was right. They are the perfect finishing touch.

  10

  THE NOISE IS THUNDEROUS, SHAKING THE GROUND, VIBRATING through the air, filling the backyard with the sound of over a hundred people shouting and clapping and laughing as they scream, “Surprise! Happy birthday!”

  Jeffrey Morison has his mouth opened wide. With one hand he covers his open mouth. His other hand he presses to his chest. His face is flushed. He looks genuinely surprised. Even I, who know he is not surprised at all, half believe that he is.

  “What’s all this?” Jeffrey says.

  “Surprise! Happy birthday, my love!” Vanessa steps out from the crowd, shimmering in her gold dress, and wraps her arms around her husband. Ella and Henry join them, Ella snuggling between her parents and Henry standing at his father’s side. A moment later, old Mr. Morison is there too, smiling.

  Jeffrey beams. He appears too overcome to speak.

  Really, he is incredibly convincing.

  The party resumes. Guests approach the Morison family to wish Jeffrey a happy birthday, to thank Vanessa for inviting them, to compliment their children, to tell Mr. Morison that he’s looking well. Other guests continue drinking, eating, chatting. The band plays jazzy versions of classic rock songs. The sun is setting—the sky is softly red and orange and purple. It’s all beautifully and exquisitely perfect.

  But it’s also kind of boring—for me, at least. After all, it’s just a bunch of old people in fancy clothes gossiping and getting tipsy.

  I wander toward the house and stand near the door, where I find something more interesting: every few minutes an attractive waiter emerges with an attractive tray of hors d’oeuvres. Over the next twenty minutes or so, I am offered a stuffed mushroom and a caramelized onion tartlet and a wasabi crab cake and an olive crostini and a prosciutto-wrapped scallop, and I accept them all.

  As I chew my prosciutto-wrapped scallop, I see a familiar face near the bar. Although another attractive waiter is coming toward me with a tray of something that looks deliciously fried, I hurry toward the familiar face. It’s Benny, one of my favorite students, and he’s about to lick the ice bar.

  “Benny,” I say, pulling him back from the bar. “Don’t do that. You’ll get your tongue stuck, and when you unstick it, it’ll really, really, really hurt. For days. Trust me.”

  He whirls around, tongue still poking from his mouth, and stares at me with shock. I love this about kids—how confused they get when they see you in an unexpected place. It takes him a moment, but then he grins. “Hi! What are you doing here?” Benny shouts.

  “I’m tutoring Ella this summer.”

  “Oh!”

  “How’s your summer
going?”

  “Fun!”

  “You’re friends with Ella, right?”

  “Right!”

  “She’s around somewhere. Should we go find her?”

  “Yeah!” Benny laughs. He’s such a cheerful kid, which is why he’s one of my favorites.

  “Where are your parents? Let’s tell them you’re going to play with Ella.”

  Benny gallops over to his father, who is chuckling with a bunch of old people in fancy clothes. “Dad! Dad! I’m going to play with Ella now!” he shouts.

  “Okay, have fun!” his father shouts back.

  Benny and I squeeze through the crowd to get to the Morison family. Henry has disappeared. But Ella is still there, held by her mother’s hand on her shoulder.

  I duck close and wave at her. “You want to play with Benny?” I ask.

  Ella nods solemnly. And I realize that although she is not a particularly cheerful kid, she is now one of my favorites too.

  “Come on,” I say.

  As Ella moves away, her mother pulls her back.

  “Sweetie, where are you going?”

  “I’m going to play. With Benny.”

  “But your father—”

  I’m about to intervene, but Vanessa stops herself.

  “Yes, Ellie, go play. Have fun. Be good.” She lets her daughter go.

  I smile at her, then I take the kids over to the dance floor, where no one is dancing yet. They giggle and whisper to each other, though even Benny’s whisper is as loud as a shout. I see the waiter with the tray of fried somethings, and go get myself one. It turns out to be a fried risotto ball and as delicious as I imagined it would be. I eat it slowly while I watch the kids jump around.

  “Well, well, well,” a woman says.

  I turn around. “Hi! How are you?”

  “Certainly not as well as you.” Joan Pritchett inspects me, from the smooth black crown of my head to my manicured toes. “Nice dress. Is it new?” she says.

  “Uh, yes. I love your dress too. You look great,” I say.

  “This thing? I feel like a cow in it. Though I suppose you wouldn’t understand. Doesn’t Vanessa feed you? Probably not, since she barely feeds herself.”

  “Actually, the food here is really good,” I say. It mystifies me how a child as cheerful as Benny could have a mother as negative as Joan. Maybe she’s still annoyed at me for turning down her job offer this summer.

  “Benny seems happy,” I say. “He told me he’s having a fun summer.”

  Joan shrugs. “How are things at the Morisons’?”

  “Good.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, really good.”

  “I hear Lorraine Chamberlain came for a visit. How was that?” She smiles slyly.

  I stiffen. “It was great. I think they all had a nice time together.”

  “I’m sure they did.” Joan laughs as she walks away toward the bar.

  I restrain myself from making a face and go get another fried risotto ball.

  The sun sets. Conversations grow louder, the laughter more raucous, and people start swaying on the dance floor. Ella and Benny are playing freeze tag, which doesn’t seem like the right game for only two players, but they’re making it work. Jeffrey and Vanessa are surrounded by a crowd. Old Mr. Morison is deep in conversation with a man his own age. Henry is still nowhere to be seen.

  I wonder if anyone would notice if I left. I doubt it.

  After a few more hors d’oeuvres, I slip into the house, through the hallway, up the stairs, and into the pink bedroom. I shut the door and turn around. There’s an unfamiliar girl standing there. My heart jolts.

  But it’s just me, just my beautiful reflection in the mirror.

  Suddenly I’m overwhelmed with the need to get out of this dress and these earrings, to clean the makeup from my face, to wash this unnatural straightness from my hair. But before I can do any of these things, there’s a knock on the door.

  I guess someone did notice that I left.

  “I knew I’d find you hiding in here,” Henry says.

  “I’m not hiding! I only left the party a minute ago. You disappeared hours ago.”

  “Not hours. One hour.”

  I shake my head disapprovingly.

  “Uh-oh. You’re not going to call me selfish again, are you?”

  “Not out loud,” I tell him, and he laughs.

  Then, abruptly, he stops. “Hey,” he says.

  “What?”

  “You look really nice.”

  I blush. “Um, thanks, uh. Would you like to come in?”

  “No, no, it’s too pink in there. Want to go for a walk?”

  “A walk around the party?”

  “Definitely not. Let’s go down to the beach.”

  I hesitate. It’s not that I’m afraid he’ll try kissing me again—I’m sure he won’t, not after the way I reacted last time. The truth is, I’m afraid that I might actually want him to try. . . . But I’m sure he won’t and the summer is almost over and then who knows if I’ll ever see Henry Morison again. So I might as well enjoy his company while I can.

  “Sure,” I say. “That sounds fun. Let me change first.”

  “Yeah, me too. Meet at the stairs in five?”

  “Perfect.”

  I carefully remove the beautiful blue-green dress and the delicate crystal earrings. I put on a pair of shorts and a shirt. I braid my hair. At the bathroom sink, I turn on equal parts hot and cold water and wash the makeup from my face. Then I look in the mirror and am relieved to see myself again. Though maybe also a little disappointed. But only a little.

  As I walk down the hallway, I hear someone running behind me, then next to me, then past me. Henry races all the way to the staircase and shouts, “I win!”

  “I’ve created a monster!” I yell. I do not change my pace.

  Henry runs back over, turns around, and starts walking with me. He has changed into his swimming trunks and a shirt with a tear in the sleeve and a stain on the front. “You still look nice,” he says.

  “Thanks. You do too,” I say.

  We sneak out of the side of the house, whispering and giggling as we creep away from the party lights and noise and chatter. It’s dark, but the moon is full and the sky is clear and the stars are bright, so although we stumble and wobble as we go down the winding path, we don’t fall. And suddenly the ocean is luminous before us.

  “Come on.” Henry leads me across the sand.

  “Where are you taking me?” I ask.

  “It’s a surprise.”

  “Another surprise?”

  “Well, since the surprise party wasn’t an actual surprise, we can make up for it now. My dad did act the part though, didn’t he?”

  “I was practically convinced, and I knew better.”

  “Sometimes knowing better isn’t enough.”

  “Sad, but true. Are we going to the lighthouse?”

  “I told you, it’s a surprise.”

  Henry makes a sharp left, away from the water, into the brush. He takes out his phone to use as a flashlight. We follow a narrow trail up the hill to the lighthouse.

  “I knew it!” I say. I stop and stare up at the tower. The paint is peeling, the wood decaying. It looks dangerously unstable. I move away.

  “Nope, you’re wrong.” He grabs my elbow and pulls me forward, past the lighthouse and farther up the hill. His hand glides down my arm to find my hand. He hangs on to my hand. Probably so he can help me up some large rocks, which he does.

  Friends, I remind myself.

  But even after the rocky ground flattens into grass, he is still holding my hand.

  In fact, I’m the one who lets go, pulling my fingers out from his grasp when I see where he’s taken me. “Really?” I say. I use my freed hand to smack his shoulder.

  “What? You don’t enjoy a graveyard at midnight?” Henry says. Because now we are standing outside the Arrow family cemetery.

  “First of all, it’s not even close to midnight. Second
of all, no.”

  “You’re not afraid, are you?”

  “Of course not,” I say calmly. I’m really not. It’s not too dark and I’m not alone and even though this is a cemetery, it isn’t particularly scary. Mostly it’s sad. Like the lighthouse, it hasn’t been well maintained. The fence is a staggering square covered in rust and mold. The gravestones are stained and mossy and leaning in different directions. It feels like a long-forgotten place.

  “Good. ’Cause we’re going in.” He swings open the gate. Or rather, he drags it open, very slowly and creakily. Then he walks to the far back corner. I pause for a moment, but I said I wasn’t scared, and I’m not scared, so I force myself to follow him.

  Henry crouches in front of a small, plain gravestone with a curved top. He holds up his phone to illuminate it. “I remembered right,” he says. “Look.”

  I crouch next to him and squint to make out the carved letters. It reads:

  ELEANOR

  BELOVED DAUGHTER OF

  LIONEL AND AGATHA ARROW

  1911–1919

  “Oh.” I feel a soft breeze, like a cool breath, blow through my body. Even though the night is still, perfectly and completely, with no wind at all. But I’m still not afraid. In a way, this seems like the last piece of the puzzle. All this time, I had insisted that I didn’t believe in ghosts. And despite the unexplained noises, the bad dreams, the weird occurrences—I still don’t.

  But I believe in Eleanor Arrow.

  It’s a contradiction, yet somehow it’s still true.

  “Has Ella been here? Has she seen this?” I ask Henry.

  “I don’t think so. Everyone thinks the lighthouse is about to collapse, so we’re technically not supposed to be around here,” he says.

  “Didn’t stop you.”

  “I’m unstoppable.”

  “No kidding.” I sigh. “Poor Eleanor. She didn’t even get a mention in Family Cursed.”

  “Family what?”

  “Family Cursed: A History of Arrow Island. It’s a book about the Arrow family. I bought it for Ella to try to convince her that Eleanor Arrow didn’t exist. But she was right all along. I wonder why they left her out.”

  “Maybe because she was so young when she died. Only eight.”