by Inda Herwood
His frown deepens. He never likes to hear about his disgusting business tactics out loud. “It’s called the free market. One business fails and another takes its place. It’s how the world works, dear.”
“And yet you would have gladly meddled in it had I accepted his proposal.” I shoot back, calling him on his BS, since no one else ever does. “Big surprise.” Standing up, I shove back the guest chair I was sitting in, leaving the room with a rock forming in my stomach; angry, guilt-ridden, and sickened at what has become of my father. A man without a heart.
Stepping outside the door, I nearly run into my mother who is standing next to it, obviously eavesdropping though she’ll never own up to it. I bypass her in the hall, feeling her trail behind me.
“Cyvil, what’s wrong?” she asks over my shoulder.
I roll my eyes to myself. “Like you don’t already know.”
She pauses, and then begins to babble on about how Dad has his reasons, listing a million pathetic excuses, and that’s when I turn on her.
Stopping abruptly, she nearly slams into me before catching herself. “You’re about to let a man and his family fall to ruins because you couldn’t force me to sell myself to the highest bidder. That is on you. Not me.”
Her mouth drops at my severity, and she loses the small amount of color in her skin. I can’t find it within myself to care. This is their fault, and I’m sick of taking the blame for it.
Unlike the last time I walked away from her, she doesn’t call me back, doesn’t beg for me to understand. She knows that what they are doing is wrong, and can’t find an excuse for me to stay. I can’t either.
Another week goes by, and I don’t see Jagger again. I continue with my routine like I did before – help the animals, work part-time at the hospital, and even manage to get in a few visits with my sister, who reminds me that my least favorite event is coming up.
“Crap, I completely forgot about it,” I moan into my coffee mug, making Till laugh.
“Hey, it’s not that bad. All you have to do is force a few smiles, make some small talk, and try not to vomit at the absurdity of an event held to help a doll museum stay in business.” She snorts, frowning at her caffeine free tea. Having to withhold her coffee addiction the last eight months has slowly been killing her soul. Her words, not mine.
“Seriously, what genius thought that raising hundreds of thousands of dollars to keep creepy porcelain dolls under a roof was more important than feeding the hungry, helping the sick? It’s like they took a vote for the dumbest cause to support and went with it.” I shake my head, grabbing a cookie from the tray set between us. I chew on a weird tasting chocolate chip as I look out onto the Hudson river from Atillia’s balcony. A small tug boat floats by with a barge following after it.
My sister snickers, nodding her agreement. “Yes, it’s the dumbest thing on earth, but it’s the start of charity ball season. Everyone goes to show off what new wealth they’ve acquired, brag about their latest vacation. It’s like the human version of peacocks showing off their feathers. It’s funny.”
“It’s sad. Ugh, what are these made of?” I complain, putting the rest of the cookie back on the tray. It leaves a bad taste in my mouth, making my tongue feel heavy.
“They’re vegan.” She winces just saying the word. “Quincy got them for me the other day. I didn’t have the heart to throw them away.” She grabs one of the cookies from the assortment, a white chocolate macadamia I believe, and begins banging it on the side of the tray. It leaves a dent in the silver, the cookie still perfectly intact.
“I’ll bring you some actual sugar tomorrow after I get off work,” I say, still marveling at the nuclear cookie.
“You’re a savior.” And with that, she takes the experimental cookies and throws them over the side of the balcony, about a dozen flying off the tray and landing in the garbage can below, a resounding crash soon following it.
I nod. “Impressive.”
She shrugs. “I’ve been working on it.”
I laugh, going back to my coffee. “You need to find a hobby.”
“Oh, really?”
“Mm-hmm.”
“How about stalking my ex-fiancé online?”
I grumble, “That’s not funny, or fair,” as I take another sip.
“But true.”
I shake my head. “No. It would be true if he were actually my fiancé at one point, but he wasn’t, so…” I sigh, knowing the argument is faulty.
Her eyes soften looking at me. “Still haven’t found a loophole, huh?”
I say “No” just as a cab sounds its horn in the distance.
I’ve been looking for a way to help out Jagger’s dad, one that doesn’t involve me hooking my wagon to his son’s, and I’ve come up with nothing. With their financials, they would never be able to get a loan, and forget about bringing on investors. I hate to admit it, but their only option really is my father, and it makes me sick.
Reading the look on my face, she says, “You can’t give in just because you feel guilty. It’s not your fault.”
I roll my eyes to look at the sky, watching as a pigeon flies over my head and then the Hudson. “I know that, but it still sucks that I can’t do something to fix Dad’s F-up.”
She smiles sadly at me, her eyes reminding me of Mom’s in this moment. “You’ve wanted to save everyone you could since I can remember. That’s what makes you Cyvil. But what I hope you can accept one day is that not everyone can, or wants, to be saved, sis.”
I understand that. I really do. I’ve seen so many people lose their lives at the hospital, animals pass away at the shelter. And every time it gets a little bit harder, another piece of my soul picked away. But it’s what I was meant to do. I know I’m supposed to help the living, no matter how it negatively affects me in the end.
Helping Jagger feels no different.
“My advice didn’t help, did it?” She blows a piece of platinum hair out of her eyes, blown there by the wind off the river. “I really suck at this mom stuff.”
“Is that what this is? You’re trying your hand at parenting on me?” I accuse, flicking some of the cookie crumbs off the tray at her with a finger.
Her expression is not amused. “Yes, and you are a very bad child to experiment with.”
I shrug. I can’t exactly argue with that.
Jagger
It is by far the dumbest event I have ever gone to. But I expected nothing less when the invite had “Dine and save the Dolls” as its header. It seems especially absurd when you are one of only five guys that actually came to the stupid thing.
“Dude, is that a doll head?” Rosy asks with a disturbed expression, his face growing closer to the centerpiece to inspect it. Sure enough, a small, blonde haired doll head floats inside the vase, covered in water; Its lifeless eyes too wide set and open not to be creepy.
Jeez.
“I’m going to need more alcohol for this,” groans Moon, draining a tiny flute of champagne.
Other than two older guys, dragged here by their wives by the looks on their faces, we are the only three males at this table. I was supposed to come alone but begged the guys to join me at the last minute, losing my nerve from fearing this exact scenario: being overrun by estrogen.
And why am I here you ask?
“Because we can’t have ourselves looking anything less than we were,” to quote my father. He used to come every year to this stupid event with my mother, but after she died, he quit all of the charity circuit balls. People understood it was for his grieving, but now he says it’s my turn to represent the family name. The real reason I think he guilted me into coming, though? It’s rumor that the Montaes are big fans of the summer parties hosted in perfect succession every year, like the worst kind of holidays. Aside from that, I’m all for supporting good organizations and charities, but it doesn’t mean I’m a fan of schmoozing and boozing with the richies. Especially when so much is on the line with whom I schmooze and booze.
Rosy str
etches his neck, accidentally connecting eyes with a woman in her later sixties across the room, sporting silver hair and thick glasses. Her eyebrows raise in interest, and Rosy snaps his head back to our table quick enough to cause him physical harm. Giving me the evil eye while Moon laughs, tipping his glass to the old broad, Rosy hisses at me, “If this girl of yours isn’t here in the next ten minutes, I’m out. I was promised hot chicks, not scooter grannies.”
Moon gives him a raised brow. “Did you honestly think twenty-some-year-old girls would be swarming a dead dolls convention?”
Rosy slumps in his seat, glaring at Moon next to him. “So I had hope, sue me.”
Moon snorts into his glass. “Not enough apparently.”
When Rosy’s dark eyes narrow on a now tipsy Moon, I cut in. “Guys, relax.”
“In spite of popular belief, I actually have things I could be doing right now that don’t include AARP members eyeing me up.” Rosy starts to stand, but stops midway, his eyes latched onto the double doors leading into the ballroom, its windows overlooking the city of New York.
Cyvil and the dark haired girl I recognize as Hanna walk through the doors, looking around the room with a cursory glance, one that doesn’t seem too impressed coming from Cyvil. She’s wearing her vibrant crimson hair up in a twist at the back of her head, arms covered in a white, long sleeve blouse. Her skinny jeans look too warm for an unusually hot spring day in New York.
The entire room falls to silence.
Pretending like they’re not even there, Cyvil and her friend, who by the look on her face isn’t used to the stares, waltz over to the table opposite ours, joining a few others, offering them small smiles.
Rosy whistles, apparently having forgotten that he was just about to leave ten seconds ago. “Damn, now that is what I’ve been waiting for.” His eyes are locked on Hanna, probably not having even noticed my never fiancée. “Hopeless, huh?” He smirks at Moon, who flagged down a waitress and nabbed another glass of champagne.
Ignoring him, Moon asks, “Is that her then?” obviously having looked beyond Hanna and seen her companion, and the way my eyes have been locked on her since she entered.
I give a minute nod as I mimic my friend and kick back the rest of my Bellini.
“So what’s the game plan? I thought you said that door was kicked closed and then locked?” My friends continue to eye her table, not even bothering to pretend they aren’t staring. I think the booze has numbed their manners. “Jeez, you weren’t kidding about the scar,” Moon says sadly, eyes dimming.
“What are you talking about? Oh.” Rosy has finally noticed that Hanna didn’t come alone. He winces when he sees Cyvil, scar side facing us. “What the hell could have done that?” he asks, looking at me as though I know the answer, which I’ve told him before that I don’t.
Truthfully, I didn’t even think of the scars when she walked in. It’s like the more I see her, the less I notice them. Probably because she acts like they aren’t even there, ignoring the obvious stares her table companions pay her when they think she isn’t looking.
“Are you going to go talk to her or what? Because if you are, then I’m going after the tall one.” Rosy takes another sip of mimosa, about to stand when a loud, shrill voice comes over the sound system.
We all look to the stage.
“Welcome to the Dine and Dolls ball!” a woman I would estimate to be in her mid-thirties says far too excitedly, her eyes wide and scanning the room, as though this is the NFL Draft and not a charity event for a worthless cause. “I’m Ann Marie Kelly, head of the board of Save the Dolls Initiative. What a turnout!” she says, once again scanning the crowd of maybe a hundred people, tops. “I expect our donations will be even greater than our previous year. Let’s give a hand for your generosity!” She begins clapping her hands animatedly, staring down each head at the tables until she sees their hands slapping each other. Her highlighted hair sways viciously with her quick movements, looking like a broken doll herself.
Subconsciously my eyes go to Cyvil to see her reaction to this woman, just catching her dreaded eye roll before it disappears. When Animatronic Barbie gives her a look for not complying to the clapping command, she simply nails her with a raised brow that says, I dare you to come and make me. I laugh under my breath as Ann Marie quickly looks away, moving on to the next poor sap.
“Holy hell, is this what the effects of acid looks like?” Rosy says through a fake smile when we are the next table under her stare. Ann Marie’s dark eyes look wild against her platinum blonde hair, too wide and bright for simple enthusiasm. It may not be such an impossibility.
Moon snickers.
“Okay!” she says next, once she’s satisfied with the response of forced clapping. “Now we are going to begin the silent auction. How fun, right?!” She looks like she could pee herself. She’s that excited about people paying more than is needed for a crappy prize. I give Rosy a subtle nod. Definitely drugs.
“If you see in the back, we’ve had many wonderful goodies donated this year by the even more generous businesses throughout New York. Remember, every dollar spent will go towards keeping the New York City Doll museum of Manhattan open for visitors for the next year. So, dig deep into those wallets, and let’s do some good for a great cause! Auction open!” She bangs a large, wooden gavel on the slim glass podium she stands behind, a crack sounding throughout the room the second they connect with each other. And just like that, the fragile top goes shattering all over the stage, Ann Marie just barely jumping out of the way with a screech. Her horrified expression says it all, and the room goes silent. Until –
Someone starts laughing.
Hysterically.
All heads turn in its direction, but I’m already looking at the source. Even with only having heard it once, I would know that laugh anywhere.
Cyvil is clutching a hand to her chest as her eyes shut in outrageous laughter, bent over the table. When her eyes open again, and she sees the negative response, she slowly tries to rein it in, residual giggles slipping out. It’s when she does this that our eyes connect across the room, our smiles mirroring each other until they aren’t. Seeing me effectively shuts her up, apparently.
Moon chuckles next to me. “I like her.”
After a minute the room starts its chatter again while someone helps clean up the remains of the podium. As a few people begin to go to the back of the room to participate in the silent auction, most giving Cyvil dirty looks along the way, others follow, and soon we’re some of the only ones left at our tables.
“Well, I don’t know about you two, but I see a doily over there that would perfectly bring my guest room together. If you’ll excuse me,” Moon says like a regular debutante, giving us a wink as he joins the rest of the room at the back, leaving just Rosy and I to linger. Or so I thought.
“Later, man,” he says as he heads for Cyvil’s table, eyes set on her friend.
It’s as if I don’t exist.
-6-
Hello
I’m going to catch serious hell for this, I think to myself after my outburst, knowing that most of these people are friends with my parents, and in twenty minutes I’m sure one if not five will have called them on vacation in the Bahamas and told them about my misstep. The youth screwing up decorum is what these old coots live for.
But seriously, she banged a gavel on glass. How dumb can you be? I’m sure I’m not the only one that wanted to bust a gut at such a ridiculous thing as Ann Marie Kelly.
Jagger looked like he wanted to.
Crap, Jagger.
I had no idea he was coming to this, and honestly, I don’t know why he’s here at all. If I had known, I would have made up a fantastic excuse about food poisoning or something of the like. Or maybe claimed morning sickness like my sister, who was supposed to be my date. But then that would raise a million more issues, and I can’t exactly afford them at the moment.
“Looks like the guy that’s been staring at me since we got here is finally ma
king a move,” Hanna grins, giving the beautifully tan guy that was sitting next to Jagger a wave of her fingers as he approaches.
Don’t come over, don’t come over, don’t come over…
Jagger stands and joins his friend.
I thought he was going to let me go? I grumble to myself irately. So much for giving me my space.
His friend swaggers up to the table first, just me and Hanna sitting here now since the rest of the group went to bid on worthless things in the silent auction. He’s handsome with dark features, his hair slicked back with the sides shaved, eyes playful and flirty; a definite bad boy – just Hanna’s type.
“Good afternoon ladies,” he says casually, hands in his slack’s pockets as he stares at my friend, though he pretended like the question was aimed at the two of us.
“Good afternoon yourself,” she says, turning in her seat to face him better, smile in place. “What brings a being of the opposite sex to a charity such as this?” Her voice practically purrs, and I wish I was old enough to ingest alcohol.
“The stimulating environment, of course.” He smiles, and it’s easy, charming. The kind that sucks girls in like a moth to a flame.
Jagger steps up behind him.
“Hello,” I barely manage to squeak out, knowing I can’t ignore his presence like I’d like to. It’s just that every time I see him now, every time I hear his name, I’m always going to associate it with guilt. If not my own, then my father’s. Not a great feeling.
“Hello,” he returns with a small, amused smile. Unlike his friend’s, it’s not meant to be anything other than genuine. It helps to ease my anxiety. At least he doesn’t seem to have any ill will towards me. That or he’s doing a fantastic job of hiding it.
“I’m sorry, I haven’t introduced myself yet. I’m Ambrosio Nunez, and this is my friend, Jagger Wells,” the guy says, nodding to the man behind him.
Hanna smiles, putting out her hand to take his, and then the tall drink of water’s behind him, saying, “Nice to see you again, Jagger. Not as nauseating an environment this time, is it?”