by J. A. Rock
“Yes, ma’am.” I took a seat beside Alle.
Denson and Rollins came in a moment later. Rollins’s hornets’ nest of hair swayed as she walked. I gripped the leg of Alle’s chair between my feet and tried to imagine the hairpins as buzzing insects. I didn’t know why I was so nervous. The man and the woman were not frightening, but their presence here made my chest feel tight.
“Girls,” Rollins said brusquely, pulling a chair around so she could sit beside the couple. “These are the Malins. They’re looking to adopt a daughter.”
I hated the joy I took in that sentence, hated my own tired hope.
“Of course we’d simply take all of you if we could.” Mrs. Malin smiled at me again. She seemed to be smiling at me often, and I didn’t know when this had become a competition, but I wanted her to smile at me the most.
“But we only have the means for one child,” Mr. Malin said.
Mrs. Malin looked at Rollins. “And we were thinking we’d . . . we’d like to get to know each of these girls individually, if that’s all right?”
“Of course.” Rollins smoothed her skirt. “I thought perhaps we could have each girl show you her favorite place in Rock Point. Girls, this might be your bedroom, or the supper hall, or the reading room . . . whatever you like.”
My mind blanked. I could not think of a favorite place, besides Alle’s bed at night, next to her. The reading room was a good place, but I wasn’t sure it was my favorite. I prayed I wouldn’t be chosen first, but as is mostly the case when you pray something like that, it only shines a light on you. As I led the Malins to the reading room, I began to understand just how serious a thing this was. One of us would be adopted. Given a home. And, I realized, it couldn’t be me.
It was one of those things I understood in my entire being—all at once, and gloriously. I would be all right. My true dream was to be on my own and free. A new family would only be another sort of prison.
But Alle . . .
Alle didn’t fit in here. She was too splendid, too elegant, too wise. She affected people for the better, and though she pretended she did not mind isolation, I knew it hurt her. She deserved a nice home and people who loved her above all else in the world. She was a treasure, and the Malins seemed so kind.
I knew what I had to do.
“This is the reading room,” I said stiltedly, showing them in.
“This is beautiful.” Mrs. Malin smiled again at me. I could tell she didn’t really think it was beautiful, and I felt ashamed on behalf of Rock Point. But it seemed genuine, her willingness to see why this place might be special to me.
I shrugged and spat on the ground. “’S awright.” I caught Mrs. Malin’s surprised glance at her husband.
“So you like reading?” Mrs. Malin stepped forward to study the bookshelves.
“I don’t like much of anything.” I scratched at my arms, sniffed loudly, and when Mrs. Malin didn’t look over, I began picking my nose for Mr. Malin’s benefit.
They both tried to get me to answer some questions, but I only grunted or snapped at them. I was doing what I’d always done best—being repellent, undesirable. Eventually we headed back to the parlor, and I left the Malins in there with Alle and Marcy, not bothering to say good-bye.
I went up to my room and pictured the Malins falling in love with Alle. Imagined her charming them with her gentleness and intelligence. Envisioned them signing the adoption papers, telling Alle to go upstairs and pack. Any minute now she’d burst in, grinning, and tell me she had a home. My chest ached thinking about it, but I was happy too, picturing Alle’s new life. There was a flicker of envy—a tiny, secret wish that the Malins would choose me. But I doused it quickly.
Eventually Alle did come upstairs, and when I asked how it had gone, she said she didn’t know.
“But you have to have some idea whether they liked you?”
“I don’t know,” she repeated. “I don’t know if they liked me. I don’t know if I liked them.”
Her jaw was quivering. I would have missed it if I hadn’t come to know her fairly well. “What is it?” I asked.
“Miss Holmes told them about the weasel.”
“What?”
“I was leading them back to the parlor after we visited the laundry room, and Miss Holmes took them aside. I couldn’t hear all she said, but she was talking about me killing the weasel.”
“That awful sheep. Come here.” I patted the bed. I was surprised when Alle did come over and sit beside me. I put an arm around her. “If they let that affect their decision, they’re the stupidest people in Rock Hill. You were protecting us. You were brave.”
She cried then, quietly. I held her, shocked and unsure what to do. I didn’t experience the disgust I usually felt toward the younger children when they cried. This seemed more like comforting Franny Gammel. While I didn’t want Alle to be sad, I liked having her lean against me. I liked telling her it would be okay, even though I had no idea if it would be.
A week later, Rollins told us the Malins had decided not to adopt after all. She said it as though she was apologizing to us, but deep down, I wasn’t sorry. Or only a little sorry. But if the Malins couldn’t love a girl who killed weasels, then I wasn’t going to wait around for them to swoop to our rescue.
After that, Alle and I grew closer. More determined to protect each other, and not to need anyone else. At night, we became bolder in our kissing, and we began to fall asleep in an embrace, rather than side by side.
She was waiting for me one evening in our room when I came back from the kitchens.
“I have something you might like to see.” She held out a book. It was old, its pages turning the stale yellow of a snail’s shell. The cover was a faded brown fabric, and the title, in gold, was A Conversation with the Minotaur. I reached out, and she handed me the book.
“Where did you get this?” I rubbed what looked like a dust streak on the cover.
“The reading room. I borrowed it without officially borrowing it.”
I glanced at her. “You did not.”
She ducked her head slightly, but she looked pleased.
“Why?” I demanded.
“I know you like stories about the beast.”
It was the first time she’d given me a gift, the first time—that I knew of—she’d broken the rules. I wanted to hug her. So I did. She tensed for a moment, then hugged me back. I sat on the edge of her bed and flipped open the cover, and she sat beside me.
The preface explained that the author had come face-to-face with the Minotaur during the beast’s rampage. He had been scooped into the beast’s great, clawed hand, and though he had known he was about to be devoured, he had risked speaking to her.
“How, Beast?” I said to the She-Menace. “Look around you. Look at what you have wrought. The one who would cause such devastation must have no soul at all.”
The Beast turned so that her blazing red eye was level with my own gaze. She smiled, and her lips rose like curtains over a platform of slathered fangs, each as long as my head. Between her teeth, I could see bits of human flesh and hair, and I knew I looked upon Death.
“Soul?” the Lady Heathen replied. “I do not know the word.”
“Oh, cow drippings.” I rolled my eyes, flipping through the book. “He’s a very dramatic writer.”
Little of the text on the pages impressed me, but what did captivate me were the drawings: elaborate pen and ink renderings of the beast’s reign of terror. In these illustrations, she was as tall as six men and walked upright on huge, muscled legs that ended in cloven hooves. Her arms were long and black and hairy, with hands like an ape’s and claws like you’d see on a bird of prey.
On one page was a drawing of the beast holding two men, one in each hand. In a series of subsequent drawings, she clapped them together like the soles of mud-crusted shoes, and they both burst into flame. She then tied their burning bodies into a knot and hurled them into a schoolhouse.
“How many people have tried to
slay her, d’you think?” I asked Alle.
She frowned. “I don’t know.”
“But aren’t you curious? Don’t you wish you could see her? The beast? And her prison?”
She didn’t answer. I stopped on the next page, which showed a high-ceilinged chamber containing a mountain of treasure—a pile of gold coins with massive jewels and goblets and strings of pearls.
“What do you think the prize would be? For slaying the beast?”
She extended one foot and kicked me lightly on the back of the leg. “There’s no prize for slaying anything,” she said quietly. “You think there will be. But there isn’t.”
Not so. There was such a thing as killing for justice, and it would, I imagined, reap a grand prize indeed. “Do you think there’s really a treasure?”
“Thera, I keep telling you I don’t know.”
“People go willingly. People dare each other into the labyrinth after a night of drinking.” I jabbed at the illustration of the treasure. “How many of them actually wish to slay the beast? And how many of them simply want the treasure?”
She sighed and tipped her head back. Her curls bounced, and I smelled soap on her, and a hint of the outdoors—grass and mud. “I don’t—”
“Quit saying you don’t know. Make something up.”
She crossed her arms ostentatiously, trying to hide a smile. “Don’t tell me what to do.”
I grinned and looked back at the drawing. “Perhaps there is something to be said for worthiness. Just like in the old tales. The greedy people fail, but the beast will be brought down by someone . . . someone . . .”
I was losing the train of thought. Someone pure of heart? There was no such person. Someone who understood the beast? I didn’t put myself in this category, not yet.
We turned the page and saw a drawing of the carousel the Minotaur’s mother had been working on. The animals were elaborate—the detail work on the bridles alone kept me busy for a while. There was a horse, a tiger, a giant hare, a donkey, a polar bear, and a dragon.
“That white bull must’ve been something else,” I said. “If it was better than all this.”
“These animals all look sick.” She placed her chin on my shoulder and stared down at the page. I forgot all about carousels and treasure. I closed my eyes and felt the weight of her chin, the warmth of her breath. I opened my eyes suddenly, feeling a dizzying sadness.
“Maybe that’s why I like them,” I whispered.
She laughed softly.
“If we were that rich,” I said. “We’d never have to worry about any of it. About what to do when we leave this place.”
“Don’t you think we’ll find something to do with ourselves?”
“I personally can’t see you begging in the streets. You wouldn’t last a night.”
“Thera. Don’t be cruel.”
“I don’t mean to be,” I insisted. “I only . . . Well, it’s more than just not having parents, isn’t it? Being an orphan? It means you don’t have anyone in the world who cares where you end up.” I was immediately ashamed of my own self-pity, and started to turn the page. But instead I went backward and admired again the drawing of the treasure.
If I had all that, people would notice me. They’d know who I was when I walked into a hat shop, or when I drove my sleek car around Rock Hill. It might not mean that anyone cared about me—but being noticed was, perhaps, the next best thing to being loved.
Her hand hovered over the page for a moment, then covered mine. I slowly looked up at her.
She closed the book, easing our hands out from the pages. Outside, the wind seemed to shove ghosts up against the glass and pummel them, and they moaned and slapped the windows.
She turned slightly away from me and unbuttoned her dress. Glanced back over her shoulder and studied me, lips parted and curving slightly upward. “Are you going to get changed?” Her body had filled out even more in the past few months; her too-small bra pushed up her breasts, creating a deep shadow between them. I was stupid and breathless and still in a world of warriors and beasts and gold.
I shucked my sweater quickly, getting tangled in the sleeves. I didn’t want to stand, but she held out a hand and helped me up, and I stood before her in the dull moonlight, my breath coming too fast, my eyes, I’m sure, too wide. My chest swelled with each breath, so that my breasts nearly brushed hers, and she didn’t let go of my hand.
“Can I . . .?” She stepped forward and kissed me. I felt it in my whole body. I was alive in a way that made me feel uncontainable—made my ribs seem like a corset, my skull like a cumbersome helmet. I wanted to be rid of my body and made of air. She kicked off her underwear, and I stood shivering in the chill of the room, trying not to look down. In part because I was nervous, but more because I would only have this moment once—this moment of seeing her naked for the first time. I wanted to get it right. She guided my hand to her stomach, but seemed afraid to do more than that. I moved my fingers down the slightest bit. Stopped.
“You can touch me,” she whispered.
I tried. Really, I did. But my palms were damp and I was embarrassed and I wasn’t sure where to touch her. So I leaned forward to kiss her, because that, at least, was familiar. She wound her arms around me and pulled me close. I felt the hardness of her nipples, the weight of her breasts against mine. We’d been this close many times, under the covers and through our nightgowns, but skin-to-skin was different, and I gasped as my hips slid against hers. She moved one hand up my back and into my hair. I kissed more frantically, my eyes closed.
Her other hand passed down to my lower back. Her fingers pushed under the band of my underwear, and her nails drew a light pattern on my ass. I made a humiliating sound into her mouth, a childish whimper. She tugged my underwear down, and with a little wiggling, I managed to step out of them.
The walls were thin and the windows curtainless and the staff had keys and we were not safe. She kissed me again, tugging on my hair, and I let myself move with her. She traced figure eights on my ass, the touch so light it almost tickled, and she worked her way lower as my breathing grew more rapid. Finally she slipped two fingers between my legs. I froze. So did she. Slowly I widened my stance, let her fingers spread me slightly.
“Okay,” I whispered. “Okay.”
She took my lip in her teeth. Met my gaze, looking fiercely determined. She used no pressure at first, but she bit gradually until I rocked against her, moaning. She ran her fingers back and forth between my legs, bringing them farther forward each time, until I was panting, matching her rhythm with the movement of my hips.
Then it was as if my entire body was swallowing convulsively. I couldn’t stop the rough slide of my hips against hers, even as the motion became more reckless, became more like battering. In this welter of breath, of skin, of need, came a confusion that made me feel small and senseless. The pulse between my legs grew violent and uneven, and I gasped and collapsed against her, into her breath and sweat, her soft sounds. She caught me in her arms and held me there as the throbbing gradually subsided.
I rested my cheek against her shoulder, breathing in the scent of her hair. “It’s all right,” she whispered. “Isn’t it? It’s okay?”
I nodded. She guided me to the bed, and we crawled under the sheet. I had a sense that I was supposed to do something more, something for her, but I couldn’t gather my thoughts. I was exhausted and shocked; I wanted to cling to her and I wanted to push her away. But once I steadied my breathing, the dizziness subsided, and I felt a surge of power and wonder. I kissed the side of her neck. Kept kissing down to her chest and let my hands skim her sides until I cupped her hips. I kissed the sides of her breasts, then kept going down her stomach, feeling the muscles flutter under my lips.
The cot creaked as I shifted; she let out a small whimper with each breath.
I reached the patch of hair between her legs. And paused for just a moment. Then I kept kissing.
Somehow, we passed over a year at Rock Point—Kenna
, Bitsy, Alle, and I. We went on organized excursions into town—to the ice-cream parlor on Main Street, and to a tiny theater to see a film in which a man searched for his lost wife while a frenetic soundtrack played, and title cards showed his dialogue. We saw Rock Hill’s tiny museum, which held artifacts from the Minotaur’s reign. Bitsy found it all quite boring, but I studied the torn baby blanket, the bloodstained dog collar, the shattered tea set, the arrows that had failed to pierce the beast’s hide, and thought about the people who had handled these objects. Wondered if I would ever meet any of those people, talk to them. The Minotaur’s reign had the feel of a legend, even though there were probably many still alive who’d been present for it.
The four of us remained allies, and our dubious loyalty to one another—in addition to the Dark Tales and Denson’s kindness and Tamna’s odd antics—kept me from feeling too trapped. Alle’s relationship with Kenna was always a bit strained, but she and Bitsy grew closer. Bitsy engaged Alle in any number of conversations that inevitably centered on Bitsy herself, and it turned out Alle enjoyed things like having her nails painted or looking at magazine drawings of elegant women in various draped fabrics, and so she and Bitsy got along well.
I found things for Alle in the kitchen, in the gardens—stones and cups and chicken bones. She stole socks for me from the laundry, and we made them into puppets and did performances with them late at night. Sometimes we invited Bitsy over to watch. Miss Ridges continued to write the Dark Tales, and sometimes we made our puppets act out these stories. Nights we curled in her bed, and we learned each other’s bodies, sometimes quietly and sometimes with a desperation that made me wish I could understand every part of her and never worry she was going to drift away.