The Roses Academy- the Entire Collection

by Tara Brown

  My dress is strapless, teal-green, and tight. I was gonna wear the outfit my momma picked out for me, but it seemed too hot. Instead, I chose the short cocktail dress as my last act of defiance, before I wouldn’t be under her roof and control. My whole plan is dependent upon Whit's arrival. I sip from my flute and wander about.

  My anxiety is making even my drink taste foul.

  People hug me and shake my hand. Old men leer at me in my dress. The thick material makes a bunched belt that accentuates my hips and chest.

  To the other women in the room, I'm the luckiest girl in all the South.

  The night is hot and humid and I'm grateful I made the choice I did. The other dress woulda killed me by now as would the pencil skirt she had also mentioned. At least this dress is short enough that I can move my legs freely. I'm fanning myself and watching everyone be excited about the man I snagged. It seems the whole town is excited. A local girl snagged herself a Kennedy.

  Angie is the only one who is clearly sick and worried. Her eyes glow with moisture several times. There’s devastation all over her face.

  Martin grabs my hand and drags me up to make a toast with him. He thanks the crowd of people and toasts me. I want to stab him in the eye when he calls me his sweetheart. But I smile, just like I was taught to. I am good at behaving the way I was taught to.

  He excuses us youngsters and thanks my family for a wonderful night. He takes my hand and leads me out to the garden path.

  The jazz band is starting up. I have slipped them a list of songs my momma would never approve of.

  The caterers and servants are everywhere with trays of rock glasses and flutes. Men are starting to gather to one side and ladies are milling about, waiting to be asked to dance.

  Angie stands behind Martin and waves me over. My eyes go to her but Martin holds my hand firmer and pulls me to the dance floor. He shoots a rock glass of bourbon and pulls me into him. He holds the glass out and someone comes and takes it.

  I hate him. He can't even hand off a glass without seeming like an asshole.

  He grins under the light of the torches and I am sickened. His touch nauseates me.

  The huge columns and overhanging bushes make the rose garden seem ancient and mysterious. It's like we are behind a hidden veil to a world where anything is possible. The Louisiana magic floats in the air like fairy dust. The moon is high and the torches are perfect. The dance floor ain't too lit. It ain't so bright you would notice the small details.

  I'm gonna be ill.

  The song finishes and Martin steps away. “Okay, darling. Go have a drink and loosen up. I have expectations now that we are officially engaged.” He walks away to drink with his friends. They eye me up and cheer for him as he makes his way back to the circle. My momma already told me there are expectations men have of their fiancées. It was a beautiful mother-daughter moment. She brushed my hair and told me about things that made me want to gag.

  I walk into one of the huge rose bushes, close to crying. He ain't coming.

  “Lorelei.” I almost jump when I hear his voice. I spin and am unable to fight the smile that breaks across my face. “You came, lord in heaven, I didn’t think you were.”

  His eyes are serious. “We need to talk. Now.”

  My eyes dart around. Everyone is too sober. I shake my head. “Not yet. If anyone sees you and me, it could ruin everything. Come find me in a bit. I'll signal you when it's time.” I step forward and brush my lips against his quickly, before I turn and make my way back to the party.

  Angie finds me and we smoke and drink while she tells me about how it's not too late to make a run for California. I feel free to be happy now that he has shown up. Martin thinks I'm loosening up to do forbidden things that are not part of The Ladies’ Handbook. But I'm loosening up to leave. I have a plan. My anxiety over his not showing up is nothing, compared to the anxiety I have about what I'm about to do. I watch Em and make sure she's not getting too drunk. I need her mobile.

  Chapter 8

  The fog in my head is a rush I can't fight and I can’t remember everything clearly.

  The party is over, it has been for a while.

  It ended so much faster than I woulda expected it to.

  It ended so differently than it shoulda.

  I creep out into the dark shadows and try to piece it all together but too much is missing from my memory. It’s like the mist has settled in my head and the garden.

  In the dark, the shrubberies come to life differently than they did in the light of the torches that are now destroyed. Everything is destroyed and yet I am giddy.

  I have fed from the love that was offered and now I am doomed. I sense that. I still taste it on my lips and feel it as the confusion forms in my head.

  As I walk, I notice the way the white columns glow against the enveloping black of the forest, as though I have a spotlight upon me. Every rose and thorn appears darker, like my heart. My giddy black heart that is broken, but I can't seem to access the pain. The giddiness is taking away the senses, I swear I had.

  The garden reaches for me as I drag my slender fingers along the thorns and leaves. Something euphoric is inside me, blocking my feelings and memories.

  I tiptoe in my slippers amongst the hanging trees and bushes, to the outdoor dance floor.

  Everyone has gone.

  Fled, run for their lives. The ones who didn’t are dead, littered amongst the house and the halls and garden paths. So many are dead.

  I should flee too.

  I know it but I can't seem to make myself.

  The smoke from the fire burning one whole side of the house mixes with the mist in the air. Slowly it blankets the garden, hiding it and me.

  But it's not enough. I need to run, but I'm not.

  I'm in a dream.

  I'm certain of it.

  Everything fell apart too rapidly to be real. One minute we were dancing and then the next—what happened next?

  How did everyone die?

  Why am I not dead?

  Or am I?

  Reaching the old, worn cement, I lean my back against one of the pillars. If I close my eyes I can still feel the warmth of his arms at either side of me, his breath at my cheek.

  Memories battle amongst themselves, creating a blur instead of a picture. He is in my head, fuzzing everything else out.

  There should be panic, but instead, there is confusion. But all of it's dulled by something. Some kind of magic that makes me feel alive and free.

  I have never been more lost in thought and emotion.

  “I'm not making sense,” I whisper into the mist.

  The pillar makes me feel it all again. The way his hands ran down my sides and the way his lips pressed against my nape. My skin shivers from the memory.

  The damp in the air heightens the moment. The thick mist and the smoke form into something that resembles him.

  I could remain the night and dream of him, but they will be coming for me. They came for everyone else. Everyone who stayed. I’m the last alive.

  They will find me.

  I let myself enjoy the last second of the smells and feelings before I slip away with the mist.

  I've always hated the dark and the things that hide there with reaching fingers and icy whispers. I never knew anything real, beyond a ghost, could live in the dark.

  Now I know better.

  There are things that can live in the smallest of shadows. The dark is not ours. It never was. It has always belonged to things we can't understand.

  I run through the woods along the path, like I have practiced. I could run it blindfolded if need be. My slippers make no sounds against the old dead leaves and dirt. The farmhouse is a mile away. When I reach it, a sense of relief washes over me. It stands alone in a huge wheat field surrounded by forest. Even my momma doesn’t come here, only Emily, our daddy, and me. We are—were—the only ones who ever came here. No one knows about it, not even the help. It's always been our momma's greatest embarrassment, beyond th
e childhood she's hidden away.

  The wheat strands scratch against each other, whispering into the black night. I let my fingers brush the itchy wheat strands as I run through them almost silently. My feet make no sounds climbing the front porch of the white weather-beaten farmhouse. I slip through the storm door with the key from the window ledge and lock it once I'm inside. I close the huge wooden door and lock the several locks. It might not keep them out, but I'm willing to take a chance on a lock. It'll at least make a noise when they're through it.

  I don't look around. Nothing is inside with me. Not yet. They were all still eating when I left. A gagging sob leaves my throat when I think about it.

  Eating the dead?

  I don't know what it means, but my memory has something in it, something I need to find so I know how this happened and why I’m here.

  I run up the stairs to the bedroom with the peeling wallpaper that I can't see in the dark, but it's there all the same. I smile, seeing my house from the huge window. If I squint hard enough, through the overhanging willows and black walnut trees, I can see the smoke rising from the burning house, my house.

  The pillars at the forest’s edge glow like the ruins in Rome against the dark trees. The mist and smoke lie low along the ground, blanketing the forest and fields. The mist moves as if it's searching for something, someone.

  I watch the field and listen to the whispers of the breeze tickling the wheat. Everything sounds as it should. When I relax, my memories take over where my instincts have been. Sliding my back down the wall to sit on the old musty carpet across from the huge window, I try to get control of my brain again and remember something.

  I close my eyes for a second and I can hear the music.

  Nina Simone, or rather someone who sounded just like her, was singing about the birds and sun and the sky. She was singing about feeling good and the way love brings with it a new dawn. I love the song “Feeling Good,” and I love her version the best.

  I keep my eyes closed and try to remember the details I still can't fully reach.

  I relax and let myself remember it. I whisper the words to the song into the dark lonely room and let the memories come back.

  I was leaning with my back against the pillar. I was hot and sticky from dancing. The heavy air was filled with the sickly sweet smell of cigars. It rolled around me. I wiped my glistening face and looked around for Whit. We had been avoiding each other. Or rather, I had been avoiding him. I didn’t want Martin to see us together. Or worse, my momma.

  Whit wanted to tell me something, but Martin was still too sober and watching my every move. I waited for the moment when he was drunk and he slipped off into the forest. I only got a glimpse of the black dress on the girl he dragged in there. The night was too misty and the air was too dense for me to see clearly. I remember I felt sorry for her, whoever she was.

  I took the opportunity to seek out Whit.

  His eyes caught mine from across the garden that was filled with smooth jazz. The lanterns were placed strategically, revealing only the paltry details we wanted seen and allowing the dark to hide the rest. The warm light hit his smile from across the weathered dance floor that my daddy was determined to replace next summer.

  Whit's chestnut hair seemed darker with so little light touching him. The shadows played on his handsome face, making impressions of different people dance upon it as he crossed the dance floor to me. He placed his big hands on either side of me, trapping me to the pillar. The warmth of them made the air seem heavier. Scotch swirled in his breath in front of my face. My eyes darted nervously for anyone watching us, even though we were hidden in a shadow.

  It was all too exciting. Forbidden love.

  He smiled his lazy grin and whispered into my nape, “Meet me inside in ten minutes. I need to show you something before we leave, okay? I love you.”

  He kissed my neck, massaging it with his warm breath. I shuddered. He pushed off the pillar with a grin, but I saw something in his eyes. It was panic.

  It didn't match the mood or the music or the way I felt.

  He turned and disappeared into the crowd of dancers who were feeling good with Nina Simone.

  I didn’t see the people laughing and having fun. I noticed the cut of his beige linen pants and the small trickle of sweat that had soaked into the back of his white dress shirt. I noticed the way he entered the dark path to go back to the dark house. I noticed the way Nina Simone sang “Feeling Good.” She felt what I was feeling in that moment. You can't sing with that kind of sexual tension without knowing that feeling.

  I stop my memories before they get too far. Something is not right in my mind. He has done something to me. I'm crying alone in the dark of my daddy’s hiding house, leaning against the peeling wallpaper.

  Something is wrong with me.

  And now I know what it is.

  If only the night had stopped there.

  If only I’d watched him walk away from me and then an asteroid had hit the earth and destroyed everything.

  My last memory woulda been a mixture of the back of a beautiful man and the curiosity of the thing he wanted to show me. It would be minus the horror of the truth in his words. So many words that seemed innocent at the time are now sullied by the memories I don't want to remember, but I have to.

  I'm crying softly and listening to the sounds of the field when I notice the wheat sounds different. Something changes.

  Turning, I glance up at the moon hovering in the air over the abandoned mansion. The way it's hidden behind the clouds makes the night seem darker than normal. Perhaps it’s the dark deeds that have made the night seem worse.

  I hear it again.

  The wheat tickles against someone.

  Someone is walking through the massive field.

  Their steps interrupt the way the wheat dances with the breeze.

  I close my eyes, wondering if I should be able to hear it. It’s still so far off.

  I wait. I wish, for the first time in my life, that the icy whispers would return and make it so I’m not alone in this moment.

  I hate waiting in the dark for them—him.

  He doesn’t know the path up the stairs. He, or whoever is coming up the stairs, steps in the middle where the boards creak.

  My heart races and I wonder how long it will beat for.

  The door rattles.

  I crawl along the floor to the closet.

  My daddy built the old farmhouse after the war, when I was a girl. He was obsessed that it wasn’t really over. Hell, in the South none of the wars ever really end.

  I push on the back wall where the wallpaper seam is. The wall clicks. I push it open and step into the dark. I close the closet door and then the opening in the wall. I turn the latch on the wall and pick up the thick beam from the floor. It feels lighter than it did when I was a child. I place it across the door that locks the wall in place. It's impossible to get through.

  The secret room was built in case the Germans or Japanese made their way into Louisiana, even though they had surrendered when he built the damn house. At one point, Daddy got so paranoid he forced us to run the path he'd made from the mansion to the farmhouse over and over. He never believed the war was over. Like I said, war doesn’t end in the South.

  It was the one flaw he had that Momma endured for over twenty years. His paranoia always had the better of him. I thought he was crazier than a shit-house rat. Now I'm grateful.

  I smile bitterly. If he could see me now, using his safe house, he would be prouder than a peacock. He would know he'd built it for a purpose.

  I think about all the things I've feared in my life. The things outside testing the locks on the door don't feel scarier than a German invader, even though they are. Perhaps, because I've been trained for nineteen years to fear Nazis more than anything. Perhaps, it's because the things outside the house don't feel real to me.

  They shouldn't be real. They are the frightening characters in the tales Grandmamma spun to scare Ramón and me.
They are the things I've long believed to be a figment of Grandmamma's imagination. Ramón and I would laugh at her.

  Who's laughing now? Ain't me laughing. Not with any sanity anyway. I might laugh in a bit when they find me but that will be all madness.

  I flinch when I can tell the first lock is gone. I hear the wooden door buckle under the strain of their strength. It's greater than I imagined possible, even for a monster from a story.

  I still smell the cigar smoke on my dress. I imagine his lazy grin. I taste the scotch on his breath. I feel his fingers brushing the sides of my body. It all wants me to go to him. He's using my own mind to call to me. Thankfully, the smell of mothballs in the secret room takes over, reminding me why I need to be afraid.

  I slide down the wooden beam across from the door and wait.

  They'll smell me out. They're animals.

  I doubt my decision to run to the old farmhouse.

  I should have run away. My legs are strong. I'm the fastest runner I know. I can outrun any boy. I outran Ramón every time.

  The last lock snaps with a smash. The house trembles and I imagine them ripping the door off the hinges. In my mind they snarl. All the best creatures snarl. They sniff the air. They smell the cigar smoke on me, no doubt.

  I shiver.

  I don’t know if it's out of fear or anticipation.

  I want him to find me.

  If I'm brutally honest with myself, I can forgive Whit anything and that scares me. The sight of the blood in my fractured memory tells me everything I need to know about him, and yet I can't fight what my heart fills with when I'm around him.

  No one knows about the farmhouse. No one knows my daddy built it. No one knows about the secret room. I wish my family had run for the safety of the farmhouse. I wish Em and Daddy were here with me.

  The memories fill my mind in a flash of horror and blood spray. They never had a chance.

  I hear a sound and push away the memories.

  I need to focus on surviving now. Not that there is anything left to survive for. By the sounds they're making, they are on the stairs. The boards creak under their weight. I imagine they weigh more than an average man. They are more than the average man.