Beautiful Revenge

by John Forrester

  “This isn’t like you, being here in Phillip’s house of horrors.” He glances at me and his soft smile seems to relax the tension in his body. “There now, don’t frown. I suppose you’ve always been tagging along with Phillip…and now his game’s changed. He’s always pushing things—bending and twisting the rules of conduct that society expects.”

  “I didn’t do a thing, I promise. They were the actors on stage.”

  Father laughs at that, first a chuckle, then a rumble that swells in his broad chest and makes its way up to his throat. “Yes, my dear, how true…actors on a stage.” He looks up at me, his eyes suddenly angry and cold, sending a chill down my spine. “Just promise me you won’t audition for any of the parts, especially not with the likes of that Zachary. Find a better boy.”

  I nod my head, frozen by the harsh tone of his words, then I flash a frightened smile and turn to go off to bed. But as I cross the threshold to the hallway, I swear I hear Father whisper, “And don’t become a slut like your mother.”

  CHAPTER 2

  I HAVE FEVER dreams that night where, instead of Giselle writhing naked on the floor of Father’s study, I see myself there, purring like a cat while Zachary explores my sweating skin. My legs twitch as Father stands nearby and whispers, “Slut, slut, you’re just a slut like your mother.”

  Jolted by his words, I wake with a start, surprised to find myself in bed without clothes. I search under the sheets for my discarded and drenched pajamas. I rub my eyes and stretch, toss my pajamas at the door to the bathroom, and relish in the feeling of silk sliding against my skin.

  The soft, hazy light spilling in through the windows bathes the watercolors I’ve painted over the summer in a velvety wash. A garish, ugly shadow brutalizes the painting I’d done of Mother facing the ocean. The shadow is cast from a wall sculpture, Traces of Animalistic Vulgarity, which displays a hand reaching out from the wall, each finger yanked back by a steel string. The remarkable thing about the sculpture is the obscene, harsh lines that etch the palm and fingers, as if a black tattoo done over natural lines. Some may call me a wretch, but I find strange pleasure in eccentric works of art.

  The teak wood floor feels wonderfully cool against my feet, and the air, cold enough to prickle my skin into a sea of delicate goose pimples, feels like how I imagine Zachary’s hands must have felt to Giselle as they scandalized her body. A brief glimpse of my figure in the mirror sends a flush of disappointment through me as I remember Giselle’s body, her breasts beautiful and round. But I console myself that my long, wavy brown hair is shinier and more vibrant than Giselle’s straight, flat hair.

  I imagine at this early hour the house is as still as a pond in early morning, with only the servants shuffling quietly—cooking and cleaning while my parents sleep off their previous night’s drunkenness. That is, if Mother even made it home last night. Clarise, dear, your mother is spending the night with her girlfriends in the city for Fashion Week. Mother and her gang of fashionistas. I wish she’d let me come along. But I know she’s always trying to protect me from that life—her life, a life apart from Father doing whatever she does on her trips to New York City.

  But I refuse to be like her; I’d kill to maim every wanton instinct in my bones and knife the genetics writhing through my blood. How she looks at men. How she gawks at the boys. Why does she do that? Pray to be like Father, stolid and calm—a beacon of light at home.

  I remember Father’s cold eyes and unthinkable words, and step in the shower and stare up as the cold water washes wicked instincts from my itching skin. I wait until the burn of chill singes my flesh. Instead of water in my open mouth, I taste salt from tears spilled. How could he ever believe that I would be like Mother? I can still feel the pain and fear pouring from his expression. Is he worried that I’ll hurt him like she has?

  When I leave the shower, dripping water onto the thick, cottony bath mat, my frozen toes luxuriate in the heat emanating from the floor. This time I stand starkly, shocked at my blue, abused skin and soggy hair that hangs limply on my shoulders. I make a kung-fu pose, lying to myself that I look a bit like Uma Thurman in Kill Bill, but I’m unable to repress thoughts that scream to me, You’re almost a woman but you still look like a girl—pretty, or so the boys say—but nothing seductive, not like Mother. Thank heavens for that.

  By the time I’m dressed, dark clouds obscure the light outside, casting an ominous mood across my room. Instead of turning on the light, I relish in the feeling, like I’m watching a casket being lowered into the ground—a bizarre mixture of inward joy and outward, faked sadness.

  I dry off, trying to rub some warmth into my body, toss the towel onto the floor, and make my way towards the walk-in closet on the other side of the room. My bedroom door swings open and I scream at Phillip’s shocked face, causing him to jump and cover his eyes at my nakedness.

  “Jesus, Phillip! Don’t you ever knock? I’m not a little girl anymore where you can just barge into my room whenever you want. Show some respect.”

  He mutters an apology as I dash to the closet and put on some clothes. What’s up with my brother, anyway? I love him to death, but enough is enough.

  “What do you want, Phillip?” I yell, and slip on an amazing Stella McCartney dress I bought with Mother at Paris Fashion Week.

  “Nothing.” His voice is so soft I can barely hear him. He’s probably in one of his moods.

  I peek at him from the closet and watch him face plank onto my bed, releasing a tired, melancholic sigh.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “It’s just stupid, that’s all. Giselle is pissed at Zach and me for last night.”

  A sarcastic snort releases from my nose. “Well, let’s see…he gave her drugs, took off her clothes, and caused her to climax…in front of us. I’d be pissed if I were her.”

  “I think Zachary likes you. He’s always asking about you.”

  I raise an eyebrow and shake my head. “I don’t have a thing for your perverted best friend.”

  “So who do you like? Don’t you like any of them?” Phillip rolls over on the bed. Those beautiful amber eyes of his gaze into mine, curiosity beaming from the expression on his face.

  “You’re almost eighteen.” His broad, devilish smile hints at memories of his many former conquests: young sluts in heat. “You must be craving by now…I was insatiable at your age.”

  “It’s not like that with me, Phillip—” He raises a hand to stop me.

  “Just imagine one boy, one special boy at school, one who makes you feel warm and maybe even irritable. Maybe you even hate him.”

  I think of my classes at Scheumann Academy, of the boys who gaze wantonly at me, of the girls who glare at me, bitches in heat, jealousy beaming in their eyes. Eyes that catch the lust from the boys directed at me. I don’t miss a single expression. I see it all.

  But there is one boy who’s different: Keary, whose glances of loathing and sadness haunt me. Now that I think about it, they do haunt me, even if only for a fleeting moment. I feel his soul, where there’s deep darkness and pain, but there’s also hope.

  My expression must have betrayed me, for a knowing smile spreads across Phillip’s face. “So there is a boy? Ah, but maybe he doesn’t even know yet, maybe you’ve only just realized it now? How lucky for him to taste your tender—”

  I flip him off and yell at him to get out of my room. I’m sure my face is flushed in fury, but I don’t care. He keeps pushing me and I’ve had quite enough of him. He laughs as he tumbles to the floor, and with a simpering smile on his face, he rolls over and spins towards the door. While gliding through it, he lingers, only his face exposed, winks one of his maddeningly attractive winks, and he’s gone.

  The next day at school I pay cautious attention to Keary, who is sitting in the back corner of the English Studies room, looking disgustingly beautiful. Focused intently on his work, his sandy brown hair spills over his gray-blue eyes. How did I never think of him until now? I’ve noticed him before, I’m sure of th
at, but never for more than a moment. All the other boys were so overt, so clever, so charming, and so eager to win my friendship and my attention. But for some strange reason, not him.

  Keary is always so studious, so serious. His beautiful fingers, so deft and talented, grip a charcoal pencil. He scratches away at his paper, writing lines of something I imagine as dark and mysterious. Drawing flowers and demons and eyes amidst strange scenes of twisted madness.

  I feel my neck flush with heat as Keary stares up at me, catching my lingering gaze. He smiles a surprisingly innocent smile, the clouds breaking up, allowing the sunshine of his soul to shine through. With a delicately stupid expression on my face, I realize that my lips are parted and he’s lifting the corner of his mouth in a smirk. Hope flashes in his eyes since I haven’t turned away yet.

  I glance down at his fingers stroking the paper and can’t help but remember the image of Zachary rubbing Giselle between her legs. I feel myself go wet with a heat surging inside my thighs. As the feeling intensifies, I squeeze my knees together, force myself to break Keary’s gaze, and instead concentrate on the hideous sound of chalk scraping against the board. Our teacher, Ms. Lovecraft, a thick cast attached to her left leg from a fencing accident, is scratching out famous quotations from influential writers of history.

  The bell rings and I linger at my desk, hopeful that Keary might brush by me or even make some excuse to talk, but he just ambles outside, ignoring me completely. I tug my heavy backpack over my shoulders, sigh in frustration, and discover that I am the last one to leave the room.

  When I pictured first love in my daydreams, it was always so clear and natural, not like this. I stare at the distant form of Keary bobbing down the hall, whispering some humorous secret to his friend, Ryan. Keary glances back at me for a split second, his face an instant flash of contempt, and I slam into a girl—no, not a girl, a stupid slut, the infamous cocksucking champion of Scheumann Academy: Tiffany, clutching her Fendi fuck-me bag.

  “Bitch! Watch where you’re going.” Tiffany shoves me back against the lockers, her arms no doubt fueled by all the sperm she drinks from the rugby players.

  I allow myself to settle back, scanning the flock of plastic Barbie sluts surrounding Tiffany. “Huh?” I lean in and stare at the beauty mark—more like a nasty mole—on her face, and grin when Tiffany raises her hand to her mouth. “What’s that above your lip? Is that a wart?” I put on a clinical look of concern and wag my head.

  “It’s a beauty mark, as in beauty…like, something you lack.” Tiffany scoffs pathetically and it comes out more like a pig’s snort.

  Hand to mouth, I make an obscene gesture of sucking cock. “I’m happy to lack STDs on my face…speaking of which, here come more clients for your blow job service.” Tiffany eyes flare in fury, but she takes the bait and turns as the rugby team comes swaggering down the halls, hands groping crotches, moving in a pack like wild apes. I deftly roll aside and disappear amongst the herd.

  Scheumann Academy is tedious, filled with spoiled bitches and arrogant jerks. I miss my old middle school, where everyone, including the teachers, seemed nicer. Matty, my best friend, moved to New York, and Devan, my other best friend, moved to London. If it wasn’t for Phillip, guiding me through the mire of prep school, I think I’d be lost. I dread next year, when Phillip will go off to Yale, and I’ll be stuck in senior year to fend for myself. Maybe I should switch from ballet to kung-fu.

  I glide in wispily to my last class of the day, the one where my Digital Video teacher, Mr. Johnson—aka Masters and Johnson—enjoys rubbing me between my shoulder blades and hand-humping me under the guise of guiding my mouse movements. It’s the class where my solid A is no doubt fueled by Mr. Johnson’s Lolita-inspired fantasies, where I star in his brilliant new rendition of The Virgin Suicides. Extra credit, Mr. Johnson? Do I have to run through a wildflower field wearing a negligible white dress, twirling around, the wind whipping up under my dress and rushing between my legs, while I fall down (the camera pans up and over me) onto a bed of daisies and touch myself for the very first time?

  Mr. Johnson tilts his head in a query. No doubt he’s wondering what that twisted expression is on my face. I chuckle to myself, sit at an editing station, and bring up Final Cut Pro as the room dims to inspire our creativity. Lost in my new project, Clouds Eating Rainbows, I fail to notice Keary stalking up to me. Only when he pulls a stool alongside mine do I feel the triple thud of my heart hammering inside my chest.

  “Hey.” Keary’s voice is low and gravelly, and I feel as if those delicious fingers of his have just traced down my naked spine. I shiver and glance up at his eyes, illuminated and dancing with thunderclouds reflected from the video on my Mac’s display.

  My throat is suddenly parched so I swallow and unconsciously find myself running my tongue over my lips.

  “Hi.” My voice sounds stupidly like a toad.

  A long, sweaty pause causes my skin to prickle in stimulation as I again hold his gaze and find myself staring down at his knowing smile.

  “You looking for a partner?” Keary’s face forms a cute lost-puppy expression. When he says the word “partner” I immediately picture Zachary ravaging Giselle’s body.

  “Um…”

  “You know, Mr. J said we needed to find a partner for the next project.”

  “Oh, right. Yeah, I forgot about that.”

  “Lost in the clouds?” Keary smiles sweetly and glances at my video where ominous black clouds are eating rainbows and descending upon unsuspecting unicorns in a grassy field.

  “Yeah, that. It’s my way of ejecting years of my mother-induced princess nightmares.”

  Keary’s chuckle is a rumble that I can feel inside my body. His fingers, like Adam’s fingers touching God’s, trace through his hair and I’m surprised to find my own fingers doing the same.

  “It’s messed up what our parents do to us.” His face frowns as he stares at the unicorns fleeing from lightning bolts.

  I picture the time I found my mother sucking the cock of one of Phillip’s friends in the drawing room—him in a tuxedo, and my mother’s long, brown hair pulled back with one hand while her head bobbed back and forth, mounted on his crotch like a polo player on a horse. My voice is choked and dry.

  “Yeah…super messed up.”

  “My father is a serious asshat.” Keary’s stare becomes distant; harsh lines form on his forehead.

  My head nods slowly in agreement. “Well, my mom’s probably failed in all the Being a Good Mother classes. So, yeah.”

  “So how about it? Partner?” Keary extends his beautiful hand towards my trembling one, and I gingerly accept, warmth spreading from my palm down between my thighs as I hold his hand for a dangerous length of time. A curious smile forms on his lips, and I go cold, feeling the groping hand of Mr. Johnson molesting my shoulder.

  “How about we focus on each of our own projects?” Mr. Johnson’s mouth opens to display artificially whitened teeth, and his thin tongue flicks out to wet the mole that’s on his lower lip. I imagine myself vomiting on his crotch and slamming my Mac’s thirty-inch display onto his flaky and balding head, showering the room with my princess hatred.

  But instead I flash him a smile that says, Of course, Mr. Johnson, you’re the best teacher in the whole world. Then he rubs my shoulder blade some more and stares down at my breasts. He turns and limps away, and Keary rolls his eyes and sticks a finger in his mouth pretending he wants to hurl. I laugh, give him a small wave, and am utterly unable to concentrate on anything for the rest of the day.

  CHAPTER 3

  THE SUNDAY AFTERNOON when Keary comes over to Harris House, our historic Andover estate, under the guise of working on our video project, he arrives at one, around the time my parents are getting plastered on Long Island Ice Teas at the yacht club. I can’t help but notice how incredibly cute he looks today, wearing a simple white polo shirt and tattered jeans. The school year is rapidly drawing to a close, and although this is the last project of the
year, it weighs only nominally on our grade.

  “Cool Mac.” I glance at the MacBook Pro in Keary’s hands.

  “Retina.” He taps the corner of his eye. “Pixel power. Where’s your setup?”

  I aim a finger at the thirty-foot ceiling and we saunter up the marble stairs, Keary’s languid eyes curiously stalking paintings of old masters of Harris House, the tapestries from France, the alabaster statues from Italy. He pauses to bend down and peer inside an ornate, sixteenth-century brass square clock from England, my favorite artifact of Father’s vast collections from trips abroad. Keary’s soft, engaging voice is warm in my ears.

  “Did you know that Harris House has legendary status among the turn-of-the-century Andover estates?”

  I play ignorant and tilt my head querulously, hoping to draw him in, craving the sound of his addictive voice. “Father never mentioned much about Harris House.” It wasn’t a lie, Father didn’t, but Grandmother certainly spent hours and hours on lazy Sunday afternoons showing me the albums, telling me the old stories of Harris House and how it would someday be mine, until the house ceased to be a place and instead came alive as a living entity. And, technically, Harris House is now mine. After Grandmother died last year, as a part of our family’s tradition, the house passed from grandmother to granddaughter. I smile, gazing at the house I adore, taking in all its charms and warmth, knowing it belongs to me.

  “Harris House is considered the best and brightest of the old Andover estates—the shining star.” Keary caresses the mahogany handrail and stares down at the grand foyer, at the double doors, and at the twin palms guarding either side of the entrance, and I feel myself slowly gliding towards him, a metallic shard drawn to his invisible magnetism.

  In his expression, I sense love and admiration for the house, and that attracts me to him even more. I find myself wanting to run my fingers through his wavy hair.