Come to think of it, I haven't taken many photos lately, compared to a few months ago. Losing interest in one's hobbies is a sign of depression. I don't think I've been depressed, but I can't say this last week has been the greatest. I saw a dead body, I'm being haunted, bees keep stinging me, and last night I had a troubling dream about my teacher, Ms. Mikado. There are plausible explanations. This could be a sign of anxiety about Gran getting married and things changing in my life—a perfectly normal reaction.
It's high time I had some good things happen, like Rudy buying us a pool. Austin would love lounging by the pool.
I imagine seeing Austin and remember I still have a gift for her, so I ask James to swing by my house before we go to Austin's.
At my house, my nerves tingle at the disobedience of being there during a school day, even though I'm supposed to be home sick. I walk on tiptoes, like a burglar, which is ridiculous.
As I retrieve the blue box from my dresser drawer, I think I hear the door. “Gran?” I call out. “Mibs?”
Nobody answers.
I can't shake the creeps, so I run out to where James is waiting with the Jeep, eager to get away from the empty house.
* * *
When we get to Austin's bright red house, my hands are nervous and don't know where to go. I feel like I'm asking her out on a first date, not like we've been seeing each other for over four moths.
Austin opens the door, sees me and James, gasps, and slams the door shut in our faces.
James turns to me, saying, “Something I said?”
The door opens a crack. “I'm not expecting company,” Austin says. Even the thin sliver of her is radiant, from her so-pale-it's-almost-silver hair to her pretty face. However, even though I'm no fashion expert, I can tell what she's wearing from the neck down is not as lovely.
James says, “What's with the ratty old housecoat? You look like my mom.”
The door closes again, and I smack James for being an idiot.
I crouch down and flip open the brass mail slot in the door to talk through.
“I have a present for you. Happy four month anniversary.”
I put the corner of the box through the brass mail slot, expecting that will get her to open the door, but instead she grabs the box and pulls it in.
“You're welcome,” I say.
Her eyes appear on the other side of the mail slot. “This is so sweet of you. I'd invite you in, but the place is a disaster.”
“Then come out with us. We're having a day off.”
She's quiet for a moment. “Wow, this necklace is really nice. It must have cost you a fortune. You really shouldn't have.”
I put my fingers through the mail slot and wiggle them. “Come out, we'll have some fun. I haven't seen you in ages.”
She squeezes my fingertips. “Okay. Give me five minutes to freshen up.”
* * *
James and I wait for Austin in the Jeep for half an hour, eating the remains of the junk food while complaining we shouldn't eat any more.
Finally, Austin emerges from the house she shares with some friends of her family. She's a petite girl, and she looks even smaller today in a puffy jacket made of fluffy, fake fur patterned to look like leopard, if leopards were pink. On her head is a black chauffeur hat, probably to cover the scar on her scalp from her surgery. I tell her nobody can see it, and her hair covers the line, but she says her hair is so pale and fine it's practically translucent, and she feels more comfortable hiding her secrets.
“You look like Julie Roberts in Pretty Woman, before the makeover,” James says.
“No I don't, I'm wearing jeans,” she says. “And sneakers. Call girls don't wear practical shoes.”
“Fair enough,” he says. “Why do girls love that movie? I like me some '90s-era Julia Roberts, but, Richard Gere? Is it the sick fantasy of being a call girl?”
“Don't listen to him,” I say as she settles into the back seat. “You look perfect, like always.”
She's got a necklace on, and I stare at it, unsure if it's the one I gave her. My memory of the pattern is hazy, and even as I'm looking at the jewelry now, the design seems to change and shift, like my pal Rudy's strangely-patterned old carpet.
Austin holds the pendant to her pale pink lips and kisses it. “I love this,” she says, then she gives me a kiss that doesn't last nearly long enough.
She wrinkles her cute little nose. “Eww, what were you eating? Your breath smells like feet.”
“Thank you,” James says. “He insists on eating white cheddar popcorn. That stuff is a biohazard.”
“Sorry,” I say, settling back in my seat.
I wish she'd told me she missed me instead of complaining about my popcorn breath.
* * *
James drives us to the Odell Mansion, which is the closest thing we have to a museum. I haven't been here since our class trip in seventh grade.
While we're paying for our admission, James says, “Raye-Anne Donovan is an Odell, did you know that? Well, her mother was an Odell before she married, so her name doesn't match, but if things had gone differently, this might have been Raye-Anne's house.”
The woman working the register says, “The mansion is in good hands now, with the Historical Society. Your friend Raye-Anne should volunteer with us. We'd love to have a genuine member of the family involved. Volunteer spots are always available.”
“Does anyone get paid for working here?” Austin asks. She's been looking for a new job, because she drinks too much coffee when she's working at the coffee shop. She also blames the cinnamon buns for her weight gain, but I think she looks perfect. She feels perfect too, and I have to resist grabbing at her butt when we're out like this, in public—which is a rarity. She was always happy to see me when I came to visit her in the hospital every day, but out in public she sometimes seems embarrassed to be with me.
The woman at the desk adjusts her too-tight-looking bun and explains how most of the admission fees and generous donations go to restoration of the mansion. They do pay the administration staff, as those positions are full-time jobs, but most everyone else only gets an honorarium.
Austin seems disappointed, which makes me disappointed.
“Getting to spend time in such a lovely space is payment enough,” the woman says.
“Lovely space doesn't pay rent or tuition,” Austin says with a sigh.
Some more people enter the tiny vestibule, so the three of us wipe our feet on the mat provided and enter the next part of the mansion.
The experience of coming out of the tiny entry way and into the grand space was probably designed by the architect to inspire awe, and how awesome it is. Above us are stairs that go up, up, up, like an M.C. Escher drawing. When you first stare up at the staircase, you think you're seeing an illusion, created by mirrors, because there's no way those are real stairs, but they are.
“I feel dizzy,” Austin says with a laugh.
I reach for her hand, but she's already wandering away, to the sitting rooms on the ground floor. These are spaces the Odell family would have used for entertaining, during the few short months they lived in the home before tragedy struck.
I can't quite remember what happened, but I believe The Hound Girl from the legend of the same name killed seven people and then herself. This all happened nearly a hundred years ago, and once enough time had lapsed and people could joke about it, they said she killed them all for calling her The Hound Girl.
I enter the room to find Austin admiring a stuffed and mounted pheasant under a glass dome.
“How do you think they got the bird insides out of the bird?” I ask her.
“It could be the body's made of something else and they stuck the plucked feathers into the form,” she says.
“Wrong,” I say. “I hope you don't think less of me for having a mild interest in taxidermy, but I happen to know they peel the skin off, including the fur or feathers, then stuff it like a teddy bear and sew it up.”
“Cool,” she say
s.
We lean in together to read the information card placed next to the pheasant:
In Victorian times, taxidermy was proudly displayed in homes as a symbol of human superiority over animals.
“Human superiority,” I muse.
Some people enter the room—a small tour group, judging by the leader delivering a well-rehearsed speech. She's talking about this year's huge controversy. As Austin pokes around, looking at the other stuffed animals and objects, I listen in to the guide.
Apparently, there's a big controversy going on now at the Odell Mansion. After years of debate and a few angry resignations, the Historical Society finally upgraded the lighting in the rooms, changing out the authentic reproduction dim bulbs for lights bright enough to actually illuminate all the antique treasures and artwork within the rooms. I gather from their conversation some of the lights are actually compact fluorescent bulbs, and the Society's been red-hot with a debate about changing wall paint colors to compensate for a different light temperature.
Austin leans over to me and whispers in my ear, “This gossip is even better than what's written on the signs for the rooms. Maybe I should volunteer for a shift or two. My dad figures he's a third cousin of the Odells. What do you think? Am I genuine?”
I kiss her, but near her ear so she isn't subjected to my white cheddar breath. “You are the genuine article.”
As we walk out of the room, back to the hall where we started, James tags me on the arm. “Race you to the top!” He flails off toward the first flight of the tall wooden staircase.
Austin pushes me away. “You go. I want to look at my own pace. We'll meet up later.”
I race after James, taking three steps at a time in enormous leaps. I pass him before the second floor, but don't let up my pace, enjoying the rush of power in my thighs and calves.
On the top floor, I've already had a good look around by the time James catches up to me. “This is my favorite room,” I say, pointing to the billiards table. “This is totally where the men would hang out. Hey, what if I had a games room in my basement?”
His hands on his hips, catching his breath, he says, “You barely have room for one foosball table.”
“Gran and I might move to a bigger place. Not Odell-Mansion-big, but bigger.”
“What are you talking about?”
I tell James all about finding Rudy's bank statement, and how my grandmother's future husband is loaded, and things might be looking up for my little family after all.
James wanders around looking at the artwork on display while I talk about the things I might buy.
“Olden-days people sure liked fox hunts,” he says, reaching out to touch one of the ornate frames. “What was the point of catching a fox, anyways? Did they eat them?”
A tall, skinny man with a thin mustache steps into view, seemingly from out of the shadows. “It was for sport,” he says. “Mind your fingers. They leave oils.”
Embarrassed by the volunteer overhearing my greedy talk about Rudy's fortune, I head for the stairs to go down a floor. James stays behind to talk about hunting foxes.
Wandering around the maze of rooms, I could easily forget who I am, the season, and even the year. A boy's bedroom, painted dark green, speaks to me, telling me to step over the rope and play with the train set, but I mustn't. I wonder if the bed is a real antique, or if underneath the hand-stitched blankets is a bottom-of-the-line, mass-produced mattress.
Gravity pulls at my eyelids. This room is the perfect shade of green, not too bright and not too dark, but just right. And the bed is so soft. I'm so warm and happy here.
Chapter Sixteen
A voice barks out, “Sir! Step back over the rope!”
I open my eyes, surprised to see the thin man standing in the doorway. Why's he in my room? I'm confused, because I'm just lying on my bed, like I always do for my afternoon nap. Soon I'll play with my trains, then Clara will call us for dinner.
“Sir!”
Like a splash of cold water, I remember who I am and roll off the bed as best I can without disturbing the blankets.
“I'm sorry,” I say. “I must be dehydrated. I don't remember ...”
There's a big frown under the volunteer's thin mustache. “Normally I would have to escort you out, but just between us, some of the rooms have been heating up lately. You're not the first one who's succumbed to that bed. This is why we warn people to tour in pairs at minimum.”
“I, uh, didn't know.” I squeeze past him, out of the room and into the hall, where the air is chilly by comparison.
He tilts up my chin and studies my eyes. “You'll be fine, but you'd best seek a companion.”
“What do you mean by heating up? Is the heating system malfunctioning?”
“If only it were that simple. I'm afraid it's the spirits at work.” His face brightens. “Say, why don't you and your friends volunteer for a spot? We could use some young, fresh blood.”
“I'll think about it,” I say politely as I make my way down the flight of stairs. They must really be hurting for volunteers if they're making up ghost stories to try and entice people. No thanks, buddy, I already have one ghost sending me crow-mails. Heh. Crow-mails.
On the next floor, I find Austin in one of the plainer rooms, one of the maid's quarters. “Zan! Come look at this old photo. The girl is wearing a necklace exactly like mine.”
I step into the room, noting the temperature seems to be equivalent to the hall. “Bah!” I take a step back again.
“What's wrong?” Austin asks.
I don't mean to be rude, but the young woman in the photograph—if it is a woman—is the ugliest girl I've ever seen. The photographer could have probably positioned the lights to be more flattering, but he didn't have a lot to work with. I know it's wrong to judge people by their looks, and honestly I try not to, but sometimes photographs scare me, especially when the eyes seem to be looking right at you.
I clear my throat and step in again.
“Poor homely girl,” Austin says. “I feel sorry for her. Still, you would imagine they had tweezers even in those days. There's no excuse for all that eyebrow, really, unless it's hiding something else.”
“She has a nice … she looks sturdy. Healthy.” I take a closer look at the necklace. My head is still fuzzy from my mini-nap upstairs, and the photo seems to swim in front of me. “I guess your necklace looks similar to hers. Though the Historical Society is pretty enthusiastic about acquiring the family's things to display in the house. You'd better not let anyone see your necklace.”
Austin makes an exaggerated gasp, holding both hands over her mouth, kicking one foot up behind her as though posing for a pin-up picture.
“Hey weirdos,” James says, entering the room. “You guys making out in here?” He throws his hands in the air suddenly. “HOUND GIRL!”
I take another look at the inscription under the photo: Simone, date unknown.
“I don't think it's The Hound Girl,” I say. “This is a maid's room, so it's probably one of the servants.”
Austin tucks her necklace inside her shirt, where the pendant can't be seen, then the three of us continue our tour together.
Some of the rooms haven't been restored or decorated, and a cracked linoleum flooring install in the '60s covers the original hardwood. During its history, the mansion was the base of operations for City Hall, before their new and current building was built. Gran works there now, in an office that is decidedly less interesting than a spooky old mansion.
The rooms awaiting restoration echo hollowly with sadness, caught between two times and forever neglected.
After a dozen more rooms, I'm ready to leave. The formula for each area is the same: old stuff artfully arranged on top of old furniture in old rooms, all decorated the same. The rooms and antiques are authentic and wonderful, I'm sure, but after a bit they're homogenous and not terribly exciting. No wonder the volunteers talk up the ghosts.
What would be cool, and what I would do if I were the h
ead of the Historical Society, would be to make some creatively anachronistic rooms. Like, you push open a door expecting a boring pink ladies' sitting room and it's actually a movie theater and video game room with surround sound. They could still have all the antique stuff, but reupholstered in black leather. Some of these couches would look really sweet in black leather.
“I could stay here all day,” Austin says.
“You'd get hungry,” I counter, hoping she doesn't mean it.
Something makes a terrifying grumbling noise.
“Sorry,” James says. “Did somebody say hungry?”
* * *
After our tour of the mansion, we visit the gift shop at the bottom floor. I would have thought they'd sell antique-looking things, but the shelves are filled with the same colorful ceramic frog figurines, flower-covered photo frames and corny fridge magnets you'd find anywhere. The only thing relevant are a few books about the history of the mansion.
Now my stomach is growling too, so we drive over to The Bean, the coffee shop where Austin works.
We snack on the half-price vegan cinnamon buns from the day before. They're not bad, considering they're butter-free. The day-olds are supposed to be for takeout only, not for dirtying up plates inside the cafe, but since Austin is with us, we're allowed.
We take a seat away from the windows, where the cafe's less crowded, because I have a lot of things to talk to Austin about, and they're not the sort of things I want overheard.
She sips her triple-shot Americano and listens as I tell her all about what she's missed in the last few days, from finding Newt's body in the pawn shop, to the threatening yet unhelpful notes he's been sending me. I tell her about my powers being dysfunctional lately, and James interrupts me when I get to the part about the twin girls at the lake.
“I totally hooked up with those girls,” James says. “In case that wasn't clear from how Mr. Monogamy was telling the story.”
She rolls her eyes. “Sure you did. Two girls had sex with you the same night they met you.”
“That's what you did with Zan,” James says.
Austin's mouth opens, but no words come out. I kick James under the table.
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