Made for You

by Melissa Marr

  It’s my turn to be silent, but I suspect I seem more sulky than mysterious.

  He stands, looks at the dishes, and muses, “I’ll need to ask your mother to show me around tomorrow before we leave. Figure out meals and what all I’m to do.”

  “Right.” I try to smile. Being around him is confusing. He keeps saying and doing things that make me think he’s interested in me, but then, he retreats.

  Now that Robert and I are through, I can admit that I’m really not content with platonic friendship with Nate—which is why my voice comes out sharp and I snap, “Leave the dishes today. You’re not on the clock yet.”

  An expression I can’t read crosses his face.

  “Would it help to think of me as your combo butler and maid?” he half teases. He smiles, and I can’t help smiling back at him. I need to work harder at suppressing my crush, or I’ll lose him completely.

  “Maybe . . . but we’ll need to discuss your uniform then.” I pause and look at him as if I’m considering the matter seriously. “I might as well get some pleasure out of having a sitter, and you’re not horrible to look at.”

  He shakes his head.

  “I’ll see you and Grace tomorrow,” he says, and then he leans down and kisses the top of my head, further blurring lines that I’m already having trouble seeing.

  UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

  HarperCollins Publishers

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  DAY 12: “THE SACRIFICE”

  Judge

  TOMORROW, I’LL SEE HER again. They probably think I didn’t care enough. If They knew how much I do care, They’d be shocked. I bet not even Reverend Tilling prays for her as much as I do.

  Since I sent the message, I’ve been waiting for a sign, some proof that she understood. I’ve seen nothing.

  Perhaps the message wasn’t clear enough.

  Sin and status are sure ways to death. It’s so obvious. Maybe Micki was too vague. She wasn’t filled with sin. She clung to her status, but she guarded her chastity. Maybe a second message, one on the nature of purity, will help.

  I drive past Eva’s house on the way to the grocery. Grandmother wants some special cheese for some dish that no one will eat. Every so often she decides to pretend she can still cook, so I volunteered to go to the grocery. She’ll be asleep by the time I’m home, but I’ll tell her I was back early. She’ll cover for me without prompting if anyone ever asks. An alibi will matter this time.

  I text Amy while I’m at the grocery. “Busy?”

  “When?”

  “Now.”

  “Pick me up at DQ in 15.”

  I smile. She’s a good giver. I’m glad we’ll get a chance to spend a little time together before the message. I was sad that she wasn’t available a few days ago, but yesterday we went to the old summer kitchen out on the Kennelly place.

  I check the cooler in the trunk where the asphodel I bought is waiting. It’s an odd flower, harder to get at the grocery, so I drove almost all the way to Durham to buy it. Amy deserves it, and later, Eva will understand what I’m saying with it. I slip on my gloves and bring the flower into the front seat.

  My smile doesn’t fade as I drive to the parking lot beside the ice cream shop. I’m a little late, but Amy is used to it. She never lets her parents see who’s picking her up. Her mother is a believer in changing their lot in life by way of marriage. It worked before, and since the divorce, she’s determined to try it again. My grandmother detests the Crowne family because of it. She calls Amy’s mother a “social climber.” I have to wonder if my father took a climb on that reputedly well-frequented ladder. He’s discrete, but he explained it to me years ago: there are girls you fuck, and girls you marry, and it’s best not to confuse the two.

  I turn on the cell phone jammer I keep in the glove box right before I pull into the lot, and then I cut off my lights. I trust Amy, but it’s important to be cautious anyhow. Privacy helps avoid questions.

  I picked this lot because someone broke out the street lights here. I could explain it if they saw us—Amy has plenty of boyfriends—but I won’t have to explain. There’s no one around the darkened lot to see me.

  Only a few moments pass before the car door opens, and she slides into the passenger seat. I’m moving before the door is even closed.

  “Jerk,” she mutters.

  I reach over and put my hand on her bare knee.

  She flinches at the feel of the gloves on her skin. “That’s new.”

  “Shhh.” I take my other hand off the wheel for a moment and hand her the asphodel. “For you.”

  “It’s . . . unusual.” She examines the flower as I slide my hand up until my fingertips are wedged between her thighs.

  “Open up.”

  She complies.

  When I don’t move my hand after several moments, she starts to close her legs.

  “No.” I tighten my grip on her leg, not enough to bruise but hard enough that she lets out a small cry of pain. “You’re generous.”

  “You could ask,” she mutters, but her hand is in my lap now and she unfastens my trousers quickly. Her other hand holds tightly to the flower.

  I don’t look at her. Instead, I think of Eva . . . but she wouldn’t do this, not here in the car. She’s better than this, special in a way that no one else can be. I think of Eva in the backseat watching us.

  “Stop.” I put my hand over Amy’s. “Not like this. Not tonight.”

  She obeys, and we’re silent as we drive to Scuppernong Park. I park, cut off the engine, and reach into the backseat. On the floor is a bottle of wine—from the Cooper Winery, of course. I like to drink it when I’m with Amy. It makes me think of Eva, helps me feel like she’s with me.

  Once I open it, Amy and I pass the bottle back and forth. I put on a condom before I guide her hand back to my trousers. “So it’s not messy.”

  She giggles, but doesn’t argue. “And the gloves?”

  “It’s something I read about,” I say. I don’t mention where I read it.

  I know her body well enough to distract her before she thinks too much about it. A few minutes later, we’re both panting. “Will you? No one else does it like you. I’ve missed it.”

  In my mind, I realize what a sacrifice I’m making. I’m giving this up so Eva can be saved. I tangle my hand in Amy’s hair to urge her down. When she starts to remove the condom, I yank her away.

  Her yip of pain makes me guilty and excited all at once. “No. Leave it on.”

  “But—”

  “Please. I just want tonight to be different,” I whisper.

  She sits up and stares at me for a moment.

  “Come on,” I beg. “I want to pretend. We could be strangers tonight.”

  She frowns. “You’re fucked up.”

  “But you like it.” I start pulling her back toward me, and this time she doesn’t resist.

  Afterward, I remove the condom and stuff it into a bag that I brought with me. Beside it on the floor is a tiny pill and the wine bottle. I slip the pill into the wine, lift it like I’m drinking so I can dissolve the pill into the wine. I would never drug a girl to get her naked. That’s wrong. I don’t want Amy to hurt though. If there were anyone else who could give the message, I wouldn’t do this.

  I hand her the bottle and tell her, “Here. You can drink the rest while I take care of you.”

  Her eyes widen, and I realize she thinks I mean something different. I’ve been too careful not to leave any fluids so far, so I can’t do that. I put the bottle to her lips and use my gloved hands to make her happy before the pill kicks in.

  “Serious afterglow,” she mumbles after she reaches satisfaction. Her words slur, and she slumps to the side.

  I realize that I’m crying silently when she loses consciousness. I’m proud that I gave her happiness before that happened. I’ll miss her.

  Quietly, I get out of the car, go around to her side, and scoop her into my arms.
I bring the asphodel too. I walk to the edge of the lake and lower her to the ground. “Thank you,” I whisper. She can’t hear me, but I still need to say it. I have manners.

  I remove her shirt and break the wine bottle on the ground beside her. I watch to be sure Amy doesn’t move. Then, I tuck the asphodel under her, so the water won’t wash it away.

  She’s unconscious, facedown at the edge of the water. Then, I pick up a piece of glass and start to write a message on Amy’s back. I keep one hand on her shoulders to hold her steady as I push the glass into her skin. She cries out as I carve the words, but she doesn’t move away. She can’t, but I still whisper comforting words to her as I carefully spell out FOR EVA. JUDGE.

  I turn her head so she’s facedown in the water, and I hold her steady. I could’ve left, left her alone for her death as I did with Micki, but Amy means too much to me for that. I stay at Amy’s side as she inhales the water, shudders, and dies.

  Then, I carefully peel off the gloves and incinerate them on the ground. After they stop burning and melting, I use the piece of broken bottle to push the remains of the gloves into the water and tuck the glass into my pocket to save. It’s harder to walk away from Amy than it was from Micki. I glance back and whisper, “Thank you.”

  Someday, I’ll tell Eva about this moment, and she’ll understand how deep my love for her runs.

  I sacrificed a friend for her. I wouldn’t do that for anyone else.

  UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

  HarperCollins Publishers

  ..................................................................

  DAY 13: “THE VEIL”

  Eva

  I FEEL LIKE I’M getting ready to face an attack instead of a funeral. I know that most of my classmates will be there, and as guilty as I feel for wanting to skip it, I really wish I could. I want to pay my respects to Micki, but I don’t want to talk to anyone. I certainly don’t want them to see my slashed-up face. I’m not ready. I’m not sure I ever will be.

  I pull on the long black dress my mother set out this morning. It seems strange that we wear the same size, but she’s really not that much older than me. Maybe that’s why motherhood has always seemed a little confusing to her. She was almost my exact age when she got pregnant with me, so she’s still young enough to be thin and have clothes I’m not embarrassed to wear. If anything, I look better when I borrow from her closet. This dress is no exception.

  “I can do this,” I repeat as I try to avoid the mirror my mother refuses to cover. I’m fairly sure I’m lying to myself; I’m not at all sure I can handle today. Going to the funeral feels too weighty. Micki was my age, and she’s dead. The suspicion that her death wasn’t an accident, that maybe the same person hit me, was a topic of discussion in today’s Jessup Observer. What if the newspaper is right? If my accident was meant to be a murder, will the killer try again? Will he be there watching me? My stomach turns at the thought that the person who did this will be there—gloating over Micki’s death, over my scars, over the growing fear.

  I sit in my wheelchair trying not to let my fears paralyze me, when my mother comes back into my room. “Try this.”

  She holds out the black veiled hat. I accept it and hold it by the brim.

  “It’ll hide your face,” she says gently.

  It’s not the sort of thing I’ve ever worn. Mom was raised with a more conservative, Old South attitude. I blame some of it on her decision to stay in Jessup and not go to college. Of course, I can’t criticize her too much: that decision was made because she was pregnant with me. Grandfather Cooper continued to treat her like a child, and my father—and his father—were much the same. Between Grandfather Cooper, Grandfather Tilling, and my father, my mother was treated like a sheltered Southern woman of an earlier generation. She wore pearls and tasteful clothes, poured tea, and volunteered like it was a career.

  When I meet her gaze, she adds, “I know you don’t like attention, so I thought this might help.”

  I nod. “Braid my hair first?”

  She pulls my wheelchair backward so she can sit on the chair that I usually use for reading. I feel like a child sitting in front of her while she brushes my hair. She’s gentle, and the rhythmic tug of the bristles makes me close my eyes. I could probably do this without a mirror, but for the funeral, I’d rather it look as good as possible. This will be the first time my classmates see me, and I am terrified.

  “The veil works today, but you’ll need to face them after this,” my mother instructs. “I agreed with the nurses lying so people didn’t come to the hospital, but you need to move forward. They won’t all be great, but you’ll know who your friends are.” Mom’s voice is matter-of-fact. “The longer you stall, the harder it’ll be. I know a little about this, Eva.”

  I hear the soft clatter of the brush being lowered to the wooden table beside my chair. I stay silent as her fingers start separating my hair into chunks for braiding. Oddly, it occurs to me that this is the closest I’ve felt to her in years. She’s not a touchy-feely person, but right now, I feel like a little kid.

  “When I was pregnant, even though I was married before I was showing, it was hard walking around Jessup. Their eyes would go from my face to my stomach to my hand, like they were saying ‘Lizzy . . . the pregnant one; yes, she did get married.’ It was true, but I don’t think I ever felt small before that.” She tucks in stray tendrils of my hair as she talks. “I was a brat. Daddy bought me what I wanted, spoiling me the way he’d have spoiled Mama if she hadn’t died. Every girl at school wanted to be me, and every boy wanted to kiss me.”

  I’m tempted to speak, to ask questions, but I’m afraid that if I do, she’ll stop talking. She so rarely talks about being a teenager, so I don’t say a word. I listen.

  “A few of them did kiss me, but your father . . . he was different. The preacher’s boy, trying to prove he wasn’t a good boy, and we were careless. We had so much fun, but there were consequences.” She sighs, and I’m not sure if it’s regret or longing for those days when she and my father were young. She smiles at me then and continues on, “I knew Daddy wouldn’t let me date him seriously; not even being the preacher’s boy would overrule your father’s lack of ‘proper breeding’—until I turned up pregnant.”

  “I’m sorry,” I whisper.

  She gasps. “Why?”

  “You wouldn’t be stuck with Dad if—”

  “Hush, you.” She leans forward to see my face. “I loved your father. I still do. I didn’t mean to trap him, but I wouldn’t change a thing. I have you and him. This was exactly what I wanted then—and still is. The only thing I might’ve changed was how young I was.” My expression must be as disbelieving as I feel because she adds, “I love you, Eva. I’m lousy at being a mother. I try, but you just never seem to need me. I’m not sure you ever did. You always seemed to know what you wanted, and no matter what I said or did, you marched off to do whatever you felt like doing. When you were little, you and Nathaniel—”

  “Nate,” I interject.

  “You and Nate,” she continues, “were such little hellions. I swear you sweated mud. I’d buy you the perfect little dresses that I loved as a girl, and you’d go outside and wallow in the mud like a piglet. It made me so crazy. I didn’t understand you.” She laughs a little. “I probably still don’t. I never knew what you needed, so I listened to what Daddy and the Reverend suggested. Even when their advice was in opposition to each other, I tried to listen. I didn’t want to mess up at this. I try not to push you, but I’m not sure I can keep this distance between us. Knowing you were in the hospital and I couldn’t get there . . .”

  She’d finished the braid at some point while she was speaking, and now her hands slide over my hair in a caress.

  “I knew you couldn’t get there, and I was okay,” I promised.

  “You’re always okay. It makes it hard to know when you need me.” My mother sniffles, and it’s so out of character that I turn to look at her. The impeccable Eliza
beth Cooper-Tilling looks heartbroken. Instead of grabbing a tissue to dab at her perfectly made-up eyes, she swipes the back of her hand across her face, and then wraps her arms around me. I lean back against my mother and close my eyes as she hugs me and sobs.

  “I’ll do better.” She’s not hugging me so tightly that it hurts, but she’s not letting go. “Maybe I can ask Grace’s mother. You like her, right?”

  “Ask her . . . ?”

  “How to be a good mother,” she clarifies, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “I bet she has ideas. She could be my mentor.”

  I smother a laugh, but I know she’s not joking. She has the tone that I’ve always associated with one of her volunteer projects. If her new focus is motherhood, I’m not sure what that will mean for me—especially if we get confirmation that my accident was not random.

  “I’ll have her over for tea, and we’ll get started.” My mother settles the hat on my head and drapes the veil over my face. In an instant, the world is dimmed by black gauze, and her fingers arrange it so it looks artful and natural.

  When she holds a hand mirror in front of me, I don’t feel like looking away. The veil hides the cuts and yellowed bruises. I smile before murmuring, “Thank you.”

  “This is just the start, Eva. I’m going to be a new mother. I’ll do everything right,” she promises. She smiles at me for a moment, and then she adds, “I need my planner. We’ll need a schedule for meetings with Mrs. Yeung, and then mother-daughter events.” She pauses, clearly thinking of the lists in her mind already. “We should have a brainstorming session to figure out what I can do better, and what activities we should set up. Maybe Grace could help too. She’s so smart and outspoken. I’ll see what day works for the four of us to get together this week.”

  And then she’s off, and I’m left sitting in my room a little alarmed, but also a little amused. The idea of my mother and Mrs. Yeung together should terrify me. Mostly, though, I feel happier than I have in a while—at least until I think about going to a funeral . . . and the murderer who waits somewhere out there. Fear fills me, and I can’t help feeling overwhelmed.