by Emily Asad
She’s a trendy dresser. Her auburn hair is short with two electric blue streaks. She smiles at me from behind the podium and begins. “Hi, there. I’m Diana. I love bears and deer, and I’m a great shot with a bow and arrow. Just kidding. I’m really boring, but if anyone wants to buy me a soda, I love root beer.” She shrugs at Mrs. Halverson and then takes her seat.
The bell rings. People can’t wait to talk to Diana, it seems, and they crowd around her as she heads out the door. I wish I could make friends so easily.
Mrs. Halverson stands over my desk. “I’m a very understanding person,” she says, “and I know this situation about your mother must be unsettling. So I’ll excuse your poor behavior for today. See that it doesn’t happen again tomorrow.”
I hate her phony graciousness. I want to explain I meant no insults, but I’ve found people like her just want to be obeyed. So I mumble, “Yes, ma’am.”
“You should be grateful for second chances, young lady. Other teachers wouldn’t put up with your attitude.”
None of my other teachers think I have attitude. I refrain from rolling my eyes. “You may have a point. Thank you.” It’s a phrase Mamá taught me. It neither acknowledges nor dismisses the opponent’s argument, but it makes them feel like they’re winning.
My tactic brings a nod from Mrs. Halverson. “That’s all.”
True to her word, Diana’s out in the hall waiting for me. “I’m heading to Chemistry. Where is it?”
I eye her, suspicious. Why is she latching on to me, of all people? Plenty of other kids – more friendly, more curious – already volunteered to show her around. “Follow me. It’s my next class.”
She laughs. “Great! I’ve got a friend already. You seem like a real bookworm.” Her tone’s too friendly to be insulting. “They told me about your mom. Sorry to hear it. My dad’s Army. Retired lieutenant. We used to move a lot, but I think we’re going to settle here. I don’t know what made him choose Otter Paw for his retirement. The food’s all the same here – tater tot hotdish and hamburger macaroni. There’s no Lebanese restaurant, or Indian, or French anywhere! And they call that a mall? You’re used to the Mall of America, I bet, but the one here is the size of a postage stamp…”
“How do you know where I’m from?”
She freezes mid-step and then laughs away the question. “I asked around.”
Already? It’s first period. We just met. Her reply doesn’t ring true, but she’s already moved to the next round of conversation. It would be rude to press. Besides, her chatter demands no response. I find comfort in another military soul who understands the stress civilians trivialize, and what it’s like to move around and start from scratch.
We have identical schedules! She groans about Spanish class, though.
“Mi acento es tan malo,” she admits.
It’s true.
Because I’m already fluent, Señora Johnson assigns me as Diana’s study partner, which gives us a chance to gossip when we’re supposed to be discussing the questions at the end of the passage.
I’m about to ask if she likes riddles when bell rings. Other kids want to talk to her, so I fade down the hallway to my locker. To my surprise, she finds me in the car rider line. We’re the only two upperclassmen waiting for rides.
“No driver’s license yet?” she asks.
I shrug. “My mom’s car in the shop. We’re waiting on parts.”
She whistles when Gary pulls up in the limo. “For your sake, I hope those parts never come.”
“Whatever. Limos are overrated.”
“Impossible. See you tomorrow.” She gives me a kiss on each cheek, making me stare at her. It’s something we do all the time in Paraguay. But white people are more usually more reserved. Her casual kisses mean more than she knows.
“Tomorrow, then.” I climb in and roll the window down to wave goodbye.
“New friend?” asks Gary.
“I think so.” A smile tugs at the corners of my mouth.
“I could do the friend test for you.”
“What?”
“Quick, call her back. We’ll go around the block. Then I’ll tell you if she’s a true friend, or if she’s just using use you for attention.”
“I hadn’t even thought about that.” What if it’s true? A lot of people are popping up to be nice, but many of them just want to brag that they know the girl whose mother has been attacked by pirates.
“Call her in,” Gary urges.
“Hey, Diana?” I wave her over. “Do you have time for a ride around the block?”
Her eyes widen. “No way! For real?” She looks up at Gary, who holds the door open. With a giggle, she scoots herself next to me.
“Seatbelts, ladies,” Gary says as he fastens his own. “Where to?”
“Home, James,” I say.
“I thought you said we were going around the block,” she says.
“It’s a joke. You know, from the movie?”
“Gotcha. What kind of movies do you like? And what does this button do?”
As she explores the nooks and crannies of the limo, I study my new acquaintance. She’s really pretty and keeps her makeup simple and her fingernails functionally short. She chatters away and laughs a lot. I find myself smiling, too.
Gary drives slowly around the block, and then once again just for fun. When he lets her out, she flashes him a huge smile. “That was great!” she squeals. “See you tomorrow, Zen.”
As we drive away, I brace myself for Gary’s judgment. “Well? Does she pass the test?”
Gary’s quiet. I’m nervous. I find myself actually hoping Diana’s as sincere as she seems to be. I’ll feel really stupid if I’ve been used.
Gary drops a nod. “That girl’s a keeper.”
Relief! “You going to tell me how you know?”
“Easy.” He turns around to face me. “Most folks, the ones who want something from you, get caught up in the car. They look at all the buttons, try all the samples, try to get their friends outside to notice them. That girl was more interested in you than in the car. Sure, she pushed a few buttons – who could resist? But mostly she focused on you. Sweet kid. And you see,” he can’t resist adding, “this test only works in a limo. None of the other cars in my fleet has this kind of power.”
“How dare I even think about riding in a lesser car?”
He winks at me. “Take my word for it. You got yourself a friend.”
For the first time in days, I laugh. Not a long laugh, but heartfelt. A friend. Boy, could I use one right now.
CHAPTER ELEVEN:
BELONGING
It’s hard to gather food for the Whitmans when Amelia takes me straight from the limo to my bedroom. Fortunately, my afternoon snack waits on its tray. I take it to the dollhouse and knock on the door. Green light flashes. I’m on the porch.
“Welcome back!” cries Nathaniel, who nearly knocks the tray out of my hands with his enthusiastic greeting. He practically shoves me inside. “Wait ’til you see the painting I made of you. It’s glorious!”
“Wait ’til she puts the food down.” Henry comes to rescue the tray.
“We’ve been so busy,” Nathaniel says. “Doing what we want, for as long as we want.”
Eleanor nods. “It’s so nice, not worrying about waking up in a new room or a new position or wondering why we’re wearing new costumes or what year it is.”
“Where’s David?” I ask.
“He’s got the morbs again. Who cares, though? You’re here. That’s what matters.” Nathaniel beams at me.
I don’t know what morbs are, but I’m relieved to not have to face David.
One sliced apple and a bit of peanut butter isn’t enough for five hungry people. “Try again, dear,” Eleanor suggests. “Like you did last night. It’ll be bigger.”
“Duh.” I pop back out, the tray in my hands, and open the dollhouse wide. I place the food in the entry, where it remains full-sized, and then close the dollhouse. When I pop back in, the apple
is as tall as I am – or, I should say, I’m as small as the apple.
Nathaniel’s ready with his sword. He attacks the apple like he’s hacking down a tree. And he sticks his fingers in the giant pot of peanut butter. Eleanor’s more dainty. She allows George to make a plate for her and one for David, which she takes upstairs. They all eat like they’re starving. I guess that’s my fault, since I only brought dinner last night and no breakfast or lunch. I won’t let that happen again.
I let everyone else take a go at the apple before carving a piece for myself. We all gather in the parlor to eat. Nathaniel takes his place behind a large easel and canvas. “You sit there,” he says to me, “and I’ll add a few finishing touches.”
He exaggerates his brushstrokes so much Eleanor and I begin to giggle. But when his blue eyes focus on me, burning in intensity, I get quiet. He’s studying me from every angle, sometimes coming to smooth a stray hair or to tilt my face just so. Every time he touches me, shivers zing through my body. It’s a big invasion of privacy, to be honest, but none of the Whitmans seem to think anything of it. Maybe they’re just a touchy-feely family, the way Mamá and I are. I wish I could get control of my internal flutters, though.
As he finishes the last details, Eleanor and Henry stand behind him to watch. Their teasing comments put me at ease. Henry says it’s the best painting Nathaniel’s done yet. Eleanor guards her praise. She keeps looking back and forth between Nathaniel and me, as if her mother’s heart sees something he didn’t intend to draw.
He finally turns it around for me to inspect.
It’s a remarkable likeness of me, yet not quite me. The girl in the painting wears an elegant gown, her hair piled high on her head with charming wisps to frame her face. She’s sophisticated, like one of his Pre-Raphaelite medieval princesses.
I grin. “I only wish my hair would behave like that. How did you finish a whole painting so fast?”
“Would you believe I prepped that canvas eighty years ago? The body, background, and dress are older than you are. The face and hair are all you, though. Let’s hang it in the hall, with the rest.”
As if this is some formal initiation rite, we follow him in a single-file line to the gallery, where we all cluster at a corner around a group of family portraits. Although they’re all painted as knights and royalty, I recognize Eleanor and George holding a fat baby.
“That’s Baby John,” Eleanor says, her voice soft and quiet. “He crawled past the perimeter on the day everything went wrong. We tried to bring him back inside, like usual, but he stayed wood. He was only a year old.”
“I’m sorry.” I wish I had more to say than “I’m sorry.” It seems so shallow and unimportant. Heartless. But what do you say about the loss of a baby? I’ve been thinking of death a lot in the past few days – how I’d feel if Mamá’s dead, how she’d feel in my place. Unable to come up with anything deeper, I move to the next painting.
It’s her. The little blonde girl in pink ribbons, as commanding as a queen. “Phoebe?”
They nod.
It’s nice to confirm we’ve been talking about the same person all this time. “Where is she? I saw her in the mirror, but where is she for real?”
“Grounded,” Henry says. “They called in the Aunts to weave containment around her suite. They left a connection to Alexis’ room. But when she got turned to wood, they sealed that up, too. Unless she’s learned to calculate consequences, she’ll still be there, just as adorable and dangerous as can be.”
“You mean… she’s still in the mansion?”
Eleanor points out the window. “Her nursery’s on the other side of that wall.”
My skin crawls. The little witch lives here! No wonder the other doorway sparkles.
Henry stares at a picture of a young woman who looks like an older version of Phoebe. It can only be her sister, Alexis.
“I don’t see David’s portrait,” I say.
“He made us take it down after the dog chewed on him,” says Nathaniel. “He hasn’t let me paint a new one yet.”
George brings a hammer and nail and hangs my portrait with great care.
“Now you’re part of the family.” Nathaniel clutches my hand and grins.
I don’t know whether or not to let him keep it! After all his hard work, he might feel like he knows me – but we only met yesterday. To me, he’s still a stranger, no matter what worlds he’s painted for us in his head. Still, his instant acceptance fills a deep, lonely place in my soul. I stare down at my hand in his, unsure it belongs there yet unwilling to take it away.
“Isn’t that a bit hasty?” Henry frowns. “I mean, we can hang her picture here, Nathaniel, but…”
“Henry.” Eleanor’s voice is quiet. “It’s just a painting. Nothing more.”
Henry clenches his jaw. “I have nothing against you, Zenia. You’re welcome in this home. But there’s more than… Well.” He glares at Nathaniel’s grip on my hand.
Nathaniel glares back in defiance and squeezes a bit tighter.
I don’t know what’s going on, but I don’t like being in the middle of a family quarrel. I tug my hand free. “Eleanor, I’ll get groceries tonight. Make me a list?”
“What a good idea. I’ll go find a quill and some parchment.” She laughs at my surprise. “That’s a joke, dear. They used those things during colonial times.”
“Cute.” I turn to George. “I saw one of the Ambassador’s guests using a pipe. I’ll try to bring you a refill.”
Instead of saying thank you, his face clouds over. Suddenly grumpy, he excuses himself down to his workshop. Henry follows.
“What did I say?” I ask.
Nathaniel shrugs. “Nothing. He just does that.”
Eleanor raises an eyebrow. “Why don’t you let Zenia go say a quick hello to David?”
“No, that’s okay,” I tell Eleanor. “I don’t want to disturb him.”
“He’d appreciate a visit,” she presses, studying me.
“But I was going to do another portrait…” Nathaniel argues.
His mother places a hand on his shoulder. “Be a dear and go grab my sewing basket for me, would you?”
“Oh, fine. See you tonight, Zenia.“ He lingers a minute longer until she shoo’s him away – but not before he pecks a warm kiss on my cheek. I like his friendliness, but it seems so exaggerated. Still, he’s been trapped for a century. I understand constant loneliness better than anyone.
I head upstairs, pausing at the top. I need a minute to compose myself. Nathaniel’s kiss burns. He attracts me in a powerful way, but I know it’s just puppy love. It’s true he makes me laugh. He’s so playful and enthusiastic. But hand-holding and cheek-kissing should be mutual. Maybe it’s just an old-fashioned custom. All the Whitmans seem to express affection that way. Or has he claimed me for his girlfriend? I’m not ready for that – and I’m not sure I would want it, if he asked.
Mamá always says you can’t control how you feel, but you can control what you do about it. She should know. If she hadn’t gotten pregnant with me straight out of high school by my father, they never would have gotten married. Or divorced. For them, it was purely physical. Not that I plan to have babies with Nathaniel – the thought makes me blush! – but I’m as old as Mamá was when she first met The Abandoner.
Logic has served me this far. I know I can’t treat love like some scientific experiment, but I have no intention of letting my crazy emotions make my decisions for me. Still, Nathaniel makes me feel special. Wanted. Less lonely.
Grr! It’s another drop in my too-full bucket of emotions.
I’m overcome with sudden fatigue.
Maybe I won’t visit David after all, not that he’d want me to. It’s just one more thing to deal with, and besides, I have dessert prep soon. Without saying goodbye to anyone, I imagine myself big again.
CHAPTER TWELVE:
MANGLED CHARM
I manage to snag emergency supplies to get the Whitmans through the next few days – bits of my own b
reakfast, scraps from dinner prep – but I can’t seem to get a minute to myself where I’m not supervised. Michael and the sous-chef seem to think I need cheering up. If one of them isn’t cracking jokes, the other starts in with words of comfort. They’re trying to make me feel like part of the team. But it lasts all through Labor Day weekend. By then, my tiny new friends are no longer in danger of starving, yet I still haven’t fed them well.
On Monday night, the chefs are so busy dancing around the kitchen that I get plenty of alone time. I set an extra plate on my personal dinner tray and start snatching whatever I can: a single cube of Colby cheese, one cherry tomato, a one-inch cut of raw ribeye steak, a pat of butter, and teensy broccoli florets. Since anything I take into the dollhouse will shrink when I do, I also snag half-a-dozen eggs and some canned goods.
Michael sneaks up behind me. “What’s that, dinner for dollies?”
Startled, I fight the instinct to hunch over the tray to hide it. Instead, I force a laugh. “Something like that.”
“Aren’t you a little old for dolls?”
“Well, yes.”
“I’m teasing. Relax! Nobody’s too old to play. I’m twenty-eight and I still read comic books. My collection’s so big, I could hold my own convention.”
“That’s because you’re a nerd, Michael,” I say. Then I catch my breath. Some people don’t like my dry sense of humor. Can he handle it or will he get offended?
“A nerd? I’m a man who cooks. Women think I’m a gift from heaven.”
“What women? You don’t even have a girlfriend.”
“At least I don’t make dinner for invisible friends.”
“I’m experimenting so Mr. A will give me your job some day.”
He laughs, a roaring belly laugh that reassures me I haven’t pushed too far. “That’ll never happen. You just bake flakey things. I’m a real chef.”
“Yes, you are.” I concede to his superiority, marveling at how far we’ve come in just a week. He used to consider me a threat. Now he treats me like a kid sister. “Well, off I go to do my homework. See you tomorrow.”