Beautiful Beast

by Dayle A Dermatis

She started to close the door but I stopped it with my hand. Beneath her shaggy bangs, she frowned.

  “What?” she repeated.

  “Can I come in?”

  “Why?”

  I heaved in a breath. “Look, Taryn. Do we have to do this? I honestly don’t know why you don’t like me. I don’t want to be an interloper. I don’t want to take anything away from the relationship you have with your mom.”

  “Oh, believe me, you’re not. You’re helping, in fact. With you here, it gets her off my back.”

  I so didn’t get that. Her mother had been nothing but kind to me since I arrived—heck, she’d half-adopted me—and other than snapping at and ignoring Taryn, I didn’t see where she’d done anything wrong. Taryn had been ignoring her.

  But again, everyone had issues with their parents.

  “So what’s the problem, then?”

  “Look,” Taryn said. “We were never friends before, we would never be friends otherwise, so why should we force a friendship now? You and I have nothing in common.”

  “How can you be so sure? I don’t know anything about you—and you probably don’t know much about me. I’m not saying we’re going to be BFFs. I just want to get along, okay? Can’t we just get to know each other? Can’t we just…hang out?”

  “Hang out until you invite your other friends over or go hang out with them?”

  “No!” I was so frustrated, I was near tears. It was all nice and everything that Madison had invited me over, but honestly, I didn’t feel as close to her and the others anymore. I wasn’t trying to replace them, though. I just…I just… “I don’t understand why you seem to think I’m such an awful person! What did I ever do to you?”

  Something flitted across her expression. Her gaze seemed to soften a tiny bit. Not friendliness, but not outright dismissal.

  “Wait here a minute.”

  She walked away, but didn’t shut the door before she did. She was showing me a modicum of trust, and I respected it. A moment later she reappeared, indicating I could come in.

  Her rooms were the mirror image of mine. The color scheme was dusky mauve and white, and it suited her, I saw immediately. Unlike mine, which was still pretty sterile, hers was personalized and a bit crowded, even.

  Posters and framed prints covered the walls. I didn’t recognize the artists, but they all had similar styles. Sort of fantasy, but not Game of Thrones swords and blood and boobs. These were more watercolors, maybe? Soft, pastels, but strong images, too. Strange beasts, floating people, that sort of thing. Women with angels wings. (Women with bare breasts, too, but not in a gravity-defying way.)

  Her bookshelves were stuffed with art books, and she had a enormous monitor hooked up to her laptop, I guessed for doing digital art. Where I had a bureau, she had a white drafting table, with shelves on either side full of pencils and pens and brushes and artist-type things I didn’t recognize or know the use of.

  I noticed that whatever she’d been working on at the drafting table was turned over so I couldn’t see it. I wondered if that was what she’d done before she let me into the room. I didn’t see anything else in the room that might be her artwork, in fact.

  “Wow,” I said, turning in a slow circle. “I had no idea you were so into art. This is really pretty.”

  She had been rummaging in a desk drawer, and now she looked up to see me indicating a framed print of an angel-winged woman reading a letter. At her side was a graceful spotted leopard, its head up and its mouth open.

  “Michael Parkes,” she said, then looked back into the drawer.

  “See, now I know something about you,” I said. “You’re an artist, and you like an artist named Michael Parkes.”

  She straightened, eyed me as if to determine whether I was making fun of her.

  “I’d love to see some of your art,” I said.

  “No,” she said quickly. Then, “Maybe later, though.”

  “Okay, that would be awesome. Thank you,” I added as she handed me a packet of that white tacky poster-hanging stuff. “You want to watch some TV or a movie or something?”

  “What makes you think we’ll like the same things?”

  I considered. “How about this: if we can’t agree on something, we’ll watch one thing you want and one thing I want.”

  She nodded slowly. “I’m up for that,” she said.

  We’d turned a tiny corner. I was thrilled.

  Eight

  The TV room in our wing of the house (so strange to live in a house with wings, much less multiple media rooms) had a big, super-comfortable U-shaped brown leather sofa. You didn’t so much sit on it as sink into it. It faced a wide-screen TV up on the wall, and shelves in the wall on either side held all the peripherals. I had no idea what all of them did. A basket of remotes sat on the heavy, solid, square brown coffee table between the TV and sofa.

  I think Taryn and I were both surprised when we agreed quickly and easily on the new Ghostbusters.

  “Maybe we could make popcorn,” I suggested. My mouth watered; I could almost smell the butter.

  Taryn gave me a look.

  “Oh, right, no popcorn,” I said, deflated. “How about I get us some sodas, at least?”

  I noticed the light on in the downstairs media room again, but the door was closed again, too. Mrs. Wentworth didn’t seem the type to like Ghostbusters, somehow. And I wanted to just hang out with Taryn.

  By the time I grabbed Diet Cokes and made my way back upstairs (my legs were mostly recovered, but I wasn’t sure how tomorrow would go), Taryn had the movie geared up. We sat at either end of the sofa so we could stretch out.

  We’d both seen it before, so nothing was a surprise. It was just really good to kick back and relax and laugh. I felt like I hadn’t laughed in forever.

  This was exactly what I wanted, what I needed. I’d been stressed about getting through the rest of the school year, and I was about to be stressed about the pageant. This was a perfect bubble of non-stress, of not having to be thinking or worrying about anything.

  “I really love Kate McKinnon in that,” I said when the movie ended. “She’s just perfect.”

  “Have you seen her on Saturday Night Live?” Taryn asked.

  I hadn’t, so she found a few clips, and we roared with laughter.

  I noticed that Taryn’s nose crinkled when she laughed, and her eyes lit up.

  “So, is science fiction your thing?” I asked.

  “Not really,” she said. “I like some fantasy, but more magic realism. I like movies that look beautiful.” She named some black and white films, a couple of foreign films I’d never heard of.

  Still, we had some intersection. We both liked some comedies, as long as they weren’t too stupid, and even though neither of us were super geeky, we were up on Star Wars and a good chunk of the various superhero franchises.

  I liked romances and period pieces. We decided maybe we’d both like Pride and Prejudice and Zombies, which neither of us had seen.

  “What’s your favorite movie?” I asked.

  “The Last Emperor,” she said. “The colors are just amazing. You?”

  “Probably Love, Actually,” I said. “Although it was really my mother’s favorite movie. We watched it every Christmas.” She’d also covered my eyes during some scenes, which I’d finally watched on my own one night when she and Dad were out.

  Last Christmas, we hadn’t known it would be the last time we’d watch it together. Damn. Now I felt liked I’d been gut-punched again.

  “I’m sorry,” Taryn said.

  I hadn’t realized I was crying until I swiped my arm across my face. “It’s okay,” I said. “Not your fault.”

  “It’s getting late,” she said. “Maybe we should just…”

  “Okay.”

  She pointed the remote and shut off the TV, and flipped off the lights as we left the room. When we were at our respective doors, we said good night.

  I didn’t go to bed right away. Instead, I stuck my posters up on the
walls.

  It was still strange, but now I felt a little bit more like I belonged here.

  Taryn was quiet again the next morning at breakfast. Mrs. Wentworth chattered away, mostly about pageant stuff, and I got excited all over again. I’d gotten nervous last night, worrying about details, and tossed and turned before finally falling asleep.

  Taryn’s concession to going to church was a shapeless black tank dress that hit her at mid-calf, making her look stumpy. I wanted to talk to her about fashion, about dressing for her body type, but I was sure it would just piss her off. We’d forged a tentative relationship last night—I couldn’t call it a friendship yet, and I wasn’t sure if it would ever be that—and the last thing I wanted to do was screw that up.

  So I kind of felt like I was walking on eggshells, trying to figure out the balance between Taryn and Mrs. Wentworth. Taryn had absolutely no interest in pageant stuff, and that was all Mrs. Wentworth and I talked about.

  It was a huge part of who I was, and that was an impediment to really being friends with Taryn. Even though Madison and the others weren’t interested in competing, we’d all been interested in fashion and makeup.

  Then again, they’d all yawned when I got geeky about computer stuff. I guess no friendship intersects everywhere.

  Mrs. Wentworth wore a short-sleeved admiral-blue sheath dress and nude pumps. She carried a sand-colored overwrap, which made me wonder if the church was overly air-conditioned. I ran upstairs to grab a light sweater to go with my dress, which was sea green with small white polka dots. It was probably a little too festive for church, but it was a piece I loved and felt good in. I didn’t want to sit for however long church was in something too tight. I wore white pumps that weren’t too tall. The backs of my heels were still sore from yesterday.

  “You look lovely, Annabelle,” Mrs. Wentworth said as we got into the car. She didn’t comment on Taryn’s outfit. My guess was that they had already been through this, and Mrs. Wentworth had lost the battle. It wasn’t that Taryn looked inappropriate—she was wearing a dress and flat black sandals, not sweats and a stained T-shirt. She just didn’t look pulled together, really.

  The Mercedes was really nice, with grey, luxury leather seats and not a speck of dirt. It still had that new-car smell, even.

  “It will be good for people to see you at church,” Mrs. Wentworth continued as we waited for the rose gates at the end of the driveway to swing open. “A pageant girl should be Christian, but not too Christian, if you know what I mean.”

  “Wasn’t there a Muslim girl who did really well in a pageant recently?” Taryn asked. She was in the front seat; I was behind Mrs. Wentworth. Mrs. Wentworth had to keep glancing in the rearview mirror to carry on the conversation with me.

  “I wouldn’t say ‘really well’; she came in fifteenth,” Mrs. Wentworth said tightly. “And perhaps it’s more correct to say a pageant girl should have strong faith, and her kindness and good heart and charity work is born from that faith.”

  I wasn’t sure what religion had to do with being a good person—wasn’t it better to be a good person because that’s the right thing to do, rather than doing it because of fear of punishment?—but I also knew the right thing to do in this moment was to keep my mouth shut. I mean, I wasn’t not Christian; I was just not an expert.

  Would that come up at pageants? Would I be tested on religious knowledge or belief? Before I could ask, Mrs. Wentworth continued.

  “A pageant girl must be virtuous, not pious,” she said. “Upstanding without proselytizing. You’re a virtuous girl, Annabelle, I’m sure. You don’t currently have a boyfriend, do you?”

  “No,” I said. “I’ve been too busy with school and…everything.”

  “It’s not bad to be seen with a boy of good pedigree,” she said, as if the boy in question were a show dog. I imagined a guy with a floppy mop of dog fur falling in his eyes, and caught myself before I snorted.

  As for a boyfriend? Fat chance of that. I’d figured out several years ago that my interests were elsewhere. I’d dated a few boys casually, usually not lasting much longer than a Homecoming date, and then we’d parted as friends.

  “Well, it’s for the best right now,” Mrs. Wentworth said. “We don’t want any assumptions about impropriety.”

  I hid my grin by pulling out my phone and thumbed in the question of whether I’d be expected to be knowledgeable about religion at a pageant. It was about a fifteen-minute drive to town. By the time Mrs. Wentworth pulled up in front of a modest white church, I had determined that questions about religion could come up. Great, one more thing to worry about.

  I’d been in churches before, on and off: weddings, a baptism of my parents’ friends’ baby, even some school performances.

  And, of course, my parents’ funeral. That was the most recent time. I sucked in a deep breath through my nose, let it out slowly.

  This church was open and airy, with pretty stained glass. The walls were white but the trim was natural wood, and dark beams lined up along the high, vaulted ceiling. The pews were polished wood.

  Mrs. Wentworth chose a pew about halfway up and motioned me in. I slid to where a small wooden divider on the bench stopped me from going any further. Taryn followed, and then her mother, who smiled and greeted people in the pews in front of and behind us, and introduced them to me. Taryn was polite, said hello, but didn’t smile. Her mother smiled wide enough for both of them, I supposed.

  When we sat down, I looked over the photocopied, folded-over program, not understanding most of it.

  Just before the service started, a younger couple with a small child arrived. There weren’t many seats left, and Mrs. Wentworth had to scoot over, making Taryn scoot. I couldn’t scoot any further, so Taryn ended up pressed against me, arm to arm, thigh to thigh.

  “Sorry,” she murmured.

  “No problem,” I whispered back.

  The air conditioner was on maximum chill, which made sense given the press of bodies, but it overcompensated, and I was glad for my sweater. Taryn’s arms were goose-bumped, and she folded her hands between her knees.

  The warring scents of perfume and aftershave were faintly nauseating. It was better when nobody moved, but when we sat down after a hymn, it washed over us like a fresh ocean wave of sickly sweet.

  I thought about what I’d read in the car. I might be asked about how my faith affects my life, and it looked as though there were some decent answers I could modify to touch on how I felt without being controversial. I knew I was likely to be asked a question about current events (note to self: prep for that, too) that involved religion, like whether a company should be allowed to fire someone for being gay based on religious beliefs.

  I had a strong opinion about that. “Extremely angry” would be putting it mildly. I’d have to figure out how to phrase it the right way, not giving away the depth of my emotions or how I really felt. Talk about equality rather than bigotry and what I thought should be done to the head of the company. All with a sparkling smile on my face.

  I spent the rest of the service looking at people’s outfits (what I could see of them from the back), singing quietly when required to, and thinking about pageant questions.

  Afterwards, we stood outside on the perfectly trimmed swath of green in front of the church while everyone made a point of saying hello to everyone—or at least it seemed that way. And everyone made a point of talking to me. Every single person.

  My heels were sinking into the grass, keeping me off-balance. My sweater was too warm now that we were out in the sun, but I couldn’t figure out a graceful way to take it off.

  I went into pageant mode. I put an unwavering smile on my face, made sure it reached my eyes, and shook people’s hands firmly, saying things like, “It’s lovely to meet you. Thank you. It’s so nice to be here. Everyone is so welcoming. Yes. You too. Thank you,” and agreeing when people told me how generous Mrs. Wentworth was for taking me in.

  “God’s love has shone down on you,” the pas
tor told me. He was tall and had salt-and-pepper hair and a kind face. He had a good voice for public speaking. It occurred to me that leading a congregation had similarities to being on the pageant stage. All eyes on you, hanging on your every word or move.

  I didn’t think God had been all that loving if He’d had a hand in my parents’ death, but I smiled through that thought and said, “Mrs. Wentworth has been very kind.”

  He clasped my hands between his. “Welcome to my flock, Annabelle. If you ever need to talk, my door is always open to you.”

  Behind me, Taryn snorted and muttered, “Yeah, right.” It was quiet enough that I didn’t think the pastor noticed.

  “Thank you,” I said, and he moved on to the next person, a fact for which I was very grateful.

  Nine

  Once the after-church social ritual was compete and we were in the car, Mrs. Wentworth asked me what I thought of the service. It caught me completely off guard. I had tuned out most of the service.

  “Reverend Davis is a great speaker,” I said. “And everyone was just so nice.”

  In the rearview mirror, Mrs. Wentworth didn’t seem especially pleased with my answer. Her lips thinned, just a little. “Taryn?” she said.

  “I appreciated how Reverend Davis tied the parable in to the modern world, to include not only rich people but rich corporations.”

  That seemed to make Mrs. Wentworth happy. I was impressed. I’d missed all of that. I hadn’t expected Taryn to have been paying attention, either. In fact, I was pretty sure she hadn’t been.

  “Ready to try on some gowns?” Mrs. Wentworth said as we pulled out of the parking lot.

  My mood improved considerably. “Yes! That would be fantastic.”

  Taryn didn’t say anything, but her shoulders moved in a sigh.

  We went to the next town over, which was bigger, to an exclusive boutique, one I’d never stepped foot in before. I think you had to have an appointment. You certainly had to have more money than I’d ever scraped together. Like a bridal store, it had a catwalk so you could model the dresses. Inside felt brighter than the sunshine outside; no unflattering fluorescents here, thank you very much.