Beautiful Beast

by Dayle A Dermatis

  My parents wouldn’t have cared: they’d been friends with the Garners. In fact, they probably wouldn’t have noticed at all.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I—” I shut my mouth so hard my teeth clicked together, catching myself before I explained that I’d been talking to Mrs. Garner. It didn’t matter that Mrs. Garner had initiated the conversation and it would have been rude for me to refuse. An explanation was the same as an excuse to Mrs. Wentworth.

  If Mrs. Wentworth noticed, she spared me that, because she had more to say.

  “And look at you.” She flicked a hand at me, the diamonds in her tennis bracelets prisming in the sunlight. “I cannot believe you’re allowing yourself to be seen outside like that. You clearly haven’t showered, your hair is a disgrace, you have no makeup on—and are you wearing the same clothes as yesterday?” She sniffed, as if trying to catch a whiff of sweat-stink.

  Miserable, I shrank in my seat, my shoulders rising to meet my ears.

  “It’s my fault,” Taryn blurted from the backseat. “We forgot what time you said you were coming, and I told her an hour later that the right—”

  “You shut your mouth,” Mrs. Wentworth snarled, her eyes darting to the rearview mirror. “I’m not talking to you.”

  The fact that Taryn had tried to defend me, despite knowing the reaction she would get, made my heart twist.

  The way Mrs. Wentworth treated Taryn, unfortunately, also made me mad enough to speak up.

  “I realize I should have found time to shower, but I figured I’d be working out when we got home,” I said. “And what if I were going outside for a run? I wouldn’t be putting on makeup—it would sweat right off.”

  Mrs. Wentworth sighed dramatically, the annoyance clear in that seemingly simple out-huff of breath. “You would wear tinted sunscreen, obviously. You know well enough that you should never go outside without sunscreen or you’ll end up looking like a wrinkled hag. Waterproof mascara. A hint of lip stain—nothing too dark, just enough to give your lips definition. A neater ponytail than you’ve scraped your hair back into. It’s not that difficult, Annabelle, to present yourself in the best possible light at all times.”

  I stared at her, open-mouthed until I realized what I was doing and clamped my jaw shut again. The response had come so quickly, so completely, that it seemed as if she had been waiting for the opportunity to share her knowledge.

  “That’s good advice,” I said finally, quietly. “Thank you.”

  “I hope you’ll take it to heart, Annabelle,” she said. “Being a winner isn’t a part-time thing, something to try for only when you feel like it. You never know who you’re going to meet, or who’s watching.”

  For one crazy moment I wondered if she’d had a spy at the party, but then I dismissed that as ridiculous. She no doubt asked Mrs. Garner how I’d behaved (although she would have phrased it better), but Mrs. Garner would have said nothing but good things. Hopefully she had said something nice about Taryn, too—and hopefully she hadn’t mentioned the part about Taryn and I being good for each other.

  If she had, I’m sure we’d be hearing about it right now.

  The rest of the drive home was in blissful silence. I still felt miserable, but at least I wasn’t being hammered with criticisms.

  The enjoyment of the party had slipped away like a dream, like something I’d imagined, not experienced.

  The only thing I held on to, the only thing that felt real and solid and good, was the memory of the feel of Taryn’s hand against mine when we’d passed each other behind the car.

  Twenty-Four

  When we arrived at the house, Mrs. Wentworth drove around back to the garage and got out of the car still maintaining the disapproving silence.

  “I’m going to get a workout in before lunch,” I blurted, unable to take it any longer, as I grabbed my overnight bag from the backseat.

  “That’s a good idea,” Mrs. Wentworth said. “No doubt you didn’t eat well at the party. Your face is looking a little puffy.”

  I winced, immediately felt guilty about the few bites of mac-and-cheese, the pancake and syrup. The idea of a workout sounded perfect to rid myself of those excess calories and carbs and sugar.

  As we entered the house, I was struck by the cloying scent of roses. I’d been gone only overnight; how had I forgotten the thick smell that permeated the entire place? At first it had seemed romantic somehow, but now, if I never smelled a rose again, it might be too soon.

  Mrs. Wentworth disappeared into the den, and Taryn and I trudged up the massive front stairs, the sun shattering through the stained glass over the double front doors.

  “Thanks for inviting me,” Taryn said. “I had a good time.”

  I glanced sideways at her. “Did you really, or are you just saying that?” I kept my tone light so she knew I wasn’t trying to give her a hard time, but I really did want to know.

  “I really did,” she said. “Your friends…were nicer than I expected.”

  A month ago, I might have been offended by that. Now, I think I understood what she meant. Where she was coming from.

  “Yeah, they’re pretty cool,” I said. We’d reached the top of the stairs, and were turning right towards our rooms. I reached out to brush my fingers against hers, giving them a quick squeeze, a gesture mirroring how she’d touched me by the car. “You’re cooler, though.”

  “I’d better be,” she joked, but in the same way I’d kept my tone light, I heard the undercurrent in her words.

  Even my rooms reeked of roses. I went to the window over the built-in desk, the only one in the bedroom, and opened it. I’d never done that before, because the house had air-conditioning. I’d gazed out through it, but now, for the first time, I leaned over the desk and looked down.

  Just a long, straight shot down past the white-shingled exterior wall. At the very bottom, one end of Mrs. Wentworth’s extensive rose gardens. I got one clear breath of air before the scent of those roses drifted up and mingled with the cut roses throughout the house. Or maybe it was my imagination. Either way, I slammed the window shut and vowed to buy some scented candles (anything but rose-scented) the next time we went out.

  I found my escape from the cloying flowers in the workout room, which smelled of antiseptic cleaner and chlorine from the pool. That was almost relaxing.

  But my mind was anything but relaxed.

  I started with some light yoga to stretch out and warm up, but my thoughts were bouncing all over. I gave that up and hit the treadmill.

  Normally when I’m running, thoughts come and go, or I sink into a fantasy about sashes and tiaras and bouquets of flowers…which, crap, were often roses.

  (Although some pageants had switched to silk flowers so you got to keep your bouquet pristine.)

  Now, I just kept chewing over things.

  It wasn’t as if I expected Mrs. Wentworth to love me. I was an orphan she’d taken in, a veritable stranger, not her biological daughter—not that she showed much love to her biological daughter.

  But was it wrong to expect a level of sympathy? A certain amount of kindness? Especially kindness that wasn’t predicated on my meeting specific goals?

  Maybe I should ask for a pageant coach, someone whose methods worked better with my feelings—I was pretty sure I’d be happier with someone who encouraged me and gently corrected my mistakes. But almost immediately I tossed that idea out. For one thing, good coaches cost money. No matter how wealthy Mrs. Wentworth might be, she was already shelling out tons for my clothing and shoes, hair, etc., and I’d be an ass to ask her to spend more on something I didn’t technically even need. Her training methods might not fit my personality, but she was still a hell of a coach, probably right up there with the top ones.

  Plus, she’d no doubt be offended by the request, and that wouldn’t end well at all.

  And then there was the issue in the past with Taryn’s coach. That would be picking open old wounds.

  I sighed, then got my breathing back under contro
l, matching it with the thud of my feet on the rubber tread.

  Then there was the matter of the locked refrigerator and pantry. That was just not normal. That went beyond a simple need for control.

  My next thought rose unbidden. Could it be considered abuse?

  I stumbled, caught myself before I went down. I grabbed the handrails and put my feet on either side of the moving tread, catching my breath. I pressed the lower speed button until the tread was at a walking pace before I hopped back on and cycled back up to my running speed.

  Mrs. Wentworth served healthy meals and didn’t skimp on the amount. We had access to healthy snacks. We weren’t being starved by any definition.

  Hell, Olympic coaches probably did the same thing to their athletes, right? (And, even Madison didn’t gorge on junk food every day like we had last night. It was an indulgence because of the party.)

  Ditto the software on my phone and laptop. She was just looking out for me.

  Sure, she wasn’t as permissive as my parents had been, or how my friends’ parents were. But abuse?

  I shook my head, laughing under my breath. Clearly I was overreacting. I was cranky from being chewed out in the car, and even one night away had interrupted my focus on getting ready for the next pageant.

  I kicked the treadmill speed up and lengthened my stride for a sprint. I’d had my vacation and my food indulgences, and now it was time to get back into shape and get my eyes back on the prize.

  Lunch was an Asian salad with seared ahi. I was starving and tore in (delicately, as befitting a lady, of course), happy for fresh, crunchy vegetables. Mrs. Wentworth didn’t seem to react when I went for thirds, probably because things like cabbage and spinach and peppers were on the eat-all-you-want list.

  After lunch we did some pageant work in the solarium, going over more questions and then having me rehearse my monologue a few times, smoothing out some hitches in my rhythm.

  It felt good to get back into the groove, get back to training, and Mrs. Wentworth didn’t seem as disapproving as usual. I took that to mean volunteering to work out before lunch had been a good idea.

  When we were done, Taryn and I ended up in her suite. She wanted to do some painting, and I promised to just hang out, not watch. She’d already told me she didn’t like to show works-in-progress, and that made sense to me. I slouched on her bed and read tech blogs and did Sudoku puzzles, all the while with a warm, fuzzy feeling in the pit of my stomach that she trusted me not to peek.

  Madison and the others had posted some Instagram pics from the party, but true to their words, only a couple of them included me and Taryn, which I’d okayed (not counting the backs of our heads or an errant elbow). Many of the captions said variations on, “Soooo glad to hang out with #bff Annabelle and #newfriend Taryn! #friendsgoldandsilver #partytime #missedmagirl.”

  I smiled. I’d missed them, too. I hoped I could schedule in more time with them. After all, having healthy friendships showed a girl was well-rounded and (acceptably) social. Maybe I’d suggest a movie in a few days.

  I checked my calendar. Carlos was coming tomorrow, and I was booked for a trim at the salon. The next day, we had volunteering at the shelter. And I had enough time, I felt, until the next pageant to ensure I was win-worthy ready.

  This would be all worth it, even the shitty and weird parts.

  Right?

  At dinner, I remembered to tell Mrs. Wentworth about Emilia Lo’s father’s sponsorship offer.

  “What a generous offer,” she said, after dabbing her lips with her napkin. “I’ll have to do a little research, of course—sponsors have to be as squeaky clean as the contestants themselves—and then I’ll give him a ring and discuss the details.”

  I half-opened my mouth to say something along the lines of how Mr. Lo was well-respected in the community and I couldn’t imagine him being tied to any scandal, but then I shoved a piece of chicken into my mouth instead. How was I to know if Mr. Lo hired illegal immigrants under the table, or had a criminal record from his youth? (Although it was hard to imagine bald, round-faced, smiling Mr. Lo being anything but, as Mrs. Wentworth put it, squeaky clean.)

  After Taryn and I did the dishes and tidied the kitchen, we decamped to our media room as usual. We’d started watching Stranger Things, and kept interrupting the show to laugh at the huge old computers or toss out ideas about what was going to happen.

  We now sat in the middle of the sofa rather than at the far corners, our feet propped on the coffee table, cans of diet soda sweating on coasters…and our fingers twined together, our hands resting between us or on each other’s thigh.

  Simple. Comfortable. Natural. And yet also thrilling. It was hard to concentrate on the show sometimes, and I kept feeling my mouth curve into a smile.

  I felt happy.

  Oh, not that everything was perfect, but this…was just right.

  I snuck a glance at Taryn’s profile.

  She wasn’t classically beautiful, at least not in the pageant, glamor-girl way. You could list a litany of small “flaws”: Her eyes were too far apart, maybe, and her nose was a little crooked, a little off-center. Her upper lip was too thin, but you could tweak that with careful makeup. She was short and long-waisted, making her legs look even shorter—something you could disguise with the right clothing choices, but would look glaringly obvious in the swimsuit competition, especially if she stood next to tall, leggy girls.

  But to me, she was beautiful. The flaws weren’t flaws to me, but part of a fascinating, beautiful package.

  Love goggles, some people might call it. So what? Who cares? She was beautiful to me, and that was magical.

  That was what mattered.

  The new haircut suited her, not because it made her “more beautiful,” but because I could see more of her face. It was a face I loved. And I could see her brown eyes when she looked at me no longer from under a filter of overlong bangs, and the love mirrored back at me.

  I squeezed her hand. She glanced at me. “What?”

  I should my head, smiling. “Nothing. Just…it’s all good.”

  A smile crept across her face. “Yeah, it is.”

  Afterwards, we held hands as we walked down the hallway to our rooms. We didn’t normally do that, by some unspoken agreement, outside of our suites or our TV room, but tonight I just wasn’t ready to let go. She didn’t pull away, so I assumed she felt the same.

  I wanted to invite her in, or invite myself in, and make a blanket fort and whisper secrets and kiss and fall asleep together, but other than the night she’d comforted me, we hadn’t done that, either.

  Something didn’t seem okay about it, but at the same time, I hadn’t stopped to think why, or worry overmuch. Maybe I was too distracted, or maybe I was just plain stupid.

  I definitely wasn’t thinking right now—and was probably just being stupid—when I turned and faced her, taking her other hand in mine, and leaned in to kiss her goodnight.

  Her fingers tightened against mine. I could smell her shampoo. Her lips were so soft….

  “What the hell is going on?!”

  Twenty-Five

  “What the hell is going on?!”

  We jumped apart. Mrs. Wentworth was across the wide landing, just before the hallway that led to her wing.

  Absurdly, what shocked me most was that Mrs. Wentworth had sworn. Even though Taryn said her mother’s good Christian values were largely for show, it occurred to me that I’d never heard Mrs. Wentworth curse.

  The next thing I felt was embarrassment at being caught, but that was swiftly replaced by anger at myself for feeling ashamed. I wasn’t ashamed, not of being who I am, or of kissing the girl I was falling in love with.

  I didn’t have a chance to articulate any of that, of course.

  Mrs. Wentworth stalked towards us, rage darkening her eyes. Her lips were thinned. Despite looking perfect as always, not a hair out of place, she no longer looked beautiful.

  Right now, it was even hard to imagine her ever being bea
utiful.

  When we startled, we’d both turned towards her, releasing our outer hands. I tried to tug my other hand out of Taryn’s clasp, but she wouldn’t let go.

  I chanced a quick glance at her. Her chin was jutted out, her eyes fierce. Eyes visible because she wasn’t hiding them anymore.

  She looked like a fierce warrior.

  My breath caught. She was fierce and beautiful.

  And I realized she was prepared to protect me, just as she had in the car when she’d tried to deflect the blame onto herself.

  I squeezed her fingers, letting her know I was with her now. I raised my chin, too, even though I was shaking inside, and watched Mrs. Wentworth stalk towards us.

  “I allowed you into this house, and this is how you repay me?” she spat at me. “I fed you, clothed you, groomed you to be the best, and you… This—this perversion?”

  She was so close now, I could smell the alcohol on her breath. Rum, sickly sweet, and mint. She’d been drinking mint juleps. Not sipping them on the porch, though, given the way she staggered, just a little, as she got up into my face.

  There was a wet patch on her salmon-pink silk shirt, which explained why she’d come upstairs. She’d spilled a bit of her drink, and she couldn’t be anything less than perfect, even late at night in her own house.

  “It’s me,” Taryn blurted. “I—”

  This time, Mrs. Wentworth didn’t tell her to shut her mouth. Her hand whipped out and smacked Taryn, the sound of the slap resonating down the hall.

  “Don’t even try,” Mrs. Wentworth snapped. “You wouldn’t have started this, although I’m not surprised that you were weak enough to fall for it. As if anybody would want you.”

  I gasped, feeling Taryn’s hand spasm against mine at the cruelty of her mother’s words.

  She turned her furious gaze on me, her pupils so wide they nearly blacked out her blue eyes.