by Olivia Myers
“Our topic, Imogen,” the professor said. “We were discussing Catherine’s visit to the Tilneys’s estate. What do you think Austen is doing in this chapter?”
“Austen?” said Imogen, still trying furiously to focus herself and forget about the laughter increasing behind her.
“Jane Austen,” the professor said, annoyed. “The book is Northanger Abbey, Imogen. Did you do your reading?”
“Yes—I mean, well—yes,” Imogen fought out. Had she done the reading? The book sitting open on her desk stared up at her awkwardly, like a stranger she’d accidently made eye contact with. She picked it up like she didn’t know what it was, scratching pages aside furiously, trying to find her place.
The professor leaned her elbow against the wall and waited. “Well?”
“The visit to the Tilneys,” Imogen repeated. At last she found her place. “Yes—okay. Well, it’s the place in the book where Austen makes the most obvious distinction between reality and romance.”
“Reality and romance,” it was the professor’s turn to repeat. “How do you mean?”
“Just that up until this point, we’ve seen everything through Catherine’s eyes and she’s been treating her whole life like a gothic romance. And everything prior to this moment at the Tilneys’s has sort of been the kind of thing that she’s read about. When she gets to the estate, she expects that it will all come together and she’ll become like one of the heroines she’s been reading about.”
“And what does she find?” the professor asked. Her annoyance was gone.
“That it’s not the case,” Imogen said. “All of her romance is pushed aside by reality. I mean, that there aren’t really any dead bodies to be discovered or horrible family secrets. It’s as though Austen is offering a critique of the genre by anticipating the reader’s expectations and then saying that reality is more powerful. And if we ignore the reality, we sort of just wind up looking like idiots.”
Miss McReddy’s pumpkin face was smiling again. She closed her book. “Very good,” she said. “Spoken like a scholar.”
The giggling behind Imogen had subsided, although she was still flushed. She was already regretting having said as much as she did. The Golden Girls wouldn’t like it. She knew she’d be hearing from them after class. Silently, she prayed that the professor would continue the lecture so that she could avoid the confrontation. Oh please let it go on.
But the girls were gathering their packs, even as Miss McReddy attempted to make a last announcement. “Class! Class! Don’t forget—art and literature competition in just two weeks! Enter any piece you want, be it essay or song or dance, and you’ll have the opportunity to perform it for the entire school!”
But whether anyone was paying attention to the announcement was difficult to say. Imogen heard it but she was packing her own things and trying to hurry out of the class as fast as possible. She kept her head bowed to avoid eye contact with anyone, as though she were fleeing a room on fire.
She made it as far as the stairwell before a voice stopped her. “Where do you think you’re going?”
That voice. Imogen knew it well. But unlike other girls, when she heard it her heart didn’t stop in terror. Instead, it beat at double the rate, as if it were trying to sever its connection to her body. Imogen went hot. Her fingertips turned wet. She was filled with terror but her terror held a stronger, more passionate emotion. Desire.
Before Imogen could turn around, the backpack was yanked painfully off her shoulders and thrown aside. “Are you even gonna answer?”
It was now or never. She turned slowly and confronted the chief of the Golden Girls herself: Cassandra. Golden-haired Cassandra with the soft blue eyes and the delicately rounded face that old artists would have killed to paint. Cassandra of the pillow-soft lips. Cassandra and her chameleon mouth which could twist effortlessly to form such favorites as the Fuck-Off Smile, the Twisted Grin, the Smoldering Curl, and countless others. The other Golden Girls followed her in suit but it was Cassandra and no one but Cassandra that Imogen saw.
“Well?”
“Well what?” Imogen said quietly.
“What was all that shit about in class?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“The shit about Jane Austen. Do you think you’re smart or something?”
Imogen bowed her head. She didn’t want Cassandra to see how much the anger excited her, how much she desired to be abused like this.
“No,” she whispered.
“No what?”
“No, I don’t think I’m smart.”
Cassandra had scored a minor victory but she wouldn’t stop until she had more.
“Well then, what are you?”
“Nothing,” said Imogen. The Golden Girls bubbled again into giggles.
“Nothing?” Cassandra smirked, before shoving Imogen in the shoulder. Imogen weathered the blow like a tree but the human contact made her skin tingle. Oh God, please let her go away soon.
“Nothing?” Cassandra repeated. “You don’t feel like nothing. You’ve got a bony shoulder. And you don’t look like nothing. You’ve got that short, inky rat-hair.”
More giggles. The noise seemed to fuel Cassandra. “Hey, I think we’ve found a name for you. Our little rat. Our little rat-a-tat.”
“Rat-a-tat! Rat-a-tat,” the Golden Girls chanted. Imogen blushed, not for her own shame but for the Girls’. The name sounded hopelessly stupid coming from their little singsong voices. But it sounded different in Cassandra’s voice.
The chanting might have gone on for ten minutes, but it was clear that Cassandra was losing interest and that Imogen’s little torments would be short that day.
“All right, Rat-a-tat,” she said. “No more of that Jane Austen shit. The next time you open your mouth, you better shut it pretty damn quick unless you’d like us to do it for you. And keep that down,” Cassandra barked, forcing Imogen’s head back down. The Golden Girls, still pealing with bright giggles, swept down the hallway with a chorus of clacks. Imogen didn’t hear them. She was thinking about the sensation of Cassandra’s hand on her head. She would remember the feeling for the rest of the week.
***
In the waning light of spring dusk, Imogen tramped down the stretch of road that led into town, past the ugly square apartments that always looked to her like large rectangles of moldy, grey cheese. She came to Main Street, and from Main Street she continued down until she arrived at another square building that could have been mistaken for a bomb shelter were it not for its flashing name: “The Corner Shop” and its illuminated, pink and yellow graphic of a pole dancer jiving on the letter “P.”
Imogen’s mother Helena was a veteran at the strip club. She’d worked as a dancer for years, using the money to help Imogen through St. Nocturne’s. Because her mother had always been open about her profession, Imogen respected her and did not think anything strange of dropping by, whether simply to say hello or, like tonight, to deliver a change of clothes that Helena had forgotten.
“Just set the bag anywhere, honey,” Helena said, her gaze fixed on the studio mirror in front of her and all her attention focused on the mascara of one particularly difficult eyelash. There were a few other strippers in the changing room, all of whom waved kindly at Imogen when she came in. They’d known her since she was a baby.
“Would you believe it?” Helena was talking in that perky, glittery tone of voice she always used in the club. “Hadn’t even started my shift yet when out of left field in comes a whole tray of vodka martinis, wha-um! straight into my boobs!”
“I packed jeans, and this sweater that I hope will fit,” Imogen replied.
“You’re a doll,” Helena beamed. “Without you I’d be left smelling like olives and Absolut which is positively the last thing you could possibly want after a night of performance.”
The eyelash painted, Helena turned her attention to coloring in her lips. “So, my sweet, do you have any plans for the evening?”
&nb
sp; “Well, I was supposed to have a poetry meeting, but it was canceled. I think I might just find a table and read somewhere in the back until you’re done.”
“Feel free as a bird honey-pie,” her mother chimed. “Fuel that big, beautiful brain of yours.” It was the cherry-red mouth doing all of the talking now. Imogen didn’t even see her mother anymore. Only a pair of plump lips.
“But now that you mention read, my sweet,” the mouth said, “you might have better luck at the joint across the street. Darla was the one who made mention of it. Small, quiet, hole-in-the-wall place. Might be a better place if you’re gonna be spending the evening with Miss Jane Austen.”
“Do you remember the name?” Imogen was intrigued.
“Sure do. The Red Red Rose. Pretty nondescript but I think you’ll manage to find it.” The lips clicked shut with a little pop. “Let me know when you finish, honey pie.”
***
The Red Red Rose hung back in the corner off of Main Street, like a prowler waiting for its prey. Imogen walked past it twice without realizing that she’d missed it. The third time, it was still difficult to make the tiny building out in the budding night. It was so intensely covered in shadow that if Imogen stared at it for thirty seconds she could see it melt back into the darkness.
Well, thought Imogen as she ventured inside, if I get murdered at least I’ll be buried in a nice tomb.
But inside, the Rose was lively, vibrant, and exciting in the way a place can be exciting without being obnoxious. It was something between a bar and a café. There were lounge chairs everywhere, darts, bookshelves crammed with old, frayed volumes centuries’ old, and a large fireplace. Very little of it was being enjoyed, however. There couldn’t have been more than twenty people in the place. Imogen liked it immediately.
“My, my,” said a voice. “Is that a stranger I spy?”
The lilting voice startled Imogen. It seemed to come from nowhere and yet it was as intimate a whisper. She might have even felt the breath in her ear.
“Where—” she began, but before she could finish the owner of the voice materialized in front of Imogen, as clear as day. Imogen’s breath caught. The girl was stunning. Drop dead gorgeous. Her hair was a sleek and long, her jeans sealed tightly around her perfect legs, and her face was carved to perfection, like a marble statue at one of the world’s great museums. But so pale! Imogen thought. Even in the half-light Imogen could see how bare and white the face was, as though it’d never seen daylight. It filled Imogen with a strange fascination.
“My pet,” the other girl frowned, “you look lost. I don’t like people being lost in my club.”
“Are you the owner?” Imogen blurted out. She realized she sounded stupid but it had been the first thing that came to mind.
“Owner and patron,” the other girl laughed again. The laugh made Imogen edgy and yet she smiled. It was too pretty a face not to smile at. The deep, chestnut-colored eyes and their rosy tint stared back at Imogen with wonder and a kind of awe. They made her skin tingle.
The girl continued, “And you’re a newbie I take it.”
“I just came in to read,” said Imogen. “My mom is working and I have to wait on her to drive us back to our house further down the road and well, she said this might be a good place to check out.”
“You’ve come to the right joint then. The best place and the best people,” the girl smiled again. “But I was being quite honest when I said I don’t like strangers. What’s your name?”
“Imogen,” she said hurriedly and put out a hand. The other girl stared at it and laughed again.
“Imogen,” she ignored the hand, running the name over her mouth, letting her tongue fork out on the last consonant.
“Imogen,” she said again, and kissed her on both cheeks, like a European.
Imogen could not believe how soft the lips were. And how cold.
“Okay, Imogen. I’m Cerise. And now that we’re acquainted, it’s my duty to inform you that I don’t like people loitering around looking as uncomfortable as you.”
“Oh, sorry!”
“Yes,” Cerise nodded seriously. “Be sorry. And after you’re done being sorry, let me make you more comfortable. Is that okay?”
Imogen nodded and suppressed a giggle. Cerise’s strange talk made her feel a little confused and light-headed.
“Good. So we’ve established that you’re going to make yourself comfortable. If you’ll follow me, I’ll do my best to help the both of us out. Oh, and bring Jane Austen, too. She’ll be the life of the party.”
Imogen laughed again and hugged Northanger Abbey to her chest as she followed Cerise through the maze of plush lounge chairs and tables, into private back rooms where there other guests lingered, drinking out of glasses filled with a night-dark red wine. They passed into a small, circular room with a knee-high divan surrounding a table. A heavy Indian curtain partitioned off the room from the hall.
Imogen took a seat on the luscious couch and set her book on the table. Cerise told her to wait for her and flew out through the curtain, reemerging a moment later with two glasses of wine.
“You’re awfully friendly,” Imogen said, taking a dainty sip.
“Old-world hospitality,” clarified Cerise. “Thing about it is that I don’t run a club or bar. This is a meet-and-greet. Every guest is an occasion.”
“And are all the guests ‘shes’?” Imogen said. She’d observed as Cerise led her to the isolated room that everyone they’d passed had been female. And not just female, she thought now that she was reflecting on it. Female, like Cerise. Gorgeous. Intelligent-looking. And pale.
“Mostly,” Cerise said. “Put in a couple of brutish males and what do you get? Another sleazy hook-up joint. Put a male and a female in the same room and you can bet that they won’t be talking about Jane Austin in thirty minutes. With just us girls it’s as near to a paradise as we can get.”
“But girls are even worse! They’re passive-aggressive, and haughty and stuck-up and cruel.”
“Pet, you haven’t met my girls yet,” Cerise laughed. “You’re still a little rosebud on the great breast of the new world. What are you? Nineteen? Twenty?”
“Twenty-one in October.” Imogen took three successive sips of the wine. She was nervous.
“So you haven’t had time to see that things have changed. You will when you meet my girls. We’re the new Bohemians, pet. The most interesting girls in the world. I bet you couldn’t find a single person in the Rose who hasn’t put out an album or a play or a poem.”
“There aren’t that many people,” Imogen laughed into her glass. The wine was strong and she was already feeling its effects.
“And fewer by the day,” said Cerise with a touch of melancholy. “But I’m optimistic. You can’t live as long as I have without being optimistic.”
“About what?”
“That we’ve got all the right people in the right place. And if you stick around a little while, you’ll see what I mean.”
Imogen bit her bottom lip to suppress a smile as Cerise moved closer to her, touching legs. She felt the coldness of the skin through the jeans and it sent a shiver up her spine, followed by a throbbing ache in her skin. She was in a strange place late at night and she did not even know this girl—but she felt herself aching for the pleasure of getting closer.
As though sensing Imogen’s desire, Cerise moved even closer, kissing her playfully on the cheek with her cold, cold lips. She retreated, and then came back slower and kissed Imogen delicately on her closed mouth.
Cerise’s cold lips started Imogen, like water thrown over her as she slept.
“What—what are you doing?” she cried.
Cerise laughed. “My pet, if you didn’t want it then why do you wear your desires so much on your sleeve?”
“I don’t desire it!” Imogen said, working herself into anger. “You just came at me!”
“Because I knew I’d have to wait ages for you to make the first move yourself.” Cerise crawled cl
oser to Imogen, moving her face just inches away. She pressed her lips against Imogen’s again, this time slipping in her tongue, like it was a kind of secret.
Despite the coldness of the kiss, Imogen let it linger a few seconds more before breaking away.
“You’re cute when you put up a struggle.”
“I don’t want this. This isn’t right,” moaned Imogen, but even as she did she knew that this other girl could see through the lie.
“Don’t worry, pet,” Cerise stroked Imogen’s hair. “This has nothing to do with you. This is for me. This is all about me. And I want to make you comfortable.”
“Comfortable,” Imogen said. She felt the touch of the other girl’s skin. It was making her wet with pleasure. She didn’t mind how cold Cerise was.
“Comfortable,” Cerise whispered. “Do you consent?”
“Yes.” Imogen turned and covered Cerise’s mouth with her own, slipping her tongue into the wet crevice and closing her eyes until she was sure that tears would spring out of them. A moment later, Imogen’s back was on the divan and Cerise leaned above her, tonguing her fiercely with her cold mouth, staring steadily into Imogen’s eyes with the fire of her own.
Cerise’s lips trailed slowly down Imogen’s body, lingering on her chest. The cold, wet little blotches of the lips dug achingly into Imogen’s chest, and continued to trail down, further and further. Cerise’s tongue slipped beneath the beltline of Imogen’s jeans.
“I’ve never,” Imogen gasped, unable to finish the sentence.
“Never what?” Cerise smiled, baring her enamel-white teeth.
It was the first time Imogen had seen Cerise smile. Her heart leapt. She was paralyzed with dread. Because even in the half-light of the little sealed-off room, Imogen could see that Cerise’s teeth were not normal, blunted teeth. Two of the top incisors were daintily curved and sharp in a way that made Imogen think of icicles dangling from a roof above her.
“Never what, my pet?” There was a word caught in Imogen’s mouth. Somehow she could not find the strength to say it and though she tried, Cerise’s playing tongue only made her breath catch more. Before she knew it her jeans were stripped off and Cerise was running a long, lacquered fingernail over Imogen’s incredibly moist crotch.
