What is he doing here?
WILLIAM
He looks down at my shoes and pantyhose by the bottom of the tree.
Why didn’t I hide them before climbing up here?
All the blood in my body rushes to my face and my hands tingle.
“I told your father your painting was great.” He grabs hold of the lowest branch to climb up.
Great.
Now Dad will know more people have seen it. “Thanks.”
I wish I was like that butterfly and could flap my wings away from here. But the only way is down, past him, and he’s coming up.
He must think I’m insane for sitting in a tree.
“I’ve never done this before.” I straighten my skirt.
William climbs up to the branch I sit on. “What? Climbed a tree?”
I nod. “I’m usually more behaved than this. Where’s Josefine?”
He laughs. “She went to the restroom I think.”
Imagining he ran off when she left to avoid her following makes me smile. I try to hold it back but can’t, so I look away as he continues.
“My father started bragging about me to your dad, so I had to get away. It’s embarrassing.”
My smile vanishes.
Sure, that must be terrible for you.
Dad would, of course, brag back, hide behind praise and laughter to compete over having the best child. William’s father would be honest probably, like most parents are, and he’s got a good reason to be; his son is thriving. I wash cars at my father’s dealership, not worth bragging about. Why did William come here to get away? Why not go somewhere else? I welcome the distraction but dread the small talk.
My feet dangle on each side of the thick branch. It isn’t very ladylike, but changing my seating position now will probably end up with me on the ground, or even worse, revealing too much leg in the process. William’s lucky to wear pants. “You don’t think bunads are old-fashioned?”
“My friends in Oslo mock me for it. They wear suits, but I miss tradition. That’s why I’m thinking of moving back here. I love that you kept yours traditional, by the way.” William points to my silver belt details and the stitches on my vest. “The girls I know butcher theirs by modernizing with modern jewelry and alterations that don’t belong.”
The compliment wipes my mind of any reasonable thought, and I fumble to find a response. I stare up into the branches again, looking for the butterfly. I can’t see it. Me looking up in the tree must look silly, so I lower my head, trying to remember what he said. “So…So, you’re moving here? Are you sure you want to do that?” My tone is more judgmental than expected. I resembled Dad a little, and the realization knocks me off balance, throwing my arm out to the side to support myself on the tree trunk.
He laughs. “It’s that bad, huh?”
I blush and look down to hide it. Why am I behaving like this?
Get a grip.
“No.” I take a moment to try to calm my mind, think about how it would be for him to live here. He seems much more outgoing than I am and I want to give him the right picture. “Every summer, it’s too busy, and everyone’s annoyed about the boasting city tourists.”
Does he consider himself a tourist?
“No offense.”
Now I sound like Dad again.
“I’m sorry.” I speed up. “Out of season, during the winter, which is my favorite time here, it’s quiet, and everyone but me complains.”
“So people like me, city snobs, don’t stay for the winter?”
I don’t know if he’s teasing me or setting a trap. He seems like a typical party boy, the type that knows every person at every event. Whereas I hide behind the curtain, afraid someone will engage in a conversation, and count the minutes until I can leave. Like I am now. I must be making a complete fool of myself, and soon Dad will know, it’ll be the subject for tonight’s dinner. “I should go back.” I ease my leg over the branch carefully, making sure I don’t lift it too high and accidentally show him my underwear.
“Why don’t they stay?” William descends from the oak.
How am I supposed to get down with him staring up at me?
When I don’t respond, he continues to talk. “I think it sounds wonderful living here. The city is full of shallow people. All they speak of is their success, money, or almond milk lattes.”
I frown. Maybe William will leave if I don’t descend. “I like almond milk lattes,” I say, recalling Mr. Dahl’s comment about my poster fitting in a city bakery. “We’re scared of change here, so that won’t be a problem. Most people despise it without ever having tried.”
The bird has disappeared, having given up the hunt for butterfly number two. Yellow hues from its outstretched wings flicker between the leaves before it flies off. Do butterflies remember traumatic experiences, or has it already forgotten what happened? I choose to believe it forgot.
From a distance, Dad’s whistles for me scream through the air. William doesn’t notice it, but I recognize the sound. It puts me on high alert immediately. “I have to go.”
“I’ll catch you.” William reaches up toward me.
Never happening. Looking down at my shoes and pantyhose, I can’t see any way around this. “Please turn around.”
He does, and I descend, pull my pantyhose back on and slip into my shoes.
“Would you like to take a walk with me tomorrow?” William brushes off his pants.
More small talk.
“Why?”
“I don’t know anyone here anymore besides my family,” he says.
“You know Josefine.” She seems like she’s dying to get to know him.
William strokes his fingers through his hair. “Meet at The Bluebird at eight o’clock?”
Dad whistles again, and this time William notices my reaction. He tilts his head to listen. It’s the same piercing sound someone makes when hailing a taxi. “Was that for you?”
“It’s Dad. He doesn’t approve of yelling.”
“So he whistles for you, like you’re a dog?”
“Of course not.” Or, did he? I hadn’t thought about it like that before.
William raises an eyebrow. “It’s the same sound my parents use for their dogs.”
Do others make this connection too? He’s always done it, so to me it’s normal, but William has a point. “I’m not a dog.” I stride towards the restaurant.
Behind me his feet jog lightly on the trail, the sound of thin twigs breaking. “Of course not. You shouldn’t let him do that, though. If it were my father, I’d tell him it’s unacceptable.”
“So, you would prefer him screaming your name over and over when a short whistle can be heard so much easier? I don’t think so.”
William lets me walk ahead until he runs after me, grabs my shoulder and jolts me to a halt. “I didn’t mean to offend you. Meet me tomorrow? I don’t want to ask you again in front of our parents.”
I frown. It’s something in William’s eyes, or maybe it’s the way he moved. I view him again, wanting to say no because we have nothing to talk about. But with him close to threatening me that he could bring it up in front of everyone makes me reconsider. “Sure. Don’t call me a dog again.”
“Promise.”
Back at the restaurant, Josefine almost falls out of her chair when she sees us walking back to our tables together, but the smile it puts on my face quickly falls. With her reputation, she probably thinks I’m like her, and William and I’ve had sex in the field. Not a reputation I want. “We climbed the oak,” I say, and her suspicious stare takes me off guard.
What is wrong with you?
William helps his mother out of her chair as they are leaving, and I sit to finish my shrimp. Sunshine has heated them, so I force a bite down before downing the next in lemon. Josefine keeps a keen eye on William as his parents finish saying goodbye to everyone and turn to leave. Her eyes are big with anticipation that he’ll notice her, but on their way out, William turns to me instead. “I’ll see you
tomorrow then.”
Josefine’s eyes shoot up and flicker between him and me. I glare at him. Saying that out loud, then leaving me to answer for it?
Great.
I want to be angry, but can’t. I want to see him again, especially now that Josefine knows he came to see me.
When they’ve left, Josefine squats down next to me and whispers. “Be careful, Amalie. He’s just like your father, I can feel it.”
What are you talking about?
Successful and handsome doesn’t sound too bad. “You’re just envious because he asked me and not you.”
“No. I protect my friends.”
I struggle not to laugh out loud.
So, you think tricking me into making a fool of myself makes you my friend? Of course you’re jealous. William asked me, not you.
“I’ll be fine.” I force a smile, and after lingering next to me for too long, she goes back to her table with Mr. Dahl.
That is one strange girl.
Nana’s glasses stick to her forehead from her grin, and she adjusts them down again. Mom beams from across the table. “A date?”
I shake my head. “I’m showing him around.”
Don’t be stupid, he grew up here, find another excuse.
“He doesn’t know anyone here, so…”
Mr. Jensen chuckles. “He defended your painting after you left earlier.”
As much as I try to hide it, I can’t stop smiling. I have only been on a few dates with immature and insecure boys my age. With William, it’s different, I think, he’s older. I grin back at Mom.
Dad snickers. “Make sure you don’t embarrass yourself. A man like that won’t give you a second chance.”
“Hermann!” Mom seems mortified, and Nana even more so, but Dad laughs it off. “I’m just being honest. From what his father tells me, you have a lot of competition from healthy girls in the city. I wouldn’t get my hopes up.”
I look down at my lap. My thighs fill the chair’s seat. Mom’s do not. She’s skinny, with a boyish figure, like Grandpa. Nana and me, we’re the same. “Don’t worry, it’s a walk, not a date.” Mom and I share the same blue eyes, though.
“Ignore him.” Nana shifts her position towards me and takes my hand. “There is a reason why he asked you and no woman accompanied him here.”
He did stand up for my painting.
Dad dabs his mouth with his napkin and gets up. “We don’t want to be late for my parents.”
Dad’s comment buzzes in the back of my mind. “I’ll walk home,” I say. On a day like this, with people around me all the time, I need space to breathe, far away from judgment, to just be. Even though I want to believe William can like me, he is out of my league.
I run up to my room and hang my bunad back on its hanger. There’s a mark on the skirt. Now I have to get it dry-cleaned for next year.
Why did I have to climb that stupid tree? Don’t be so stupid the next time you get an urge, think.
The skater-cut knee length dress beams at me, and although I want to hold it up, touch the soft fabric, I don’t dare touch it until I’ve showered. I brush my teeth, refresh my mascara and blow dry my hair. The bun I had planned won’t stay in place, so after my seventh attempt, my upper arms burn from holding them over my head. It looks so easy for the girl in the video. I should be able to do this. After one more try, I let my hair hang free, parted on the side. As I make sure the split is even, William’s hair comes to mind. His part is perfect, not a hair out of place.
Dad calls up to me from downstairs. “We leave in three minutes, with or without you!”
I steal a second to admire how the dress fits me in the mirror.
I look great.
I force a smile off my face to take my reflection in, but I can’t keep it down for long. Usually, dresses cling in all the wrong places on my body. They’re either too tight over the breasts or butt, or too wide at the waist, but this fits me perfectly, and I can’t wait to show it off.
“One minute!” Dad’s steps pacing back and forth in the hallway echo up to my room. With a spring in my step, I head down the stairs where Dad’s adjusting his red tie in front of the mirror in the hallway. His expression stops me.
He glares up at me, shaking his head. “Is that what you’re wearing? Come on, Amalie. Yellow is not your color. Your skin’s too pale. It makes you look sick. Don’t you care at all?”
My legs shake, and I want to sit, but that will wrinkle my dress, so I grip the railing. “Sick?” My stomach churns. I can’t move.
Staring at the front door, I scan through my options. There are none. My bunad is wrong; the Skar’s don’t like bunads. My old dresses don’t fit me anymore, so it’s only the purple dress I wore last year.
I can’t wear that again.
Dad throws his coat over his shoulder. “I’m only saying this to help you. Your face looks green.”
My hand goes to my heart when Mom comes in from waiting in the car. She’s also changed out of her bunad and is now in a knee-length white shift dress. She looks stunning. “Amalie, are you all right?”
No, I’m not all right, but I can’t tell if she notices because the dress makes me look sick or because I’m panicking over what to wear.
What do I do?
Dad turns to Mom. “Let’s go. We’re late.” He points to the door, and I follow them to the car.
THE SKAR FAMILY
I hold the seatbelt away from my lap so as not to wrinkle my dress.
Mom notices and turns to me from the front seat. “You look lovely, don’t worry.” She looks at Dad. “Doesn’t she, Hermann?”
He smiles back at her, but doesn’t reply, which in some way is relieving. He has already made his opinion clear to me. Lying about it to Mom will only make it worse. She knows it too, so she doesn’t push, but sits back in her seat and looks at the road ahead.
I don’t need to see Dad’s face to know the look of disappointment he wore last time I tried to dress up. It’s etched into my mind like a name on a public toilet door.
The sun glares in my window giving me no reflection to assess how bad I look. I plan an excuse for my grandparents, but the only thing left I can think of to talk about to take their minds off my appearance is William, whom I don’t want them to know about. “Please don’t mention William tonight?” I picture my grandparents’ reactions. It will be positive, too positive, knowing who he is and that he’s successful.
“Of course we won’t,” Mom says.
“Dad?”
“Why on earth should I say anything about that boy? Shit, we forgot flowers.” Dad turns into the first gas station. “Make yourself useful and go buy some roses.” He hands me his credit card.
Outside the entrance are buckets of tulips, daisies, and carnations. “Is that grandmother’s favorite? What about daisies?”
“It doesn’t matter. Roses are the most expensive. It must be roses. Red.”
I leave the car and inspect the flowers. No roses. “They don’t have any.”
Dad storms out of the car and snaps his card from my hand. “Do I have to do everything myself?” He heads inside. When he exits, he’s got two bouquets of red roses in his hands.
“I’m sorry.” I get in the car and turn my attention out the window again where the last pine tree passes outside my window, and with it, my hometown disappears behind us. Crossing the drawbridge connecting us to the mainland, we head into the mountain tunnel. There, in the darkness, my reflection appears in the window and I see Dad is right, as usual. My skin is pale, and my face looks drained, washed out. I should have seen it. The fabric that felt so soft now itches for me to take it off.
My reflection disappears, and the industrial buildings outside replace my view. It’s all blurred out, replaced with flashing images of Dad’s disappointed face, his words, and comments about people he’s found ugly in the streets before that I don’t want to look like, but now do.
“We’ll be late,” Dad says.
Mom strokes his ar
m. “It’s only a few minutes, darling.”
“Late is late.”
My grandparents’ brick house is a story taller than the wooden houses surrounding it. It’s the only house on the street with an undisturbed view of the city sparkling below.
Dad parks the car in front of the double door entrance. I quickly unbuckle my seatbelt, get out and smooth the wrinkles in my dress. Freezing wind forces every muscle in my neck to stiffen, but I lift my head, shoulders back.
Be confident.
Dad presses the brass doorbell; three loud chimes ring. The sharp sound of heels clank on the marble tiles from inside.
Smile.
Grandmother opens the door. She’s wearing a green tweed dress and a matching jacket with a gold snake pin on it. Her hair is flawlessly layered, smelling of argan oil. The scent of her perfume stings my nose. “Oh, do come in, we’re letting the cold in.”
While we scurry into the hallway, I make a mental note to copy her attire for next dinner.
“Sorry we’re late,” Dad says.
Grandmother folds one arm under her chest and rests two fingers under her chin. Her deep-set eyes inspect my hair before moving on to my dress. I hold my breath awaiting her judgment. Her head moves like a rainbow, spreading from me to Dad, arching over Mom who stands silently in the middle. “Oh, I’m sure you have a good reason, a meeting perhaps.” Her pointy nose moves up and down when she speaks. She wags her finger at me as if signing her name. “Amalie, I must take you shopping one day.” Meaning, I look terrible.
She gestures for us to walk in and Dad passes her first. “Don’t bother, Mother. Amalie doesn’t care how she presents herself. Or us.”
What? That isn’t true!
I raise my hand to intervene, but Mom takes it and gently eases it down again before I can argue.
I know. Stay calm, don’t show emotion.
As Grandfather rounds the corner from the second floor, ice cubes clinking in his whiskey glass, I decide to keep quiet. He’s wearing a black suit, white shirt, and dark green tie the color of money with a golden tiepin. His hair is black and like Dad’s, combed to the side with no movement, glued in place by hairspray. Above him, moonlight flickers through the crystal chandelier hanging from the glass ceiling.
He's got it coming: Love is the best revenge Page 33
