The Last Beautiful Girl

by Nina Laurin

  Unable to send photo—check internet connection.

  Rage surges within me. It’s unlike anything I’ve ever felt, a feeling cold and hollow like this house. I raise my hand, which feels like someone else is moving my muscles for me—and, the next thing I know, the phone is tracing a large arc in the air as it sails down the stairs.

  All the breath leaves my body. What the hell have I just done, I have time to think before the phone lands on the floor facedown with an angry, sharp crack.

  Echoing my thoughts, the lights on the entire floor crackle, hiss, and flicker out.

  Four

  The last time I had the dubious honor of being the new girl was in elementary school. But that’s not why I’m feeling lousy this morning. Being the new girl isn’t some sort of horrible ordeal like you see in teen movies—I’ll win everyone over if I have to. The problem is I don’t want to. I’ve known most of my friends in Brooklyn since we were all learning to read. Trying to replace that just seems pointless.

  The morning of my first day of school, I wake up before the alarm, and, at first, I can’t remember where I am. The ceiling is high and unfamiliar, and the strange, musty, old smell in the air is different from what I’m used to. Then it all comes back, settling in like a weight on my chest, and, in a vain attempt to shake it off, I get up and go open the curtains.

  I chose this room because, at first glance, it looked homey. Unlike many of the other rooms, which had been stripped of all ornamentation, this one still has the old silk wallpaper, remarkably well-preserved: a slightly faded cornflower-blue with vertical stripes of tiny gold flowers. There are also wall chandeliers, but I couldn’t switch them on. That was before Taylor explained that they couldn’t be switched on, because they were connected to the house’s old gaslight system that no longer worked. There’s a painting on the wall, of Isabella, of course, and an old mirror that also can’t be used because it needs re-silvering, black cracks snaking all over the surface below the glass. So I have to do my hair and makeup in the bathroom.

  There’s a mirror here as well, in slightly better shape. As I lay out my makeup, the tubes and pots look sad on the massive, well-worn marble counter. I imagine Isabella Granger anointing herself with the best cosmetics of her time, dipping her fingertips into pots made of precious metals and enamel—cosmetics that seem, at best, primitive today. They contained arsenic, among other things, which made your face nice and smooth with the teeny-tiny side effect of causing festering sores. Which, then, got slathered in even more arsenic-laden paint to cover them. Or was it gone by then? Did everyone figure out that they were coating their faces and bodies in poison?

  I wonder what we’re using, today, that will have people a hundred years from now recoil in horror and disgust. I chase the thought away and boldly swipe on concealer.

  There are mirrors that are your friends, always showing you in the best possible light—this mirror isn’t one of those. Its surface must be uneven, because my face always looks a little bit distorted, and it takes a heartbeat to get used to it each time and realize it’s just the crooked mirror’s fault. Doing my best to focus on just one detail at a time—eyes, eyebrows, lips—I finish up my makeup as quickly as I can and take a step back to assess the result.

  My reflection in the massive mirror with its heavy ornate frame strikes me as pathetic, as if my looks could never live up to its opulence. Even with the gilt coming off the pattern of frolicking nymphs and cupids, it still manages to look magnificent, and I manage to look less-than in comparison.

  * * *

  When Taylor drives me to school, a drive that takes all of five minutes, I spend them all with my face in my phone, trying to puzzle out whatever my friends’ feeds are showing behind the web of screen cracks.

  As soon as I hop out of the car in front of the imposing iron gates of my new school, a feeling of unease creeps over me, and I start to understand the hapless heroines of the teen movies a little bit better. At first, I nurse a feeble hope that Taylor got the address wrong. This place looks like a jail for children, not a high school. Given the architecture in the rest of this wretched town, I expected some grand structure with turrets, maybe like Hogwarts meets Arkham Asylum. Instead, there’s a square, beige building with rows of tiny windows. The tall fence and sliding gates that mark the entrance onto school grounds compound the impression.

  The building is bathed in sunlight, which makes it only a little less grim, and surrounded by a sea of students who seem in no hurry to get to class. My first thought is that they look preppy. Not like an actual high school, but the version of one out of a cheesy nineties movie from my parents’ vast collection. Pleated skirts abound, and I spy someone wearing an honest-to-god cardigan without a shade of irony. I quickly lose count of guys wearing pastel polo shirts, and the sea of pristine, fitted, un-ripped blue jeans is unsettling. Really, the only thing that places the scene in the present day are the phones. Everyone is so busy staring at them that no one pays any attention to me. This is probably for the best, because I stick out like the proverbial sore thumb. For maybe the first time in my life, I start to second-guess myself. I’ve never been one to overthink what to wear; the perfect outfits come to me naturally. Eve and I used to spend hours raiding thrift shops for unique finds: oversized jeans from the eighties, a worn leather jacket, a vintage silk blouse the color of acid. But that was in Brooklyn. And my current #OOTD is very Brooklyn: mismatched Converse, one blue and the other pink with silver laces, cropped jeans with holes on the knees, and a crop top with a flower pattern that echoes the pink of my hair. I painted my fingernails navy blue and stacked my silver rings, without which I feel naked. I liked the result enough to take a picture, although it’s hard to tell how it came out, with the broken screen and all.

  My armpits feel damp, and I wonder, in a moment of panic, if I’d forgotten to put on deodorant. No. Can’t be.

  My skin crawls, and I mistake it for your average first-day jitters until I catch someone staring at me. Some guy. He’s standing by the side of the main path that leads to the school doors, next to a small group of teenagers on bikes, but, at the same time, apart from it. He’s dressed preppy, like the others, though there are subtle details that make me think this is more akin to a costume to him—a subtle inside joke. He has dark hair that’s a little too long on top and chiseled features that would be a little too Ken-doll perfect if not for the intense, shrewd look in his eyes. His obligatory clean-cut button-down is partially untucked from his jeans, and the worn leather jacket he wears over it clearly comes from another decade. And he’s the only one without a phone in his hand. No ubiquitous white AirPods either. Just standing there doing nothing. Like a psychopath.

  I pick up my pace just as he starts toward me. Without looking back, I walk to the entrance as fast as I can. Finally, in the narrow hall, I blend in with the crowd—or hope I do. In any event, when I dare check over my shoulder, he’s nowhere to be seen.

  My first order of business is to find the “campus life organizer”—just the sound of that shows how these people already have one foot in the university down the road. I knock on the door, feeling somewhat reassured. If nothing else, one thing I’ve always been good at is making a positive impression on adults. At my old school, back in Brooklyn—back home—I was on a first-name basis with most of the teachers, who loved me. If I ever needed an extension for a deadline because I’d spent long evenings rehearsing with the theater group, they were always forthcoming, and, if I ever needed to skip out on gym because my legs hurt from dance class the day before, I was always allowed to just hang back and stretch instead.

  The campus life organizer is a slim woman in a blue blazer, and everything about her looks dry. Hair, skin, facial expression. Even when she blinks, I swear I hear rustling, like her eyelids are papyrus. Not a good omen.

  “Hello,” I venture. “I’m Isa Brixton. I’m supposed to—”

  “Isabella Brixton, yes.
I have a note about you,” the woman says ominously. “Why aren’t you in class?”

  “Because…because I was supposed to stop by here so you could enroll me in my electives,” I say, fighting back a stammer. “Because registration is technically over and all.”

  “And you couldn’t do that during first break or lunch hour because…”

  “Because I need to get into drama,” I fire off.

  “Drama will still be there at noon.”

  “But I was supposed to go see you first thing,” I argue, already suspecting I’m wasting my breath.

  “Well, if you needed to see me first thing, then perhaps you should have arrived earlier. Now please proceed to Homeroom.”

  I start to say something but stop. “That’s…that’s unfair,” I choke out.

  The woman looks at me smugly.

  “Miss Brixton, I’m afraid you will find that, at this school, we follow rules. And we also value academic excellence over frivolous popularity contests. So, by all means, go ahead. Twitter away, to all your followers, how unfair we’re being in making you comply with the same rules as everybody else. It’s not going to change a thing.”

  I briefly consider just storming out. But that would give this witch satisfaction, which is the last thing I want, so I turn slowly on my heel and walk to the door.

  “Oh, and Miss Brixton? We have a dress code at this school. The hem of your shirt must reach the waistband of your trousers. I kindly suggest you keep this in mind for the future.”

  I manage to make it out of the office and shut the door behind me without committing literal murder.

  “You evil hag,” I mutter under my breath.

  Only when I hear a chuckle do I look up and realize I’m not alone. A girl is waiting on the bench not too far from the door. She glances up from her phone, and our eyes meet.

  “Hey,” says the girl. “Don’t worry, I won’t narc on you. If anything, I agree. What did she do this time?”

  “I—I just wanted to get enrolled in drama class,” I say, measuring the girl with a look. She fits in as poorly as I do. Possibly more so. At least at first glance. Come to think of it, she’s also going for a nineties look, but of a different kind.

  “Oh, that won’t be a problem,” the girl says, grinning. “It’s not the most popular elective here. Kendra will be glad to have a new face—we never have enough participants to stage anything interesting. You’re new, I take it?”

  “Yes,” I say with some relief. “I’m Isa Brixton. We just moved here…”

  “From New York,” the girl finishes. “I heard.”

  I feel a bit miffed. “Brooklyn,” I correct softly. It’s probably all the same to her anyway.

  The girl nods matter-of-factly. If this place does have a dress code, her outfit must violate at least ten different subsections. Her black velvet skirt has a high slit down the side, and, through it, I glimpse fishnets. Her equally black top is flowing and diaphanous, but sheer enough to show a black bra underneath. She has more earrings than I can count and several studs in her lip. I’m actually a bit jealous, although the whole goth thing seems kind of played out.

  “Look, how about we just walk down to Kendra’s classroom right now and ask her to enroll you? She won’t mind.”

  “I thought you were waiting to see her.” I nod at the ominous door.

  The girl laughs. “Oh, she can very well wait. I’m Alexa, by the way.”

  The class of the mysterious Kendra turns out to be in the farthest corner of the school’s east wing. The older part, not as meticulously renovated and clean as the rest. But I like it better that way—not quite so antiseptic. Paint flakes off aging windowpanes, and the doors are all old, worn-looking solid wood. One of them, the very last one, is open, and, as we approach, I hear voices inside. It doesn’t take a genius to recognize Viola’s monologue from Twelfth Night.

  Whoever is doing it could be doing a lot better.

  “Hi, Kendra,” Alexa says, erupting into the classroom. She doesn’t even spare a glance at the girl she just interrupted. “Sorry to bust in, but I brought you someone. A new recruit. You absolutely must meet her; she’s a drama prodigy.”

  “Prodigy, huh?” says a woman, turning around.

  I’d mistaken her for one of the students at first glance. She wears flowing pants with an eclectic print and several layered knit tops. Her hair hangs down to her waist freely, swinging along with her beaded chandelier earrings as she advances toward us. “I can use a prodigy around here. Sorry, Ines, can we take five?”

  The girl who had been struggling with Viola’s speech slinks away to the back of the classroom.

  “Sorry if we’re interrupting rehearsal,” I say.

  “No, no. We haven’t even started rehearsal yet. I’m Kendra.” She holds out her hand, and I shake it. The woman’s hand is rough and piled with turquoise rings, which clink against my silver ones.

  “Kendra, can you do us a solid? Enroll Isa here in your class. Greer refused to do it.”

  For a moment, Kendra looks dubious, glancing from Alexa to me and back, and my heart clenches. She’s going to say no!

  But, then, Kendra smiles. “Sure. I have plenty of free spaces. If anything, Isa, bring your friends!”

  I’m not sure how to tell her I don’t have any because I’m the new girl, and people here don’t look all that friendly to begin with. But Kendra is already tapping away at a tablet, asking me to spell out my full name.

  “Lovely,” she says. “And Alexa? Ms. Greer was looking for you. You should probably—”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Alexa waves her hand dismissively. “On my way. See you in class, Isa?”

  I say my goodbyes and set off to find Homeroom, even though the time on my phone tells me there’s less than twenty minutes of class left.

  Five

  After Homeroom, as soon as I find my next class, I do something I’ve never done before—I get a desk at the very back of the classroom. Back home—back in Brooklyn—I always sat in the middle. That way, you’re not kissing up to the teachers outright, but you’re not on the edge like the social rejects and C-students either. But, here, the desk in the far-right corner seems like the natural place to sit. From here, I have a vantage point to see everyone who comes and goes, but no one pays attention to me.

  That’s why my heart flutters when the creep from earlier strides through the door. He’s ditched the worn leather jacket, and now he’s holding a phone like everyone else—a nice new iPhone, earbuds in his ears. Yet, somehow, he still doesn’t blend in. There’s an aura of tension around him, like a gathering thunderstorm. Invisible no longer, I carefully avoid looking in his direction, but there’s no doubt: he’s watching me.

  Do not sit next to me, I pray. Don’t even think about it.

  When I dare look up, he’s not sitting next to me—thank god—but he’s at the other end of the same row. He doesn’t seem to be looking anymore, but I’m not fooled. My senses remain on high alert. I manage to fidget through the class, and, once the bell rings, I busy myself gathering my things.

  When I get up from my chair, he’s gone again.

  * * *

  At the end of the day, I exit the school as quickly as I can. I’m tempted to go look for Alexa, but then I spot my mom’s SUV waiting beyond the gates. I’m keenly aware I’m one of the few juniors who doesn’t drive on my own, so I hurry over and get into the passenger seat, hoping Taylor will drive off before more people can see me being picked up by Mommy like a grade-schooler.

  But, instead of hitting the gas pedal and taking me the hell home, Taylor lets the car idle.

  “How was your day?” she asks, and I detect caution in her tone.

  “Fine,” I say, hoping to cut the interview short.

  But Taylor’s gaze is fixed on my face.

  “What is it?” I snap, my patience at an end.r />
  “I got a call from some student life coordinator or someone,” Taylor says, and my heart sinks further. “A Ms. Greer?”

  “Mom,” I say, racking my brain for whatever excuse I could give.

  “She said you missed Homeroom…”

  “I got lost, okay?”

  “…and also something about a dress code. I told her dress codes were sexist, of course.” I glance sideways. Taylor looks proud of herself. “And you know what she said? They’re not sexist because they apply to everyone. Even theater prodigies from Brooklyn. The nerve of the woman!”

  I let myself collapse against the back of the SUV’s surprisingly comfortable seat, relieved.

  “…but, just in the interest of keeping the peace,” Taylor’s voice turns supplicating, “could you tone it down just a little bit? For the first little while?”

  “Tone it down?” I demand with contempt. “Tell me you’re kidding. I’m not bowing to that prune. She can—”

  “All I ask you is to please not stir the pot. At least for some time. Until you get acclimated there.”

  I rub my temples, overwhelmed with everything that’s wrong in this situation. “I can’t believe you’d have me cave to that fascist and her demands. Just to avoid stirring the pot.”

  “Izzy, please…”

  “Can we just go home? I’m tired, and my head hurts.”

  “Honey, I didn’t mean it like that.” The supplicating tone is back. She might be a semi-efficient mother, I find myself thinking, if only she weren’t so obsessed with being liked. It’s a mean thought, I know, and I feel like garbage.

  “Here.” Taylor opens the glove compartment, and my jaw drops when I see a sleek white box. “This is for you. I figured it was unfair to leave you with no connection to the world.”

  It’s an iPhone. Not just a new one—the new one, the one that retails for almost a thousand dollars. I never thought I’d see it in my wildest dreams, at least not until two more models were released and it became affordable. Back home—in Brooklyn—I always was the one with the old phone. Although Eve was always too tactful to point it out.