by Nina Laurin
Hang on a second. Wasn’t it on the other side of the wall?
“Is this by one of the local pop artists?” Eve inquires with a sly grin.
“Oh god. That’s Isabella Granger, to whom we owe this place.”
“Okay. But what is she doing in your room?”
“Covering a stain on the wallpaper,” I say honestly. I side-eye the painting. If it’s really been moved, then the stain should be visible, but the intricate wallpaper is pristine. “Don’t be so dismissive. She was this great philanthropist and patron of the arts. Her portraits are all over the house. Some are by well-known artists…” I trail off, picking at the bandage on my finger. The cut underneath begins to smart.
“Must have had quite the ego,” Eve points out. “What kind of person hangs pictures of herself all over her house?”
“Uh, every kind of person,” I say. “We just post it to Insta instead of hanging it on the wall. But it’s essentially the same thing.”
Eve shrugs. “I mean, she’s all right looking. For a woman of her time.”
“She’s beautiful,” I say, feeling defensive, although unsure why.
“Sure, sure. So how come the place was, like, abandoned for a hundred years before you guys moved in?”
“It wasn’t abandoned,” I say, simmering with impatience. “She bequeathed it to the university. As a museum of her life.”
“Like I said, ego,” Eve interjects.
“…and, for a while, it was, but then it fell into disrepair. They restored it just for us. All her paintings and things are still here.”
“I see that. So where is Isabella herself, then?”
“You’re kidding, right? She’s been dead for close to a hundred years or something. I guess she didn’t have descendants.”
“How did she die?”
“I have no idea. It’s not on Wikipedia.”
Eve laughs. “Don’t be silly. Everything’s on Wikipedia.”
“See for yourself,” I huff. “There’s nothing. Cause unknown. And the same thing for her husband. Who was, if you can believe it, a photographer.”
Eve rolls her eyes. “So basically, you’re living in the house of a turn-of-the-century Kardashian.”
“Hey!”
“Okay, okay. Don’t be so touchy. It’s a gorgeous house; you should feel lucky.”
“Yeah. I would, if only—did I tell you about that creepy guy in half of my classes who keeps staring at me—like, if his eyes were lasers, I’d be dead, you know?”
Eve looks at something off-screen. “Okay. Look, Isa—I kind of have to go. I have a ton of homework, and I really need to improve my grades. My mom is serious this time. So I’m going to—”
“Sure,” I say, trying hard not to show my disappointment. As if it’s not the first time all week I’ve gotten to talk to a normal person. “I’ll Skype you tomorrow night.”
“If your connection can take it.”
“Or if the internet craps out again, I’ll call.”
“Actually, tomorrow night I can’t. It’s rehearsal, remember?”
“Right,” I say, crestfallen. How did I forget already? “The night after?”
“No good. Maybe Saturday afternoon? Anyway, I’ll message you. Ciao, bella!”
She signs off. I’m left staring at the blank Skype screen. Stupid old house, stupid backward town. Life would be so much easier with functioning internet.
It’s an excuse. She’s happy to be rid of you.
My head snaps up. The words felt almost real, like a subtle touch along my spine, leaving goose bumps in its wake. But I get up, and, of course, I’m alone; the room is empty. The only other human in here is painted on canvas.
I make my way over to the wall where the painting is hanging. When I lift it up to see underneath, sure enough, there’s the stain on the wallpaper. Looking closer, I find it’s a weird shape. Like someone threw something at the wall with great force.
Seven
In the morning, the house isn’t exactly at its best. In all that bright sun, you can see the subtle decrepitude clearly. You can see that the exquisite wood paneling in the hall could use a coat of varnish, the mosaic parquet floor is scuffed, what carpets are left are threadbare, and that rust is slowly setting in on the intricate wrought iron railings and banisters. Only the frescoes and chandelier are magnificent as ever, crystals sparkling like diamonds in the rays of sunlight, the colors of the paint bright and clean. But then you look down from all that beauty and return to the world of dust.
And the dust is pervasive. Even though professional cleaners had come through, and Taylor spends hours vacuuming and sweeping, more dust has emerged overnight out of nowhere, swirling in beams of sunlight.
The kitchen, where we’re about to have breakfast, is the least impressive room. That’s because, as my dad helpfully explains, back in Isabella’s heyday the kitchen was the realm of the cook and servants. The mistress of the house never set foot there, so no point in fancy architecture.
When he says that, Taylor giggles like a little girl. “Wouldn’t that be nice. Never to set foot in the kitchen while the help does all the cooking. If only somebody around here helped out once in a while, right, Isa?”
“Would you be asking me that if I were a boy?” I fire back.
“Yes, as a matter of fact, if you were a boy, I’d also ask you to help with hauling boxes of equipment up four floors. But I don’t suppose you’d volunteer for that either?”
“Mom,” I say. “You know I have to go to school.”
“Of course.”
“And why do you need your boxes on the fourth floor, anyway?”
“I’m storing my stuff up there until I can take over Samuel Granger’s workshop. The head of facilities finally found the key. But, for now, it’s full of dust and who knows what’s in that paint, maybe lead or something worse. I scheduled to have it professionally cleaned.”
I shrug and resume eating my cereal. Taylor’s right about the dust. It’s in everything. Even the cereal tastes gritty.
“I have to make an early start,” Mom says. “Your dad will drive you to school.”
He does. I’m relieved because, unlike Taylor, Dad never gives me crap when I’m on the phone around him. I have time to catch up on most of my news feed, but my heart gets stuck in my throat when I see the photo Eve has posted. It’s of Eve in the costume—my costume; I still think of it this way even though I have no right. But here she is, wearing my costume, surrounded by our friends who are all smiling and making faces. And the caption reads, The show must go on!
Indeed.
“Isabella?” Dad asks.
“What?”
“We’re here.”
Right. I look up. The car stands still in front of the school gates.
My shoulders droop. With a sigh, I put my phone away and struggle back into the straps of my backpack.
“Hey, Isabella? Look, I’m so sorry about all of this.”
I’m taken aback. “What do you mean?”
“The move and everything. I know you’re not exactly in love with the place…”
And here I thought I’d been good about complaining as little as possible.
“It’s obvious from how you’ve been acting. I miss my sunshine girl, and I really want you to be happy. But this is good for the family. And your mom…she needed this. It won’t be forever, I promise.”
Puzzled, I say bye to him and head off to school. If that speech was meant to cheer me up, it failed.
I feel cowed by it all, and, as I pass a pair of glass sliding doors, I notice that even my outfit reflects the feeling. Without thinking about it, I chose plain leggings and a plain sweater. And I really should have washed my hair, which looks greasy and flat. The color is fading, and it’s a bit passé, really. I’ll have to dye it myself.
As
I take my seat for my first class of the day, my brain keeps buzzing. Having learned from previous experience, I’m a lot more discreet with my phone in class. But scrolling through my social media feeds only makes me feel worse. Here, a picture of Eve—more like Eve’s lunch, a bento box from the place where we used to go together. Suddenly, the avocado-rolls-for-eyes schtick seems stupid, like it’s mocking me. There, a picture of the whole squad in front of the mirror in dance class. People running around all over Brooklyn. Having fun. Without me.
I realize I’m sulking and throw a glance around to see if anyone noticed. Of course, there’s the creep. Looking like he’s not looking at me. What’s he going to do, rat me out to the teacher for being on my phone, like we’re actually in sixth grade?
The whole thing is too infuriating to think about, and so, instead, my mind turns to what my dad said. Your mom…she needed this.
And why is that, I wonder.
Taylor, like any creative in the twenty-first century, has a social media presence of her own. But, since Taylor considers herself the coolest mom of all moms, she doesn’t follow her daughter on any platforms. I scroll through Taylor’s official Instagram, which consists of artsy shots of cool things Taylor snaps throughout the day. The moon that looks like it’s balanced on the corner of a roof, things like that. The beauty of everyday objects. When Taylor started the account, I was still in middle school, and I thought it was kind of neat. But, lately, it’s been veering toward the cutesy, not so original—not like my mom at all.
Now, I see that Taylor hasn’t posted in a while. Her last few posts are reused images from much earlier, and nothing new has been added in several months. It’s hard to determine when exactly she stopped posting. I scroll and scroll.
“Ms. Brixton!” the teacher’s voice brings me back into dull reality. “Have you been paying any attention?”
And because, at this school, they still call students Ms. This and Mr. That, I reply, obediently, “Yes, ma’am.”
“So what did I just say is the subject of today’s lecture?”
I cast a semi-panicked glance around. Back home, someone would have helped me. Someone would have given me a hint. But here, I’m left to fend for myself in enemy territory, kingdom of the blazers.
Then a movement catches my eye, and, before I can check myself, I glance over at its source. The creep is sliding a paper across his desk in my general direction. Before I even read the two words written on it in bold, I notice his hands: he has a musician’s long, slender fingers, sinewy, stained with ink—or is it paint? Only his bitten-to-the-quick fingernails ruin the impression.
“Isabella?”
I clear my throat. “The onset of the industrial revolution,” I say, feeling my face grow warm.
I give him a nod of thanks without meeting his eye. Sure, it’s nice of him. But he’s no less a creep.
However, at the end of class, just as I’m done putting my things away and ready to leave, I find him parked in the middle of the aisle. I glance around: there’s no other way to leave without moving desks, which would make a bunch of noise and really draw attention to me. And to the fact that I’m moving desks to avoid him. I linger at my seat unnecessarily, observing him out of the corner of my eye, but he’s peacefully scrolling through his phone, in no hurry to leave. Today he’s wearing a different button-down, which really could stand to be buttoned up. Through the carelessly open collar, I can see that he’s wearing some kind of weird necklace, a simple black cord with what looks like a mangled paper clip dangling from it. His hair flops over his forehead, but he’s so absorbed in his phone that he doesn’t seem to notice.
I draw a breath. Suppose I’m going to have to talk to him. I approach at a slow pace, hoping he’ll maybe get the hint like a normal human being and get out of the way.
“Excuse me,” I say pointedly. He glances up from his phone. As if he really hadn’t noticed he’d blocked my exit. Infuriating.
But he moves out of the way without making a fuss. I have to pass right by him. I feel his gaze, curious and observing.
“You’re welcome,” he says sotto voce just as I squeeze by.
My face warms. This is what it’s all about? Jeez. Whatever happened to chivalry, huh? He can’t even perform the most basic act of human decency without expecting me to profusely thank him.
But, when you think about it, he did save my butt. And any normal person would bother with a real thank you.
“I totally knew the answer, by the way,” I murmur. “I would have remembered, anyway.”
He chuckles. “Of course. I don’t doubt it. But then I wouldn’t have had an excuse to talk to you.”
This is such a transparent lie—at least the first part is—that I gasp. Inwardly, of course.
“And what makes you think I wanted to talk to you?”
“Nothing. That’s a chance I had to take. I’m Nick, by the way.”
Good god. His name is as preppy as he is.
“Isabella,” I say coolly.
“Is your next class algebra? If so, I’ll walk you.”
As if you didn’t know my next class is algebra. We have it together. Of course.
But, even as I prepare to tell him to get lost, I realize my curiosity is piqued. Seriously, a guy using such a grammar-school ploy to talk to me? It’s charming in a way. So, without actually agreeing—let alone showing enthusiasm, heaven forbid—I let him walk by my side on the way to our next class.
“Thank you for saving my butt in history,” I say, finally conceding the point.
He half smiles. Smug.
“But the staring, that wasn’t cool. I could complain about you to student services, you know.”
“I can’t be the only person who’s looking at you,” Nick says.
I’m not sure if he made it better or made it worse. “Yeah, because I stand out or something?”
“Because you’re the girl who lives in the Granger mansion.”
My spirits sink, although I wouldn’t admit it in a million years. The house again. “Is everything here always about that damn house?”
“It has a history,” Nick says obliquely. “Or, rather, it is history.”
“Yeah, well, it’s not haunted or anything. I don’t believe in that stuff, anyway.”
His face clouds over. For just a second. A blink later, his smug expression is back.
“And, okay, so that explains the students. Why are all the teachers here so mean to me?”
“In case you didn’t notice, they’re like that with everyone.”
“Not helping, Nick.”
“Wasn’t my intention.”
“It’s like—back home—back in Brooklyn, at my old high school, the teachers were so chill. They were nice. Here it seems like they’re always trying to trap me with some assignment I forgot to do or some trick question. Like they want me to fail or something.”
I catch myself rambling, and my face warms once again. But, if I expected sympathy, all I get from him is a shrug.
“Have you stopped to think that maybe you’re just used to free passes?”
That’s it. He really is a creep, cute smile notwithstanding.
“Have you ever stopped to think that maybe you’re an asshole?”
“Nice. You learn that in Brooklyn too?”
Furious, I storm off, right past the algebra classroom and down the hall. I swear I can feel his stupid, smirky gaze on my back, and so, to escape from it, I turn onto the staircase, which is emptying quickly as people rush to their classes. A moment later, I understand why the hurry: overhead, the bell rings. Literally overhead. When I glance up, it’s right there, affixed to the ceiling. By the time it’s done, I’m not only late for class, my ears are ringing too. Oops.
I quickly consider my options: if I go to class now, no doubt there’ll be some kind of public shaming ritual. Maybe they�
�ll make me stand in the corner for the whole hour like at some British boarding school from the fifties. To hell with that. But getting caught wandering the hallways is probably not a great idea either. I should either get out of the school altogether or find a place to hide out.
“Psst.”
I jump, spin around—and, sure enough, as if by some sinister magic, it’s Alexa crouching under the staircase like a troll under the bridge. How does she do that? Is she following me around? I’d be mad, if I wasn’t kind of happy to see her.
“What are you doing here?” I whisper as I go over to join her.
“The same thing as you, it looks like,” Alexa says, nonchalant. “Come on. I know a place we can go.”
* * *
Following Alexa across the vast field behind the school, I look doubtfully over my shoulder at the hulking school building. I feel a little exposed, like some unseen enemy is watching us from one of those little windows that look black from the outside. But Alexa doesn’t seem concerned, so I figure I shouldn’t be either. We pass the second gates (at this school, the big sport is soccer, very in keeping with their wannabe-European image), and I understand where we’re headed. I’ve seen the building from afar before and wondered what was inside. Unlike the main building with its brutalist angles, it’s beautiful, majestic in a way, tall, with columns by the entrance. It has an abandoned look to it, even though the path leading to the double doors is nice and clean.
“They built the new auditorium years ago,” Alexa explains, with nary a glance over her shoulder to make sure I’m keeping up. “Now all the important stuff takes place there, which is just as well, because we have this place to ourselves.”
To my surprise—or, really, the opposite—Alexa doesn’t head for the front doors. Instead, we circle the building to a side entrance, a door so short I practically have to duck to enter. At first, it’s shockingly dark once the door shuts behind us, and I wonder what I let Alexa rope me into. A bunch of B movies I used to watch with Eve flash through my mind. Do they have some demonic-sacrifice ritual going here? But then my eyes get used to the dark, and I realize this is a dressing room. Alexa flips a switch, and the bulbs surrounding a long horizontal mirror hum to life. There are chairs, mismatched and in varying states of disrepair, and a counter littered with discarded articles, a powder puff, a sock, Q-tips. Classic theater posters hang over the mirror, their corners curling from the above-average humidity.
