The Last Beautiful Girl

by Nina Laurin

  Just as I contemplate staying a little longer to enjoy the spacious tub and pleasantly steaming water, I hear a buzzing noise overhead followed by a loud crackle, and the lone light under the ceiling goes out.

  The bathroom plunges into a deep gray half-darkness. I sit up straight.

  “Mom?” I call out. My voice is loud, but it seems to bounce off the tiles, trapped within these walls. “Mom? The light bulb is dead!”

  There’s no answer. Once the last echoes of my voice die down, the silence wraps around me, thick and smothering. Even the soft splash of water is seamlessly absorbed.

  A sudden draft ripples through the bathroom, making the semi-sheer curtain my mom hung up around the tub rustle. At the same time, a horrible smell fills my nostrils: a smell of something burning. Not only burning—of something horrible and acrid. A chemical smell mixed with the reek of singed hair.

  I should probably get out of the tub. But I sit perfectly still as if frozen in place, paralyzed by a horrible feeling of dread.

  On the other side of the curtain, blurry, a dark shadow moves across the room.

  My hands grip the edges of the tub so hard it hurts. The smell grows stronger and stronger as the shadow grows closer, looming.

  And then I see the clear outline of a hand against the plastic, a narrow hand with long fingers, black as charcoal.

  My scream dies in my throat.

  Clink-clink-CLINK!

  The three-tone chime of my phone notification shreds the silence. The very air seems to shudder. The shadow writhes, and, in a heartbeat, retreats before dissolving seamlessly.

  The light flickers back on.

  Without wasting another second, I get to my feet and scramble out of the bathtub, not caring that I’m getting water everywhere. I’m trembling as I look around, wild-eyed, but the bathroom is brightly lit and completely empty.

  Clink-clink-CLINK!

  My phone again. And again and again. My hand still shaking, I pick it up. It’s notifications from Instagram. Sara liked your photo. Emma liked your photo. 100 other people liked your photo.

  I thumb at the screen, and, after a surprisingly short moment, considering the Wi-Fi signal is as poor as ever, the photo that apparently broke the internet appears.

  At once I understand what the big deal is.

  It’s not just the best photo of me ever taken, but probably a contender for the best photo ever, period. Like, Kim-Kardashian’s-champagne-bottle, era-defining photo. I hardly look like myself. I look like the painting of Isabella come to life.

  I scroll and scroll through all the fawning comments as they roll in. Inside, I’m still numb with incredulity. I’m actually going viral.

  Funny, I hadn’t even stopped to ask myself if this was what I wanted. But it looks like the internet decided for me.

  And so I almost drop the phone when a text message pops up at the top of the screen. It’s from Alexa.

  what did I tell you, huh????

  All the breath escapes from me in relief. I put the phone down and cast a last glance around the bathroom.

  That’s when I see it: on the plastic shower curtain, a dark handprint, dark streaks running down from it all the way to the floor.

  Part Two

  Fifteen

  Eve got home late on Saturday. Not that anyone was at home to notice, but she’s used to that. She already had her story prepared: she and the others from theater club decided to go out for dinner after the photo shoot and time just flew by. It’s not even entirely untrue—she’s just leaving out the after-party at a friend’s parents’ loft. What a waste of a perfectly good story.

  Eve has every reason to be on top of the world, but something just doesn’t feel right. Maybe it’s guilt. Today they did the photo shoot for the play’s poster and promotional graphics on social, with costumes and all. With Eve wearing the velvet dress that had been Isa’s. The first photos were already up and spreading steadily throughout social media. No way Isa hasn’t seen them at least once.

  It’s not that Eve isn’t grateful for the starring role in the school play, but she didn’t want it at the cost of her best friend since grade school. There’s no point deluding herself: long-distance relationships don’t work, and neither do long-distance friendships. You can’t just go from eating lunch together every day to speaking once a week on Skype, if you’re so lucky, and expect that nothing will change.

  And Isa sure seems to be moving on, anyway, Eve catches herself thinking with spite. Wait. Am I just thinking that to make myself feel better? But no. In the last couple of weeks, her Insta was flooded with all these photos of that impossibly cool house. And then the portraits started. Not selfies—someone was obviously there to take the photos. Who? Finally, this girl tagged herself in one of the photos, and Eve couldn’t resist the urge to click on her profile. It splashed across the screen of her Mac, and Eve’s reaction was immediate and visceral. Isa, friends with this tacky goth chick with the shoe-polish hair and cheesy skull ring with ruby eyes? Really? Eve scrolled down and found a selfie taken at a graveyard. Yes, really.

  Eve throws herself on her bed and reluctantly picks up her phone. There’s no message from Isa, no notifications, nothing.

  Then Eve opens Instagram, and the photo is like a slap in the face. She sits up.

  Isa is posing in some kind of black feather boa, her face painted up like a silent movie diva, only in full color. And the look on her face—it’s hard to describe. It’s that look that reminds Eve exactly why it was Isa, and not her, who was the star of the theater club and a shoo-in for every main part in every play. Isa is a natural chameleon, and here she slips into her character so seamlessly that no one seeing this photo for the first time would ever think this is a Brooklyn high school student. In her gaze there’s power and seduction and experience Eve is one hundred percent certain Isa doesn’t have.

  For some reason, instead of awing her, the transformation makes Eve uncomfortable. It’s like she’s possessed, she thinks.

  She taps on the profile tagged in the post—The Isabella Granger Project, she reads incredulously. Bringing the Art Deco spirit and beauty back to life. She remembers: Isabella Granger, the turn-of-the-century artist’s model, muse, and reality-star-before-her-time, the one Isa wouldn’t shut up about.

  Eve goes back to the photo and looks at it. I should say something, she thinks. Something encouraging. But without coming across as kiss-ass, because I’m sure that’s what she’ll think once she sees our promo photos.

  Except she thinks, deep down, that Isa probably doesn’t care at all about the photos, or about the play, or about Eve taking her place. If she even saw the photos at all.

  Eve lets her thumb hover over the photo, then taps once, then twice, as if by accident. The red heart blooms across the photo. Eve’s breath catches, and she hurriedly un-likes the photo, unable to help thinking that it’s already too late.

  She’s been noticed.

  * * *

  “Hey, I think you were right,” I say as I catch up to Nick before the first class of the day.

  He doesn’t miss a beat. “Of course I was right,” he says. “What was I right about this time?”

  I shake my head, but I’m chuckling. “About the dead old lady at my house.”

  His face changes in a subtle but noticeable way, his expression becoming more serious. “Oh, yeah?”

  The casualness of his tone once again feels calculated somehow. I realize it’s familiar—it becomes like that every time either of us brings up the house.

  “Yeah. I found the listing on the police site. Strange stuff.”

  “Strange,” he echoes.

  “And, more than that—I think we might have a legit ghost.”

  “Really, now?” I can’t tell if he believes me or not. His gaze is intent, drinking me in.

  “Something weird happened the other day.
I was taking a bath when I’m pretty sure I saw a ghost. Her ghost.” I quickly recap my bath-time ordeal. I try to make it sound like no big deal, but I’m not sure I’m succeeding because his frown deepens with every word.

  “Then again, it’s probably all in my head,” I backtrack with fake cheerfulness. “The streaks were probably from the makeup on my hands. That stuff gets everywhere and is so hard to get out. And, I mean, for all I know I have a brain tumor—everything stank of burnt toast.”

  I give an awkward laugh that rings hollow, since he doesn’t crack a smile.

  “Who knows,” he says. “Maybe it really was a ghost. How much do you know about the place where you live, anyway?”

  “What I googled,” I admit. “Plus what you told me. Why? Is there more to know? More creepy old ladies?”

  “You probably know the place has quite a history, right?”

  History, yes. Quite a history? That sounds menacing. I tell him so.

  He shrugs. “Maybe, maybe not. It was all many decades ago. Thing is—”

  “Isa! Oh my god.”

  Alexa’s shriek takes me by surprise. I give a start and spin around only to see her and Sara and Ines practically sprinting toward me with several other girls in tow. Before I know it, they’ve surrounded me, pushing Nick out of the way, intentionally or not. Feeling guilty, I try to catch his eye, but he only tilts his head and saunters off.

  “The Instagram is blowing up,” Alexa informs me, beaming. “Did you see? Please tell me you saw!”

  “I saw.”

  “You’re kidding, right? I spent the whole night refreshing the app. It’s official. You’re Internet famous!”

  She waits for a reaction, and I fail to give her one. She puts her hands on my shoulders. “Isa,” she says. “Hello. This is every girl’s dream. Can you at least look happy? Or are you mad because I interrupted your flirting?”

  “What?” I say, indignant. “I wasn’t—”

  “You can do better than Nick Swain. You’re a star.”

  My gaze ping-pongs from one grinning face to another, eerie in how alike they look, with stars in their eyes, almost reverent. Even Ines, it seems, forgot that she hates me.

  “It’s phenomenal, Isa,” she gushes.

  “I invited everyone over after school,” Alexa says matter-of-factly. “I hope you don’t mind.”

  “Sure,” I say, distracted. I feel a sudden urge to take out my phone and check the photo for myself.

  “To your house,” she specifies.

  Oh. “You invited people—to my house?”

  “Oh, come on. Don’t get hung up on details. Besides, it’s not just your house. I feel like it belongs to all of us. Don’t hoard it. Share it. Spread the beauty around.”

  I raise my eyebrows, but say nothing. It is my house, I think with surprising fierceness.

  “I can’t wait to see for myself,” Sara exclaims.

  Overhead, the first bell rings, indicating that classes are about to start. I follow Alexa to our first class of the day, taking a moment when she’s not looking to sneak a peek at my phone.

  Holy cow. She wasn’t kidding. I’d checked it last night before bed and accidentally-on-purpose forgot to look at it this morning, a little overwhelmed. But, since then, the number of likes has literally gone up tenfold.

  I stop in the middle of the hallway. For some reason, there’s a lump in my throat. Deep unease stirs within me. I wish Nick had had time to tell me whatever he was about to tell me.

  Someone bumps into me from behind—some girl I don’t know. “Move!” she snaps. Then she sees my face, and her expression does an alarming transformation. “Oh, Isa. I’m so sorry. Great photos!”

  With that, she sprints off to class, leaving me standing there even more bewildered.

  * * *

  The only person who seems even more shocked than I am at the sudden intrusion at our house is my mom. She has that look of bewilderment on her face as the girls sashay past her through the service entrance and into the kitchen. She gives me that look, and I know she’s thinking I didn’t say you could invite anyone over. I wonder if I’ll have a lecture waiting for me once everybody leaves. If they ever decide to leave. From the looks on their faces, they just decided they’ll be moving in permanently, and I bristle at the thought.

  Alexa leads the way like a seasoned tour guide, and I linger behind as I hear them all exclaiming over the hall and the big staircase. I exchange a glance with my mom.

  “I just wish you’d warned me,” she says in a purposefully nice voice. “I would have changed out of my dusty sweats.”

  “They just wanted to see the house,” I say. “The photos were a huge hit.”

  “Well, at least be careful. Don’t break anything. And Samuel’s old photo room is still off limits.”

  I decide not to push my luck and follow the others just as they’re making their way up the staircase. The light is strange today, probably because of the gloomy weather outside: it’s bright but gray at the same time, and everything around me looks cardboard-flat, like the house is just a carefully crafted movie set.

  “Wait till you see this,” Alexa is saying somewhere far ahead. Her voice echoes, way too loud and obnoxious. The others whisper and giggle. I realize I’m literally being left behind, like they all forgot I even exist.

  Momentarily I’m caught up in an unexpected feeling: a deep, visceral anger that’s like a dark swarm rising from within, from somewhere deep in my subconscious, maybe. This is my house. Leave. I want you out of here.

  “Hey, Isa, what’s up?”

  I blink, and the dark swarm falls away. Alexa is standing just a few steps above, looking at me with curiosity.

  “You could have waited for me, you know,” I say. “And not left me to deal with Taylor all by myself.”

  “Why? Is she raising a stink?”

  “That’s not why!” I struggle to form the words. “Just—I don’t want them going into the portrait room without me. I don’t want anyone going in there without me!”

  Alexa raises her eyebrows. A corner of her lips rises in a smirk. “Wow, territorial much?”

  “Sorry,” I say. My face warms. That did sound stupid, didn’t it? “I don’t know what came over me.”

  “Nobody is going anywhere without you,” Alexa says. “Nobody would even be here if it wasn’t for you. If they know about this place or about Isabella Granger, it’s all thanks to you—you brought it into the world. They worship you.”

  That might be too strong a word. I look Alexa over skeptically.

  “Sara, maybe. Are you sure Ines isn’t just looking for an opportunity to put poison in my face cream?”

  A sound from above cuts us off. A loud boom, followed by a high-pitched shriek.

  As if on cue we both race up the stairs with me gaining on her before finally passing her at the entrance of the fourth-floor hallway. The other girls are up here, standing in front of the ornate door of the portrait room. Ines’s eyes are as big as a pair of saucers.

  “The door slammed,” Sara stammers. “She—we—tried to open it and then it just slipped out and slammed closed.”

  I advance toward the door. Everything looks normal—just as I left it. I cautiously put my hand on the door handle. It feels weirdly warm. For a fraction of a second, a familiar smell of burnt hair washes over me before dissipating completely.

  “Isa?” Alexa’s voice over my ear.

  I realize I must have spaced out. I pull the handle, and the door opens easily, with no resistance. I let go, and the door stays open without so much as swaying in the breeze.

  “There. Nothing.” I look over their frightened faces and can’t help but feel a smug superiority. I’m the mistress of the house. You’re just the guests.

  I hold the door open, and they file in.

  Sixteen

 
It’s Sunday night, and everyone is gathered in the portrait room.

  Ever since the project took off, the portrait room has become our unofficial headquarters: photo studio, editing room, lounge, you name it, all rolled into one. It’s now called the Isabella Project—we decided to take out the Granger, to keep it from sounding stuffy and too historical. It’s not about the past—it’s about the present. And, okay, I kind of like that, this way, it’s named after me.

  After all, I’m the star. All the most-liked photos are of me. Me as Isabella. Isabella as myself. The other girls have their turns, too, but it’s become kind of an indisputable fact: I do it best. I’m the best Isabella of them all.

  “It’s this painting that we need to recreate,” Alexa is saying. I know which one she means, because we’ve had this conversation several times already in the past weeks. She means the big painting where Isabella wears the wine-colored velvet gown.

  The thing I’ve never had the heart to tell Alexa is that the dress isn’t lost. I have it. That night when I found myself sleepwalking, I couldn’t clamber out of it quickly enough, and, since then, it’s been hidden in the bottom drawer in my bedroom, beneath an old blanket. It’s stupid, I know. It’s just a dress. But I’m not in a hurry to put it on just yet.

  “Sara, do you think you could sew something like this?”

  Sara, who’s been going through the contents of an ancient wooden jewelry box, looks up. There’s an old feather in her hair that she stuck there. She shrugs, and it makes the feather tremble. “Probably. It would take forever, and the fabric would cost a fortune…and I’m not sure what to do about the gold thread and jewels.”

  “You could get rhinestones,” Alexa says.

  “No. It’s got to be the real thing or nothing,” Sara pipes up. She’s taken a pair of lavish earrings out of the jewelry box and is holding them up to her ears. “See? These look just like real gold.”

  “But they aren’t,” says Ines. “They’ll turn your ears blue after ten minutes.”

  “They didn’t turn Isa’s ears blue,” Sara argues.