The Last Beautiful Girl

by Nina Laurin

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask, mildly annoyed.

  “I don’t know. Haven’t you noticed? It’s like it comes with its own filters. Everyone looks better.”

  “I haven’t noticed,” I say stubbornly, even though I think she might be right. The selfie I took in the car this very morning had nothing on the photos from last night. I mean, it’s as nice as any other selfie, but…ordinary somehow. You can see my pores. The photos from inside the house are naturally flawless. Like the glow filter on steroids.

  And, when I went through all the pics from the photo shoot, it became even more obvious. Ines isn’t ugly—no matter how much I want to believe the opposite, I’m forced to admit that she’s as pretty as me, if not more.

  Ines doesn’t come to class, which is curious, because nobody seems to know anything about it. She even misses theater, which is really not like her.

  We don’t have an answer until the next day, when she shows up to school wearing oversized sunglasses like a celebrity getting out of rehab and lips that are twice the size they were on Sunday.

  “What?” she asks when she catches me staring in history class. I pretend to turn my attention back to my notes. On her Instagram, though, is a slew of selfies of Ines pouting. She got eyelash extensions too. Not subtle ones either. They look like spider legs.

  “She’s not the only one,” Alexa says with a shrug when I bring it up. “Isa, you might not notice, but I think they’re all feeling a little bit…overshadowed.”

  “Overshadowed.”

  “Yes. Sara got hair extensions put in.”

  “She did? I didn’t even notice.”

  “Well, not everyone has naturally long and thick hair like you.”

  For some reason, that makes me think back to the wig I found in the trunk’s false bottom. The mannequin head has now taken its place proudly on the dresser in my bedroom, by the mirror. I bet they’ll all want to wear it next time we do a shoot…

  I catch myself thinking I don’t want them to. I feel oddly protective of the wig, just like I do of the velvet dress. Somehow, it no longer creeps me out. It’s so beautiful, after all.

  So I let Ines and her Kylie Jenner pout be. Everyone is admiring it, and I’m feeling magnanimous. Let her have this.

  When I get home that day, I notice the moment I cross the threshold that it’s even dustier than usual, and that there’s some sort of loud banging overhead. My first reflex is to be filled with worry. I forget to take my shoes off. I drop my backpack in the entrance and race in the direction of the noise.

  Even though it’s way too early for both of them to be home, my parents are there, along with four or five workers who are carrying some menacing-looking tarp-wrapped objects out of one of the rooms and setting them down in the hall.

  I take a look around and recognize one of the rooms that had been boarded up. Taylor told me what it had once been, but it slipped my mind.

  “Isa!” my mom shrieks. “Guess what!”

  I have no idea, but at least it doesn’t look bad.

  “You’ll never believe what your dad found in Samuel Granger’s old photo room.”

  Right! That’s what this room is. Taylor had been wanting to get in there for ages, but she said something about needing experts because of possible asbestos or arsenic or whatever. I guess she finally got around to it. I glance at the objects that now crowd the hall as the workers gently unwrap the tarps.

  It’s a prodigious collection of ancient cameras. Those that are, like, the size of a TV, and where you had to stand still for five minutes to avoid smudging the image.

  Without hesitation, I snap a picture and send it to Alexa before my mom can notice.

  A reply arrives within seconds.

  !!!!!!!!!

  “Wait,” my mom is saying, “when your dad went into the room, he found this safe. I had to call the university right away, and they sent people who got it open. There are whole boxes of priceless historical documents. Maybe even Isabella’s will, which no one was sure even existed. We’re going through it all now—”

  I don’t wait for her to finish. I walk past her through the door. I’ve never been in here before, yet it’s all somehow soothingly familiar, like I knew what it would look like before I ever set foot across the threshold. Heavy curtains cover the windows—several layers of thick fabric to keep out the light. The walls are lined with built-in shelves piled high with all kinds of accessories. Today all you have to do to take a photo is point your phone, but, in Isabella’s time, it was this whole process: there are trays, flasks, beakers, like a prehistoric drug lab or something.

  One of the shelves is moved. Not built-in after all, it seems. Behind it is a giant steel door mounted right into the plain wall. It’s open, and the vault’s contents sit on the floor, on top of one of our blankets that Dad must have put there.

  “This thing isn’t even on the blueprints!” he exclaims as he paces back and forth. “Extraordinary.”

  “What do they say?” I ask, nodding at the papers.

  “I look forward to finding out.”

  In that moment, my phone buzzes in my pocket. It’s a text from Alexa.

  I know what our next shoot is going to be :)))) And you better be your best self, because you’ll never guess who’s in!

  Eighteen

  “It says here that, should the estate pass into the ownership of Amory University, an annual gala is to be held in Isabella’s name,” my dad says. “And that an artist should be featured.”

  I guess I should be on top of the world, because all this means that Taylor isn’t mad at me anymore. She’s been giving me the low-key silent treatment since our argument on Sunday night. And, honestly, it would have been better if she’d just gotten really angry and yelled and then got over it completely, like she tends to do. But no. Instead, she’s been simmering ever since. Every once in a while, I’d catch her looking at me strangely. Like I’m not her daughter but some impostor.

  “That’s great,” I say. “Is it still—you know—valid? After all this time?”

  “I don’t see why it wouldn’t be. There’s even a date. It’s right after the holidays.”

  “And what a great opportunity!” Taylor gushes. “For fundraising. For the college. For us! This is exactly why they brought us in.”

  “You know what? It would be nice if we could feature you,” Dad says. “You’re a photographer after all. Isabella would have loved that.”

  Isabella would not have loved that. She would have hated my mom’s kind of photography. But I wisely keep my mouth shut. “Mom?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Do you think we could use some of the old photo equipment as props? Alexa can’t stop talking about it ever since I told her.”

  I was right to mention Alexa, because my mom obviously has a soft spot for a fellow photographer—especially one of the young people whose approval she craves.

  “I really don’t see why not,” Taylor says. I calculated correctly. “It’ll be a great addition to your project.”

  I can tell she’s a million miles away. What’s more, there’s a look on her face that strikes me, because only now I realize how long it’s been since I’ve seen her like this. She actually looks happy. What do you know?

  “Cool,” I say carefully, deciding not to push my luck further. “Anyway, I’m going to my room. To let her know.”

  They both nod distractedly. But, instead of going to my room, I turn around and tiptoe back to the door of Samuel Granger’s old studio.

  I hear papers rustling, the soft footfalls as my mom paces the room.

  Taylor’s voice. “It’s a little strange, the date she chose for the gala. Right after the holidays. Everyone is bloated and broke, no one’s in the mood for fundraising.”

  I hear the rustle of my dad’s sigh. “Come on, Tay. Are you being a spoilsport
again? On the contrary, it’ll be great. The whole post-holidays season is dead air. It’ll be nice to have a big glitzy event to break up all that monotony.”

  “I’m not being a spoilsport,” my mom answers stubbornly.

  “Everything’s been going steadily uphill ever since we moved.” Dad is energetic; I can practically hear him beaming. “This is just another stroke of luck. Aren’t you dying to be the featured artist?”

  “Sure,” she says.

  “That’s it? Sure?”

  Now it’s her turn to sigh. “It’s just—do you ever catch yourself thinking how nothing worked out the way you imagined when you were younger?”

  “I’m not sure what you mean.” His tone is a bit tense, and I suspect that he knows perfectly well what she means, because they’ve had this conversation before, more than once even.

  “Well—you grow up thinking you’ll be the next Annie Leibowitz or whatever. Or a war-zone photographer. Winning awards. And, the next thing you know, you’re over forty and taking pictures of pretty buildings. Your students are half your age and looking at you with thinly veiled pity, and you realize that’s as good as it’s ever going to get.”

  “In that case, this gala is exactly what you need,” Dad says. “The spotlight. It’ll do you good.”

  “It’s not about the spotlight, Gordon. It’s about integrity. I want to go back to the work I used to do before all this.”

  “Like, photographing homeless people?”

  “Don’t make fun of me. You know there’s more to it than that.”

  “I’m sure there is. But the donors at the university, they’re old-money types who want something impressive they can hang in the family mansion, so that’s what we have to give them.”

  There’s a pause. I can hear the tension crackling in the air and wonder if I should retreat before one of them goes storming out and catches me eavesdropping.

  “You,” my mom says at last. Her voice is soft, but her tone is somber.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “You. It’s what you have to give them. It’s your job.”

  My dad groans. “Seriously?”

  “No, no. Never mind. I’ll do an exhibit of pretty photos of the house—it’ll get on your patrons’ good side, it’ll make money.” She sounds so discouraged that I feel bad for her. “I don’t mind that I’m a sellout and that no one will ever remember my work. It’s just—if only there was a way to keep Isa from the same disappointments that I faced.”

  “Disappointments,” Dad scoffs. “That’s some definition of disappointments. Look around you! Sure, I may not have had an Edwardian mansion anywhere in my five-year plan, but, from where I’m standing, things are pretty damn great.”

  “Gordon—”

  “No, I mean it. You want to keep Isa from being disappointed in life? You sure as hell won’t accomplish that by taking photos of roadkill and abandoned housing projects. However, getting her a leg up in admissions at a prestigious college, not to mention a well-padded college fund? That might help.”

  “So, throw money at the problem. That’s the solution.”

  “It may not be the solution, but it’s a solution. Especially since our daughter didn’t exactly choose a field known for employment stability, did she?”

  Wow. Thanks for the vote of confidence, Dad.

  “You know what I think, Taylor? I think your problem is that you’re spoiled. Nothing is ever good enough.”

  “Don’t you dare—” Her voice lowers to a hiss, and, even though I strain my hearing, I can’t make out any more words. Fear stirs within me. It’s unsettling. My parents fighting—this isn’t something I’m used to. For the first time it occurs to me that I’m not the only one whose life was affected when we just up and moved here. God, what if they decide to divorce? All my problems will sure seem less serious then.

  And that thought prompts another one, much darker: will I have to leave the house?

  In that moment, I honestly can’t say if I’m hopeful or terrified.

  * * *

  Our photo shoot theme is Samuel and Isabella. With none other than Nick freaking Swain as Samuel Granger, clad in a vaguely Edwardian (really late Victorian) outfit that Alexa rescued from the costume storage room of the theater club. Everybody else is there, too, including Ines with her spider lashes and new lips that look great unless she has to smile or talk or do literally anything other than pout.

  Alexa and Sara styled Nick as a sort of dandy, complete with pomade in his hair. He’s weirdly game about it. Or, at least, he pretends to be. When I walk into the studio in my dress and makeup, he tips his hat at me. All the girls ooh and aah and with good reason: my dress is a silver Art Deco number that looks closer in style to the 1920s than the ’10s, Isabella’s heyday. We found it in one of the trunks, packed away in many layers of satin for storage, and perfectly preserved. Like it had barely been worn. It looks great on me, and some heavy jewelry and eye makeup complete the look.

  Nick takes his place in front of the antique camera that he’s supposedly photographing me with. We’re under strict instructions to be extremely careful and not touch anything if we can help it. So the way he cavalierly picks it up makes my hair stand on end.

  “Better not drop it,” Alexa hisses.

  “How can I pretend to take her picture with a camera that I don’t know how to use?” Nick asks.

  “It doesn’t have to look real,” Alexa scoffs. “It’s art, dummy.”

  “And I bet none of your Insta followers would even care if I took the picture with the wrong end of it,” Nick says with a sneer.

  “Yes, because what could us silly girls with our Instagrams know about true art?” Alexa mocks.

  But he only shrugs. “There are people who think the Kardashians are art.”

  “Ignore him,” Alexa tells all of us. “He doesn’t get it.”

  I give Nick a sympathetic look. At least I try. Not sure if anyone can tell with the vixen makeup I have on.

  While Alexa is testing the light, and the other girls are absorbed in all the photo paraphernalia around us, I come up closer to Nick. “This is how you would take the photo with one of these cameras,” I say, pointing. “You turn this thing, then the little lever, and finally press here. But it doesn’t work, and there’s no film, anyway.”

  He looks impressed. “How do you know all that?”

  “My mom’s a photographer,” I say, feeling myself blush and happy, for once, for the pancake foundation Sara slathered on my face. But, the truth is, I realize as the words leave my mouth, that I have no idea. Taylor sure as hell didn’t show me. In fact, I’m not sure even Taylor knows how. She can be a bit of a snob with her old-school Leica that she treasures, her very first camera from when she was a teenager. But this one isn’t from the nineties, unless you mean the 1890s.

  “You know,” Nick says in a low voice, “I only agreed to this nonsense for your sake.”

  I’m not sure what to say.

  “So you admit you think all this is stupid.”

  “I didn’t say it was stupid. It’s just, what’s the point? All this energy and time for some photos to put on Instagram for people you’ve never met to scroll through while on the toilet.”

  “That doesn’t mean it’s not art, you know. It’s the twenty-first century.” For some reason, when I say that, I get an odd feeling like I’m arguing with my mom. “That’s how art is nowadays. I mean, better for people to see it than not at all?”

  “But art is supposed to have a purpose. A meaning. What’s the meaning of dressing up in fancy outfits from a hundred years ago and posing for pretty pictures?”

  We both jump a little when Alexa clears her throat. “Okay, lovebirds. Camera’s ready. Want to go take your poses, so we can get it over with?”

  My face warms once again. Alexa gets into place, camera at the ready. On my wa
y to my spot, I lean closer to Nick. “How about just because? Is beauty for its own sake not enough?”

  He grins. “I look at you, and maybe it is.”

  Alexa circles us, snapping photo after photo. I’m on a dais, posing on one of the antique chairs we brought from downstairs with a swath of dark red satin draped over the back, which clashes pleasantly with my silver dress. Nick is crouching behind the antique camera like he’s taking my photo.

  “Nice!” says Alexa. “Very nice. Hold still for a little while longer.”

  “So, Isabella, she was an artist’s model?” Nick asks, ignoring her. “All those paintings in the house are by different people?”

  “Yeah, in a nutshell,” I say. “I think she preferred to be called a muse.”

  “Old Sammy here must have gotten jealous once or twice,” Nick says.

  I blink. “I never thought of that. Maybe.”

  “Maybe? His wife, posing for hours and hours alone with all these famous painters. Scantily clad. I sure would be asking myself some questions.”

  “Nah. If I were him, I’d be flattered,” says Alexa from behind her camera. She’s still taking photos. I follow her with my gaze as she circles us. “All these dudes thirsting after my hot wife, and I’m the one she chose.”

  “I guess,” says Nick, looking unconvinced. “But, then again, he kind of ended up the loser in the situation, didn’t he?”

  “How so?” I ask. I don’t want to talk because I could be caught with my mouth open in a photo, but I can’t resist. I feel oddly defensive on Isabella’s behalf.

  “All these thirsty dudes, they painted her and took off. They were only there when she was at her best. But, when she aged and faded, he’s the one who stuck around. And now nobody even remembers who he was.”

  Silence falls over the room. I think back to that Wikipedia page. No one even knows when the poor guy died or where he’s buried.

  But Alexa scoffs. “How typical. She was the great muse and inspiration, but yeah, let’s all worry about the poor obscure guy.”

  “He’s the one who made her popular in the first place, with his photos. Would she have been as great without him?”