by Nina Laurin
Then I turn around and find myself face to face with Isabella.
Her green eyes glare at me from the painting as if in accusation. You let this stupid boy in here. You let him go through my things. You let him place everything in jeopardy—how could you?
The dark swarm of anger grows and grows until its angry hum drowns out my thoughts. I let myself be buoyed by the anger. I’ll get him for this. How dare he?
How dare he?
The trill of my phone jolts me. I spin around, disoriented, even though the phone is just in the back pocket of my jeans. Who on earth could be calling me?
Then I take the phone out of my pocket. It buzzes angrily in my hand, Eve’s face on the screen.
Right. We were supposed to talk this evening, weren’t we?
My relief is shallow, my heart still hammering when I answer.
“Hi! Isa, oh my god. Hi. It’s so good to hear your voice.”
“Technically you haven’t heard it yet,” I say. She seems to think I made a joke.
“You have to tell me everything. How are things at the new place? How’s the new theater club? How’s—”
“You first,” I say, a little surprised at the chill in my voice. “I thought you had lots to tell me.”
I hit my target, because an awkward, static-filled silence follows.
“Go on,” I prompt. “You guys shot the promo pics. Tell me all about it. How does my dress fit you? Not too tight in the waist?”
“Isa,” she says, her tone muted. “I’m so sorry—I meant to—”
“That’s okay. I was going to see it anyway, since everything’s online.”
“You know I never would have taken your role,” she says softly.
“I know,” I say. “But I left. So everyone had no choice.” But to cast the second best. Looks like the dark swarm is still whispering in my ear. At least this time I didn’t blurt it out loud.
She breathes a shaky sigh. “I knew you’d understand.”
“Perfectly.” My own voice is miraculously steady. “Sorry. I just had a really crappy day.”
“Didn’t you have your big date?”
“Yeah, well, the big date was a big flop. I don’t really—I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Well, it’s his loss,” Eve says.
“Yeah. He could have dated the most popular girl in school, not to mention a viral influencer. But he chose to be a loser instead. His loss.”
Again, that weird pause. “Speaking of which,” she says at last. “I saw that’s going well. I saw you dyed your hair.”
“Do you like it?”
“Isa, you know you look gorgeous no matter what your hair looks like.”
“That’s a really convoluted way of saying it sucks.”
“I didn’t mean anything like that!” Eve exclaims. A little too quickly in my opinion.
“Okay, okay. It has people divided, to say the least. Even Taylor thinks I’m nuts. But you know what? I like it, which is what matters. That, and I think it’ll go a long way for Project Isabella. I can’t have pink hair in this setting, and I’m not going to keep wearing itchy wigs, am I?”
But it seems that mentioning Project Isabella only makes things worse.
“I sort of figured it was for the project,” Eve says carefully. “And I was wondering. I saw the photos and everything. They’re—spectacular. But where do you want to take it from here?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, what’s the end goal? So you want to be this big influencer—who doesn’t? But what do you want to get out of it? Sponsorships?”
A laugh escapes from me. “Sponsorships?”
“I mean free stuff.”
“I know what sponsorships are, Eve. But why would I ever want that? What do they have that I could possibly want, when I already have this place?”
“The place is…something. I’m not arguing. But—”
“But it’s not really my place. I don’t really have it. That’s what you were going to say, wasn’t it?”
Eve sputters. “If you want to put it that way—”
“Yeah, yeah. What will poor Isa do once Taylor’s done fixing it up and the university takes it back? She’ll become a nobody again. Which is what you all seem to be waiting for with bated breath.”
“Isa, is everything okay? You seem kind of on edge, to be honest.”
She means it with sincerity. I can tell. The dark swarm momentarily recedes, leaving guilt behind.
“I think the pressure’s just getting to me,” I stammer. “There’s all this schoolwork, and the project is a ton of work. And then there’s theater club. We’re doing Dorian Gray. Every girl at school is jealous of me, and they’re all angling for my role.”
“They don’t stand a chance,” Eve reassures me. Her words sound a bit hollow.
“Hey, Eve? Look, I’m totally wiped out. Can I call you tomorrow after school?”
“Sure,” she says. She sounds hesitant but mostly reassured. Good.
We hang up, and, for a few moments, I look at my phone, glassy-eyed, not really seeing all the apps on the screen. Then, out of sheer habit, I open Instagram and scroll through my feed.
As if by magic—or the designs of another evil algorithm—Eve’s photo pops up. Eve in the velvet dress. In my costume.
She looks happy.
The dark swarm descends like a black veil over my eyes. And, before I know it, I’ve muted her. One tap of my fingertip on the screen, and Eve is gone, just like that.
Twenty-Two
The library, it turns out, isn’t like Ines imagined. She thought of something straight out of Harry Potter: vaulted ceilings, walls covered with shelves groaning under gilded tomes. But it’s a small, cozy room filled with rows of dusty bookcases. Any pricey first editions were probably removed and taken to the university’s library or storage vault, leaving the airport-reads of the era. While Isa and the others get ready for the photo shoot, setting up the lights and the props, she browses through a cursory selection of turn-of-the century romance novels by famed writers including Marie Corelli, Ouida, and Edith Maude Hull—author of The Sheik. Isabella had surprisingly mundane tastes, it seems. There are lots and lots of books on photography and reference books and dictionaries.
But the space itself isn’t entirely charmless. There’s a fainting couch upholstered in purple satin, an array of coffee and end tables, a pair of big cozy leather armchairs sitting by the bricked-in fireplace. The space by the window is arranged into a reading nook: a bench covered with velvet pillows.
And there’s a painting of Isabella, of course.
Ines approaches it, barely noticing that she’s walking on tiptoes as if to avoid attracting the attention of the others. Isabella is pictured in a simple white-lace dress, not unlike the one Isa showed up in at school. In her gently folded hands, pressed to her chest, she’s holding something: a piece of paper covered in inky hints of letters. Her face is dreamy and tender, simultaneously young and ageless, the way it always is.
Ines isn’t sure what exactly drew her here, to this place. Most of her life, she just felt empty, blank, like the first page of a novel that’ll never be written. On the surface, she had everything: her parents never refused her a thing. They were well-to-do not only by the standards of the town but in general. But, in a place the size of Amory, everyone knew it, and Ines always suspected that was the real reason she always seemed to have so many friends. Because she grew up in a nice big house and always had the latest video games and gadgets. Not because she, Ines Mercato, was someone interesting.
Isabella was interesting. Isabella wasn’t a blank canvas. Isabella the woman, the muse, not Isa, the new girl at school. Ines didn’t think much of Isa. Blows into town, drops into the theater club, steals my place. Just like that.
And why should Isa get to be the st
ar of Project Isabella? It really isn’t fair.
The photo shoot has moved to the window. Isa is perched on the windowsill with its pillows, and Alexa is circling her like a vulture with a camera. Sara is fixing Isa’s hair between shots. Sara—Ines knew her since they were little kids. She thought that, if she could call anyone a real friend, it was Sara. But all it took was someone sparklier and cooler.
And now Isa is going to sideline her from the project, Ines is sure. It’s so obvious that Isa’s been giving her the cold shoulder. Everyone else picks up on it, so now they’re all avoiding Ines like the plague.
My god, she thinks as she browses the bookshelves. This place. This house. She doesn’t deserve it. Who the hell does she think she is?
The book sits there, beckoning to her.
She reaches out and takes it off the shelf. It’s so old it has to be a first edition. Probably rare and worth a lot of money. Someone must have overlooked it and forgotten such a treasure here, in this musty grave of outdated and irrelevant books by forgotten people. Oh, how she can relate.
She opens the cover to the flyleaf. Her breath catches when she sees the inscription in a truly elegant hand, almost calligraphic.
For the beauty that never fades.
Below, the title of the book is printed in surprisingly sharp letters.
She barely has time to read it—The Picture of Dorian Gray—when, with a loud crack that echoes through her bones, the lights overhead flicker and wink out.
Twenty-Three
I blink, startled. Everyone around me shrieks in unison.
“Calm down!” I hear myself saying. “It’s just a power outage. The thunderstorm must have knocked over a pole somewhere.”
Outside the window, rain lashes the landscape. Every few seconds, webby tendrils of lightning lacerate the sky.
“There goes our shoot,” Alexa mutters, but she sounds satisfied. We did get a lot of good pics. Gradually, all the girls settle down. Lights of phones dance in the dark, illuminating their faces as they scroll and scroll. It’s a beautiful scene, really. And I did all that.
“I guess I’m going to change,” I say and step down from the reading nook by the window. “Just as well. This lace is making me itchy.”
I undo the brooch that holds the lace shawl together at my throat, a beautiful cameo with some kind of silk-woven pattern in the center. Alexa found it before the shoot in one of the trunks. It’s really nice, she says, a great focal point for the photo.
Plus, the colors match my hair to an almost exact degree.
––––
Hey Isa!!
So, as you know (if you haven’t forgotten, that is—you haven’t forgotten, have you?) the play is this weekend. I guess you’ll be staying over at my place? My parents are so stoked to have you for a whole weekend. They miss you, too, I think. (But not as much as I do!!!) Just let me know when your parents are bringing you. Or, if you’re taking a bus, let me know when to come pick you up. I have a whole super fun bffs reunion weekend planned! The play, then the afterparty, and the next day we can all have brunch at The Barn, and then there’s an indie band playing that night at the usual place. I thought it could be fun. And, on Sunday, we can just hang. (Brooklyn Aquarium, like when we were in 2nd grade?? I think so!)
GURL, I CAN’T FREAKING WAIT TO SEE YOU I MISS YOU SO MUCH!! PLS ANSWER QUICK.
Xoxo,
Eve
––––
Hey Isa,
So I haven’t gotten your answer yet. What time are you coming down? I figure we don’t have to go to the afterparty. We can just go out to dinner, you and me. Our sushi place? I just really want to catch up. I know I’ve been super wrapped up in the play and everything, and you have your own thing, too, so maybe we haven’t been messaging as much as we meant to. But I really REALLY want to know what you’ve been up to! And your theater club? Did you get Sibyl? (Ha! Trick question, I know you did. Because how could you not get Sibyl??)
I’ve seen your Insta photos. They’re really something. I know it must all take a lot of time. But I can’t wait to see you again! I miss you so much.
Xoxo
Eve
Isa!! The play’s next week and you haven’t gotten back to me yet. Look, I know (and toooootally understand) that you’re kind of mad. I know you worked so hard and then you just had to change schools. And it wasn’t my choice to take your role! It wasn’t! I swear! I would trade it for having you back in my life in a heartbeat. So please, please, please don’t be angry. You’re still my best friend in the whole world, and it just breaks my heart that you’ve been ghosting. I don’t want us to grow apart over some bullshit role.
And, if you don’t want to meet up with everyone else from theater, that’s totally okay too. It can be just us, like in the old days.
BTW I saw your photos in the old library, they are *chefkiss*!!! is it that alexa girl who takes them cuz im totes jealous.
Haaaaa no, just kidding, I take that back. I know it’s Isa and Eve FOREVER
READ
Isa
Isa
IsaIsaIsaIsaIsaIsaIsa!!!
Answer! I know that you’ve read my messages
Come on
READ
Okay so the play is tomorrow. I haven’t heard a single word from you in weeks, and really I might get worried and wonder if you were still alive, except you post photos on here every five seconds so I know you haven’t been kidnapped OR locked in a tower with no wifi forever. I guess you don’t really give a shit about me or the play or Brooklyn. Good for you I guess??? And I get it, I do. I just wish that instead of disappearing like a COWARD you’d just say it to my face. And at least give me a hint what it was that I did wrong to piss you off so much. I know it’s not the play. You don’t seem to give a damn about theater or anything besides your stupid historical cosplay. So bye bitch.
READ
I’m so sorry i didn’t mean that! I take back what I said. Just answer me, okay please, please, please
READ
The play went great. Thought you’d like to know.
READ
Part Three
Twenty-Four
The moment I open the app, there it is.
The photo is polished, a little too polished. I can tell Ines had a go at editing it. She made her hair longer because, apparently, the extensions are not long enough, and, behind her, I can make out an arched window. This wasn’t taken at school, nor at the house—she wouldn’t dare. She’s posing in a long, white-lace gown, holding a single Black Magic rose to her chest strategically. But it’s really the caption that’s the cherry on the sundae.
My dear, only days ago I last saw you and already it feels like it’s been seven lifetimes. My mind romps as if trying to slip away and run back to you like your loyal hound. I can’t read, can’t eat, can’t sleep; the world is hollow without you in it. And today it’s been raining since sunup—my sadness has infected the skies themselves. Everything in my world misses you as much as I do. I think constantly of your eyes—your lips—your hair—your every part, even those that are now consigned to my imagination. My imagination is feverish with you, yet, for the first time, I feel like it is doomed to fall short of reality.
On the bonfire of your beauty, I happily self-immolate.
Yours,
No signature, naturally.
I chew on the inside of my lip, deep in thought.
It’s a super sunny winter day, and I have to set the brightness of my phone super high to see. My mom tries to sneak a peek of the screen, her hands on the steering wheel.
“Eyes on the road, Mom,” I say. “You’re going to wrap the car around a fencepost.”
“You seem angry,” she says. “Isn’t eight a.m. a bit early to be having a bad day?”
“Who said anything about a bad day?”
“J
ust that you’re a bit touchy lately. The only time you seem in a good mood is when you’re upstairs in Isabella’s portrait room.”
“That’s not true.”
She’s not convinced but decides not to argue. At least that allows me to get back to the Instagram post in peace. I reinspect the photo and reread the letter once again. The post is collecting likes by the truckload.
“So, apparently, Ines has a secret admirer. Did you see?” I ask Alexa once I meet up with her and Sara inside the school.
“Who didn’t see?” Alexa says. This does nothing to improve my mood. Over the last couple of weeks, not only did Ines get hair extensions down to the small of her back, she bought some Victorian outfits off the internet and has been posting nonstop selfies. Copycat. Not that any of it looks anywhere near as good as what I do. But still.
But this is different. This is a shameless foray into my territory.
Ines may not have the house and all the authenticity that comes with it or my acting talent or hair that isn’t fused to her head with plastic. But she does have parents who are loaded—as my own not-loaded parents never cease to remind me. So all the things she doesn’t have she can just buy. Which is exactly what she’s been doing. All the while still being all too happy to keep hanging out with me and Alexa and the others at my house, pretending like nothing is happening. Plotting her stealthy takeover. Hypocrite.
But I don’t say any of this out loud. Why would I? It would only make me sound petty and jealous. And I’m not jealous of anyone. I am Isabella. I have close to a hundred thousand followers. People are jealous of me.
So, instead, I prefer to focus on brainstorming this weekend’s photo shoot. I really have to hit it out of the ballpark. I want to cross that 100K threshold before the holidays. And, as much as I hate to admit it, I’m starting to run low on ideas. We’ve taken photos all over the house. Every portrait has been recreated. Well—almost every portrait. There’s one last one we haven’t done yet.
