by Amy Cross
"It's a nice idea," my father says, clearly not convinced, "but have you seen the sky, Juliet? It's kind of overcast. There might even be a little rain later on."
"That doesn't matter," I continue. "We can put a cover over the barbecue and eat in the rain!" I pause, realizing that maybe I'm starting to veer off-track. After all, normal people don't barbecue in the rain. "Maybe next time," I say, deciding it'd be better to curb any hint of weird behavior. "We'll just play outside if the weather's good, and we'll come in if it's bad." I pause for a moment, trying to think of the most normal food that a girl like me would ask to eat. "Can we have pizza?" I ask.
"Pizza?"
"Or burgers," I say, correcting myself quickly.
"Pizza or burgers," he replies, smiling. "I think I can sort something out."
I smile. This isn't actually as hard as I'd feared. All I have to do is think of the most boring, normal girl, and then imagine what she might do in any kind of situation. Then, I just mimic her thoughts and needs while I'm talking to my father. In fact, the easiest thing might be to just pretend that this normal girl is sitting next to me all the time.
"Do you want ice cream as well?" my father asks, clearly warming to the idea that I'm going to behave properly for the afternoon.
"Chocolate and strawberry!" I imagine the normal girl saying.
"Chocolate and strawberry!" I say, remembering to keep a big smile on my face.
"Well, that's just fine," he replies. "I've got to say, Juliet, I'm really pleased that you're throwing yourself into this. Dr. Larson said it'd take some time to bring about the necessary changes, but I think you're really ahead of the curve. I can tell from the look in your eyes that you're really looking forward to having Samantha come and visit."
"Of course I am," I imagine the normal girl saying. "It's going to be fun to have her here so we can play all afternoon."
"Of course I am," I say. "It's going to be fun to have her here so we can play all afternoon."
"Good girl," my father says, standing up and walking over to pat me on the shoulder before he carries our empty plates over to the sink.
Taking a deep breath, I find myself marveling at the ease with which I defused that situation. When I first went to see Dr. Larson, I thought it would be a simple job to manipulate people. I was wrong, but I kept working on different methods, and now I think I've made a breakthrough. I suppose it's important to avoid becoming too confident, but right now I'm pretty pleased with myself. As far as my father's concerned, I'm a happy girl who's making plans to spend the afternoon with my cousin; he's probably marveling at how easy this whole thing has been, and wondering why my mother found it so hard to make me a better person. He'll learn. Soon he'll see that he's got it all wrong.
"I'm going to go and get ready," I say, standing up and hurrying through to my bedroom. As soon as I've got the door closed, I relax and let out a long sigh. Now that I've got some kind of plan worked out, I'm actually starting to look forward to Samantha's visit. I still don't know exactly what I'm going to do when she arrives, but the best thing is probably to just wait and see what happens. If I come up with some kind of forced, rigid plan, I'll struggle to get everything how I want it to be; instead, I can just stay alert and watch out for opportunities. If Samantha's here all afternoon, there's bound to be a chance for me to strike. By the end of the day, my father and everyone else will know exactly what kind of girl I am, and what I can do. Unable to help myself, I start laughing.
Chapter Three
Today
"I knew your mother when we were all at school," says Mr. Todd, one of the men at the party. He's a tired-looking guy wearing a dark brown suit, and he has the bored, defeated countenance of someone who has spent his entire life filled with regrets. "She was a pretty little thing. I had quite a crush on her for a while. I probably shouldn't say that, but it's true. She was very pretty. I used to go to Chess Club with her, but then she ended up meeting your father and the rest is history. Lucky man."
"Huh," I say, trying to make it look as if I'm paying attention.
"I think the last time I saw her was about fifteen years ago," he continues. "I just bumped into her in the street. I suppose you were still a little girl at that point. The next thing I heard was a few years later when Mary told me that poor Amanda had passed away. What was it that got her, again?"
"Leukemia," I say, wondering when this infernal conversation is going to end. I'm not interested in listening to this Mr. Todd guy as he rambles on about my mother; as far as I'm concerned, it doesn't matter what he thought about her, when he saw her, or how much he regrets not seeing her more often. I'm far more interested in Samantha, who has spent the past half hour sitting quietly in the corner. You'd think, given that this is supposed to be her engagement party, that she'd be having a good time. She's certainly engaged in conversation with a couple of people, but I can tell her heart's not really in it; her eyes keep darting over to me, and it's pretty clear that she hates me. For as long as I'm sitting here, her blood is boiling, and I kind of like that. I expected her to be annoyed when she saw me, but I never thought she'd be so irate. Still, I guess some people can really hold a grudge, even after eleven years, and some wounds take a long time to heal.
He nods sagely. "One of the worst. Just eats you up from the inside. The pain is..." He pauses for a moment. "You know what? This isn't really the kind of thing we should be discussing at a party, is it?"
I smile, feeling as if I'm in a spotlight of pure awkwardness.
"So what are you up to these days?" Mr. Todd asks, clearly attempting to change the subject to something more cheerful. "Studying?"
"I'm going to college in a few months," I say, turning back to him, even though I'm not really sure whether the whole 'college' story is true anymore. Lately, I've been thinking more and more about staying around here. After all, my 'job' at Crestview is giving me everything I could possibly want in life, and I'm terrified at the thought of moving away from Jennifer Mathis.
"Good choice," Mr. Todd says. "A college degree is the bare minimum these days. Even a smart young lady such as yourself, Juliet, needs to have certain qualifications in order to get your foot in the door. What area are you planning to study?"
"Arts," I mutter vaguely, staring over at Samantha and waiting for her to look at me again.
"Just like your mother," he says.
I turn to him. "Really?"
"She always had her nose in a book," he continues. "When I knew her, at least. That woman had a wonderful mind, I don't mind telling you."
"I guess," I reply, realizing with a shiver that perhaps I'm making it too easy for people to assume that my mother and I had a lot in common. As far as I'm aware, we were pretty different people, although I've never really found out very much about her. My father has made it pretty clear that he's uncomfortable discussing her, and there's not really anyone else around who knew her. My own memories are kind of fuzzy; I remember what she looked like, and I have specific recollection of certain events, but I don't remember much about her personality.
"Sorry," he says. "This is supposed to be a party, right?" He clinks his glass against mine. "Cheers! To the future!"
Smiling, I look over and see that Samantha is walking out of the room. When she gets to the door, she glances back at me before disappearing from view. I hear footsteps going up the stairs, and I realize she wants me to follow her. Looking down at my glass, which is still full, I realize that this is perhaps the one eventuality for which I didn't make any plans. I kind of thought I'd turn up, feel awkward, and leave. All of a sudden, though, I feel compelled to poke around a little and find out some more about Samantha's life in the eleven years since I last saw her. I want to know if I had a lasting effect on her life.
"Excuse me," I say to Mr. Todd, before getting to my feet and hurrying across the room. As soon as I'm in the hallway, I pause and take a deep breath. Do I really want to do this? A one-on-one confrontation with Samantha might bring up some difficult
questions, and I've learned over the years that I'm particularly bad at talking to people directly. On the other hand, the prospect of getting deeper under her skin is kind of tempting, especially now that I've got a new-found sense of confidence thanks to the way things have been developing at the retirement home.
"Do it," whispers a voice in my ear.
Turning, I realize there's no-one there, but I'm pretty sure I recognized the voice. It was Jennifer Mathis, and whether I imagined her or she reached out to me for a moment, I know she's right: I can't pass up this opportunity. I start making my way up the stairs. When I get to the top, I see that there's a light on in one of the rooms, so I walk over to the door and knock gently.
"Come in," Samantha says stiffly, as if she's expecting me.
I pause for a moment, before pushing the door open and stepping into the room. I'm immediately shocked to find myself in some kind of pink paradise: the walls are pink, as is the carpet, while the four-poster bed is a kind of white and pink construction covered with pink sheets and pillows. There are stuffed toys on all the surfaces, and posters all over the place showing various cartoon animals, mostly unicorns. It's like wandering into the bedroom of a kid, except Samantha is in her early twenties. She's sitting on a stool over by a make-up table, upon which there are scores of boxes and bottles of powders, creams and gadgets. There's an over-powering smell of perfume in the air, and the overall impression is that I've wandered into the boudoir of some kind of cartoon heroine.
"How's it going down there?" she asks, staring at herself in a small mirror as she applies some fresh mascara. I swear to God, I've never seen someone wear so much make-up. "Are people enjoying themselves?"
"It's okay," I say, loitering by the door. "Everyone's talking and drinking champagne, so..." I pause, feeling that I shouldn't really be here. It's as if I've fallen down a rabbit-hole and ended up in a fantasy world. "I don't really like champagne," I say, holding up my glass. "Do you want this?"
"No," she says, carefully applying some fresh lipstick.
"You use a lot of make-up," I say, setting the glass down on top of a small bookcase.
"Yes," she snaps back at me. "I do. Have you got a problem with that, Juliet?"
"Not really," I reply. "So is your boyfriend coming today?"
"No," she says firmly. "I told you, he's working. Please don't ask the same question repeatedly. It stresses me. Have you got a boyfriend, Juliet?"
"No."
"Girlfriend?"
"No."
"No-one at all?" She stares at me. "What are you? Asexual?"
I shake my head.
"Whatever. If you don't make an effort, you won't get a proper man. You know that, right? You'll just get a guy who wants you for one thing, and..." She pauses, and for a moment she seems to have stalled; she just stares at me, her mouth hanging open a little. "One thing only," she adds eventually, frowning. She turns back to the mirror and checks her teeth for lipstick. "Scott and I are waiting for our wedding night before we consummate our relationship. We believe it's worth treating sex as something special. I'm keeping my purity in a special place, and I'll give it to him once we've been joined together in the eyes of God. It's a gift. It's my gift to him, and his is his gift to me. We're very happy."
"Huh," I say.
"Do you still have your gift, Juliet?" she continues. "To give to your future husband on your wedding night?"
"I guess."
"How old are you now? Twenty-one? Twenty-two? Same age as me, right?"
I nod.
"You have to take these things seriously, Juliet. If you don't, nothing means anything anymore, and you're left in an empty world. If you don't give a damn, everything flattens out and becomes bland, and gray. Scott and I are totally the same in almost every possible way. The same values. The same likes and dislikes. The same hobbies. The same interests. Even the same weaknesses. It makes getting through life together much more satisfying. I really don't know what I'd do without him." She turns to me. "You don't understand any of this, do you? Have you ever had a boyfriend?"
I shrug.
"Of course not," she continues, smiling. "Poor Juliet Collier. No-one wants you. I'm not surprised. They can probably smell your weirdness from a hundred paces off. I'm not even sure there's much you can do about it. I mean, I suppose you could try to get some better clothes, and maybe fix your hair, but in general there's just this weird quality about your face. I don't think there's any way to hide your true personality."
"I guess not," I say, trying not to smile. It's pretty funny, the way she's got the knives out for me as soon as we're alone.
"And you don't really care, do you?" She pauses for a moment. "It's okay, Juliet. I know you don't give a damn." It's as if she's working herself up into more and more of a rage, getting angrier by the minute. "After all, you can't even be bothered to get dressed up for a party, can you? Standing there in your filthy fucking jeans. Are they even clean, or are they the same rags you've been wearing for a few days now?"
"I -"
"Not a fucking clue," she says firmly, interrupting me. "Anyway, where do you get off, telling me I use a lot of make-up? How fucking dare you?"
"Sorry," I say, "it was just -"
"Do you really think I use a lot?" she asks, standing up and walking over to me, grabbing a small bottle of make-up remover as she approaches. "Do you think I use too much, Juliet?"
I shrug. "I was just saying."
"You think this is too much?" she says, stopping just a couple of feet from me. "Well, you little bitch, let me show you something." Angrily, she squeezes out some make-up remover and slaps it on her face, rubbing all the lotions and creams from her right cheek until finally I see the scarring underneath. I stand in silence and watch; when she's done, I see the truth: the entire right side of her face is mottled and scarred, and the skin around one of her eyes looks loose and saggy. "Do you see why I wear make-up?" she continues, raising her voice.
"Yeah," I say, my heart racing.
"Did you think it would just go away, Juliet? Did you think some nice doctor would come along and wave a magic wand, and it's just clear up like it was a bad rash?"
I shake my head.
"This is what you did to me!" she shouts, stepping closer. "You! All you! So if you're wondering why I wear so much fucking make-up, here's your answer! It's all your fucking fault!"
"Yeah, well -" I start to say.
"You know what?" She steps closer, and then suddenly she grabs my shoulders, pulls me close, and slams her knee into my chest before pushing me to the ground. "Sorry, Juliet," she says as I struggle to get my breath back, "did that hurt?"
Chapter Four
Eleven years ago
"Hi!" says Samantha, grinning at me.
"Hi," I say, trying to smile but feeling kind of inadequate compared to my cousin's all-encompassing luminosity. She's one of those girls who just seem to be always, totally, completely happy. It's as if there's some bright, shining force that sparkles in her heart, its rays of light shining out of her eyes. She's wearing a dress that would, I suppose, be considered beautiful; she looks eager and enthusiastic; and the way she's smiling at me, I can't help feeling that she might actually be part of a conspiracy against me. After all, I know that my father is keen to find me a friend, and I'm sure he's discussed this plan with Samantha's mother Mary; is it really that hard to believe that Samantha has been told that she's here to help me?
"Give Juliet the gift you brought for her," Mary says.
Samantha holds out a paper bag. Opening it, I find that it contains a model kit for a scale recreation of a fighter jet. "Thanks," I say, feeling a little confused. After all, this is hardly the kind of thing I like, but I guess they don't know me very well. Besides, they're probably re-gifting.
"You look very nice today, Juliet," says Mary, ruffling my hair. Damn it, why does everyone do that?
"I think Juliet wants to show Samantha some things in the garden," my father says. "You know what kid
s are like, always wanting to get dirty."
"If it starts raining, you must come straight back in," Mary tells Samantha.
"Of course," Samantha replies. She's such a good little girl, always being polite to her mother. I can tell that she's exactly the kind of daughter my father would like; I'm sure it pains him a little to see us side-by-side and to realize how much of a disappointment I've become. In many ways, Samantha and I are total opposites.
"Off you go, then," my father says, walking over to the kitchen counter. "You want some coffee, Mary?"
I turn and lead Samantha out the back door. The sky is getting darker and darker, as if there's a huge storm coming, and there's a slightly cold wind starting to whip up. As we step out onto the grass, it suddenly occurs to me that a 'normal' girl wouldn't want to be out in this weather.
"We can go inside if you want," I say, turning to Samantha. "We don't have to be out here."
"It's fine out here," she replies, suddenly seeming a little different. "I'm hoping it might rain."
I stare at her for a moment. "You like the rain?"
"It's the best thing ever," she says. She glances back at the house, as if she's making sure that no-one can hear us. "Ignore my mother," she says eventually, turning back to me. "She can be a bit of a bitch sometimes."
"Huh," I say, unable to suppress a smile.
"What about your Dad?" she continues. "He seems weird."
"I guess," I say, trying to work out what's happening. Every assumption I had about Samantha seems to have been wrong; despite her sweet and innocent appearance, she seems to have a dark streak.
"My mother told me to help you," she says suddenly. "On the way over here, she kept going on and on about poor little Juliet, and about how you've lost your mother and you're all messed up. Apparently your Dad asked us to come today. They think I'm going to make it all better, but they're full of shit." She pauses. "What's the sickest, most disgusting thing you've got in this garden?"
