Snow, Blood, and Envy

by Haus, Jean

  “No need, I’ve already been compensated.” He stuffs his hands in his pockets as his gaze slowly sweeps the room full of art. Dressed in jeans, a canvas coat, and lace up boots, this guy so does not look like the artsy type.

  Maybe he is a thief.

  Finally, he moves toward the door then stops next to me while the traitor in my arms wags his tail. I look up and unwanted anticipation roars through me at his nearness. A frown forms on his lips. His dark eyes search mine. My pulse beats in my ears. Wow. I’m like in hormone overdrive.

  Bam!

  All three of us turn to the sound.

  “Ah! What are you doing up? Who is this?” Rosa stands with a hand to her chest on the edge of the living room. A laundry basket lies on its side. Towels are scattered across the wood floor.

  I gesture to myself. “I answered the door.” I point a thumb at the hottie next to me. “He brought fruit.”

  “Que?” she asks and yanks out an earbud.

  The delivery guy moves past me and his scent once again captures my attention. I have to concentrate on not sniffing air. As he stands in the elevator, his gaze is only for me. It lingers on my bare legs again before his eyes meets mine. “Have a nice day, Nivi,” he says with a smile, showing sparkling white teeth.

  As the elevator doors close, the card flutters to the floor. The smile had transformed his appearance from fierce to charming. Totally charming. After standing there like an idiot staring at the closed elevator, I finally shut the doors, set Chilly down, and snap up the card. Geesh, he’s only a delivery guy. It’s not like I’m going to see him again.

  Rosa picks a towel off the floor. “Who was that?”

  “A delivery,” I say and point to her iPod. “I wouldn’t have bought you that for Christmas or spent so much time loading it, if I’d known I’d be waking up before ten on a Saturday.”

  She wrinkles her small nose. “I still have five boxes to unpack. She sent over more?”

  “No. She sent me a fruit basket and a card.”

  She re-folds a towel. “What’d it say?”

  I read the card.

  “Well, she’s trying.” She drops the towel in the basket. “Let her try, Nivi. It won’t hurt.”

  I groan. “It will hurt. It has hurt already. Just being around her is painful.” I pull a towel out from between Chilly’s teeth before folding it. “Look at how many shopping excursions to

  Fifth Avenue she dragged me on in less than a week.” I used to love shopping. That was with my mother at the mall or second hand stores where I picked out my clothes. Not fancy boutiques where a woman past forty dresses me like an expensive doll. “And I am trying. I’ve kept my temper in check. I’ve been nice. She just makes it so hard.” Rosa tilts her head and folds a towel. “You know, you could sell those clothes. Those designer things bring a pretty price.”

  “You always think with dollar signs.” I grab another towel.

  She nods. “I have to. How hard is it to go shopping anyway?”

  I snap the fabric in half. “I’d rather scrub toilets all day.”

  “Ha! You do that for a day! Then you tell me which is better.” She hands me the basket of towels. “Guest room,” she says before plugging in an earbud and Salsa dancing away. Chilly, the traitor, follows yapping at her dancing feet.

  The guestroom is full of Mali crap. I seldom go into the room. Now that she keeps her things in here, I never enter it. I stumble my way through boxes and tissue scattered all over the floor. My reflection gazes back with each step. Mirrors of every size and shape fill the room. Tall mirrors lay against the bed and walls. Free standing mirrors on the desk. And hand held mirrors lay in open boxes on the floor. Between the mirrors are potted plants of every shape and size. Some look tropical while others, spiny and sharp, look dangerous.

  I stuff the towels into the bathroom closet then teeter back out into the maze of glass and plants. I snicker, walking past the mirrors. I would have bet on my stepmother’s narcissism. Now the proof surrounds me. I snag a hand held mirror from its bed of tissue. Gold colored metal makes the object heavy. The raised back pictures a woman with voluptuous skirts sitting over a man who stares at her from his place on the ground. I run a hand over the intricate details. Who collects mirrors? Stamps, coins, teddy bears, but I’ve never heard of a mirror collection. I toss the mirror back into the tissue. What a weirdo.

  As I step toward the door, I catch a movement out of the corner of my eye. Startled, I spin around. Nothing there, except my reflection everywhere. The movement must have been a reflection from one of the other mirrors, a reflection of a reflection in a room full of reflections. Ugh. The thought hurts my brain.

  After shutting the door to Mali’s cavern, I go and lug the fruit basket to the kitchen. The thing is heavy. Way too heavy for Rosa to move it.

  On the granite counter, I pick through the strange fruit. I’ve never seen anything like this stuff before. The texture of it scrapes my palms and a light film dusts my skin. A sweet smell fills the air. I peel a triangular leaf from a leafy ball. Moist pink fruit stares at me. Pretty and glistening it begs to be eaten.

  In a nearby drawer, I reach for a knife.

  My fingers have trouble grasping the utensil. I try again, but my fingertips feel numb. I look down. The skin of my hand has a purplish tinge. I drop the heavy ball of fruit and it thumps then rolls across the tile.

  Of course, she’d send me something I’m allergic to, I think rushing to the sink. Normal produce isn’t good enough for my uppity stepmother. After washing and rinsing them several times, my hands return to their normal color and feel.

  I walk past the basket of fruit without another thought of it. My last day of freedom calls.

  Since sleeping in is now out of the question, I plan to lounge the day away in between finishing the caricature-wedding portrait. Since they’re both rich, buying them a gift seemed ridiculous. So I decided to create something personal. And although I think it’s a fabulous idea, I’m not sure Mali’s going to like her face exaggerated in charcoal while wearing old time clothes and portraying a cheesy grin. I find the drawing slightly funny and whimsical. So at least I like it.

  In my room, I grab a blanket, a pillow, a sketchbook, and my Looney Tunes video collection. From the kitchen, I add a Coke, a bag of chips, and two doggie treats to the pile in my arms. I’m off to the couch. No hot guys making me nervous, no weird fruit, and definitely no stepmother. Unfortunately, my honeymoon will be over tomorrow night.

  Chapter 4~Snow

  Monday morning, after walking Chilly, I’m in a rush to get to school and away from my stepmother. Once hated, school now offers an escape from her constant nagging. As I pass the guest room, I see her staring into one of her mirrors. She’s the CEO of her own consulting firm, but she seems to work whenever she wants and spends most of her time staring at herself. As she stands in front of a tall mirror, she’s so engrossed in her likeness, the image of her saying, “Mirror, mirror on the wall…” flashes through my mind. A laugh almost escapes. Then I notice her reflection and a gasp escapes. The image in the glass, light hair and a round face isn’t Mali.

  “Nivea?” she asks, turning her profile to me.

  I look at her then the refection. Her silhouette is in the glass. I shake my sleepy head. That was beyond freaky. I really shouldn’t stay up so late drawing. “Yeah, just leaving.”

  “Don’t forget about our shopping plans tonight.”

  She’s definitely a wicked stepmother. They got back two days ago and already the shopping. “I haven’t forgotten.”

  “Five-thirty sharp,” she says from her room of reflection. “Be sure to dress appropriately.”

  “I’ll be ready. See you then,” I say, keeping the irritation from my tone. Ugh. I could get along with her, maybe even like her to a point, but her obsession with changing me makes me crazy.

  I smash my feet into my untied boots and snatch my lunch off the counter cluttered with tropical wedding photos from Fiji—the caricature
lies in its frame underneath the pictures—taken by some photographer who works for National Geographic.

  Outside, our driver pulls to the curb in my father’s black Mercedes SUV. Behind him on the other side of the street, a man on a motorcycle watches me. At least I think so. It’s hard to tell with the helmet he’s wearing. His gray coat and the red basket strapped to the seat catch my attention. Fruit deliveries at this hour? I can’t tell for sure if it’s the delivery guy, yet I have the sudden urge to run to him. To jump on that bike and not look back. Luckily for me, he revs up the engine and drives away.

  Confused if that urge stemmed from long lost romantic notions or desperation to escape myself, I shake the feeling off and pull the passenger door open. Harrison has given up holding the door for me. Besides it being stupid, the man is nearing seventy. He shouldn’t be getting in and out of the car just so I don’t have to lift the handle.

  “Is there enough time to stop at the coffee shop?” I ask, buckling the seat belt.

  Harrison lifts a gray eyebrow while shifting into drive. “Sorry, Nivi, Mrs. Nash says no more stops for Irish-cream lattés. She’s declared it a very unhealthy way to start the day.” He keeps his gaze straight ahead while I glare at him. “Hey now, she asked. I wasn’t about to lie.”

  I slam my head back against the seat as my temper explodes. “What’s her deal?”

  “She’s trying to look out for you, that’s all.”

  “I met the woman less than two weeks ago. Now, all of a sudden, I’m shackled with someone playing mommy. I’m almost seventeen, not freakin’ four.” I’m so trying to get along with her, but she makes it so damn hard.

  His eyes stay on the road. “No comment.”

  Even out of her presence, I can’t escape Mali. I stare out the window in anger until we pull in front of a brownstone building. Small, elite, and expensive, Wesley is one of the most prestigious high schools in the city. I slam the door without saying my normal goodbye and stomp up the stone stairs. The marble-floored halls full of plaid skirts, pressed pants, and navy blazers ring with chatter. The hallways are always loud here while a silent hush pervades the classrooms. The students here value education. I mean really value it. Their parents are CEO’s, lawyers, stockbrokers, or anything else that makes boatloads of money. And they plan to do the same. I plan to be an animator so I’m pretty much silent in all areas of the school. Cartoon makers and stockbrokers don’t have much to talk about, which is probably one reason for the strained relationship with my father.

  I go to my first hour and study for an upcoming test in an empty room. When lunch comes, I go to study hall. I don’t have friends here. Back in Cleveland, I had tons of friends. Now, I don’t care about friends here or there. When I first came, a few students had welcomed me. Grief stricken and lost, their words and faces had passed by me in a haze.

  After signing in at the front desk with Ms. Kay, the choir teacher who dresses like a hippie, I set out a sketchpad and unpack my lunch. I’ve never eaten in the cafeteria here. I prefer to be alone. School has become that, just school. My lunch consists of an avocado sandwich on whole wheat, raw broccoli, a bag of almonds, and that weird fruit from the basket. Ever since Mali had moved in, Rosa has been packing me these gross, healthy lunches.

  As I draw—a Venetian backdrop for my monkey cartoon—and pick at my nutritious lunch, other students trickle into the room. Some are here to study for the day while others are permanent fixtures like me. Mark Brant, a pint sized sophomore, sits behind me as usual. I tolerate him, but if he asks for my number one more time…well he may get more than an earful.

  “What’s that?” he whispers and nods to the Ziploc bag of fruit.

  “Chinese dragon fruit,” I say. The kid never brings lunch. I’m always giving him something. “You want it?”

  “Sure.” He holds out his hand.

  I pass it back then continue to draw and shade. Halfway through the forty minute lunch hour, Mark starts knocking his desk into the back of mine until the top of a bell tower becomes a scribble. “Stop that,” I hiss.

  “I like your hair. The red tips are pretty,” he whispers into my ear. “Not as pretty as you though.” My pencil falls from my hand. This is overboard even for Mark. I turn and almost collide with his face. “Can I touch them?” he asks in a slur and blinks.

  “No!”

  “Why not?” He reaches toward my ponytail.

  I knock his hand away. His eyes have a glazed look to them. He’s acting weirder than normal, and Mark’s normal is usually too much for me. “Leave me alone. Do your work or something,” I say in a hard tone.

  He taps a fingernail against his long chin. “I like your eyes too. They’re so blue.” Obviously, the idiot didn’t catch my tone. He leans closer. “Blue like the sky or the ocean or Cookie Monster. Do you like cookies?” Thinking he has to be high or something, I reach for my book bag. “How come you won’t go out with me?” he asks loudly in my ear, loud enough for the entire room to hear. He’s now standing next to me.

  “Shut up,” I snap.

  He bends over me. His eyes are round and huge. “You think you’re too good for me?” The stench of his breath has me leaning over the isle between desks.

  I can feel everyone’s eyes on us and the blush on my face. “Go and sit down,” I demand from behind my teeth.

  “No.” He shakes his head, grabs my chin with his thin hands, and lowers his head.

  Braces tear at my lips. Wet lips suck at mine. Eww! Shocked and disgusted, I gag and jerk back, too far back. We land on the floor, me underneath, him on top. He’s not kissing me anymore. His lips on mine or his body sprawled across me, I’m not sure which is worse.

  “Get. Off. Me.” I spit the words and try to push him, but he’s stronger than he looks. Since I hear students moving toward us and I’m wearing the standard school skirt, I can’t buck him off unless I give the entire room a glimpse of my underwear.

  “Just let me….” He bends toward me.

  I watch those clammy lips descend in slow motion. There are only two possibilities here. I puke or Mark gets a fat lip. The choice isn’t hard. My fist clenches and anger makes the punch harder than I intended. His head snaps back and students in the ring around us gasp. My knuckles throb. He weaves a bit but still sits on me. Gaining his balance, his eyes narrow and his lips pucker. My fist clenches again.

  “Everyone out in the hall,” I hear Ms. Kay say then the shuffle of feet around me.

  Psycho kissing boy clutches my blazer and continues to weave on top of me. I push at his bony chest. He stays locked on. He looks like he’s going be sick. To be truthful, I’d rather have him puke on me than kiss me. If he does kiss me again, there just might be a pukefest between the two of us.

  “Mark, get up,” Ms. Kay says from above us as the beads around her neck clink together. She pulls at his shoulder. “I’ve already called the principal.”

  He just sits and stares at me and drools. Ugh. He’s so dead when I get my hands on him later.

  Mr. Leonard, the assistant principal, appears above us. “Mr. Brant, get off of Miss Nash, now.”

  Mark leans forward. His lips pucker. “I just wanna kiss.”

  I’m too shocked to even push at his chest. The law stands above us and psychotic kissing boy is still puckering up.

  “Mr. Brant!” Mr. Leonard grabs him and yanks him off me.

  Finally. I scramble up and away while Mark tries to pull free of Mr. Leonard’s grasp. Luckily, Mr. Leonard, though old and bald, is a big man. There’s no way little Mark’s going to break free.

  “Any more resistance and you’re going to earn yourself a longer suspension,” Mr. Leonard snaps. Mark just keeps pulling and yanking himself like a yo-yo, and chanting, “I just wanna kiss.” Anger apparent on his face, the principal twists Mark’s arms behind him and forces him to walk out. Mark moans and blabbers all the way about kisses.

  Over an hour later, after washing my mouth multiple times over, I sit in a small room off the office
. Even with the door closed, I hear Mark whining, yelling, and crying. My mind alternates between calling him a jerk and feeling sorry for him. Something is definitely wrong with him today. Maybe he’s allergic to that weird fruit too, but I’m not sure how an allergy would excuse his awful lips on mine.

  Although the kiss is the biggest shock of the day, once his parents drag him away, I get another shock inside the principal’s office. Apparently, it doesn’t matter if gross guys force lip locks on you. You may not retaliate, and my retaliation earns me a week of after school detentions. Though I keep my mouth shut, when the principal holds up the pink papers up, I can’t stop myself from snapping them from her hand.

  Chapter 5~Snow

  After serving my detention, Harrison offers to let me drive home. Although I usually jump at the chance to get a driving lesson—since he’s a retired racecar driver—I decline. Driving as mad as I am right now would not be a good idea. Waiting for the elevator to take me up to Chilly and tranquility, I glance over and almost gasp.

  The hot delivery guy stands next to me holding another basket. My bad day evaporates in a second. I lower my chin and raise my eyes. Yeah, he’s still tall, dark, and exotically hot. Wistful longing comes back in an instant.

  Maybe I should just give into it.

  Preoccupied with the elevator arrow, he hasn’t noticed me. At least that’s what I tell myself. While the arrow makes its way down the numbers, I conjure up a variety of ways to get his attention. I haven’t tried to flirt in ages. Once I’d been a pro at it. Now without practice, my mind stumbles over imaginary awkward phrases. I peek at him from under my lashes again. Is he near my age? It doesn’t matter. I only plan to flirt. I just want to be normal for once. The spark his looks evoke brings back forgotten memories. A giggle, a brush of my arm against a muscled one, bubbles of excitement in my stomach, and that rush of breath right before lips meet flash though my mind. Part of my life before my mother died, gone now along with the happy-go-lucky girl who once embraced the world.