by Haus, Jean
Does she still exist somewhere deep inside?
Ding. The bell sounds and the door opens. A young couple, dressed for a night on the town, stroll out. I go in, push my button, and ask, “What floor?” Very lame, but it’s something. Baby steps, my therapist—the one my father used to force me to go to since he’s clueless about how to deal with me—always said with a grin.
“Fifty-eight,” he replies without looking at me and steps in the corner.
Excitement rolls in my stomach. I push the button then pretend to study the basket in his gloved hands. “So do you deliver a lot of those to this building?”
Those black eyes meet mine. “Sometimes.”
“Really?” Geez, I totally suck at this now. He nods and stares at me in the fluorescent light. His lips form a slight frown at my plaid skirt. I smile faintly. “Private school can’t let go of the uniforms.”
He doesn’t reply.
I bite my lip and struggle to think. Being trapped in his dark gaze doesn’t help. I glance at the floor. The small space bears down on me. Sweat peppers my forehead. Think of something witty, Nivi. Something funny. Something to make him smile so you can see his face transform again. Nothing comes. I’m witless. I’m about to give up.
He sets the basket on the floor then crouches over the bin. My brow rises when he plunges his hand into the fruit searching for something. “Whatcha got there? Gold?” I plaster a smirk on my face, but wow, why do I even try?
His hand stops moving. A piece of nylon rope falls over the edge of the basket. He looks up. Under an angle of dark hair, his eyes are cold.
My face grows warm at his cool stare. My gaze snaps to the ceiling. The emergency hatch becomes the most interesting thing in the world. That’s it. No more flirting. Though a normal inclination, I’m not normal anymore. I cross my arms. Okay then, I’m just riding in an elevator. Ignoring the heat on my skin, I lower my gaze.
He’s still crouched next to the basket. Our eyes lock for an embarrassing second before his drop to the dusty floor. He collapses against the wall. His head falls back as if he’s tired. His eyes close and lashes fan on skin. The muscles of his throat tighten with a deep breath and anguish etches his face before he buries his head in his hands.
I drop my book bag. “Are you all right?”
He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t look up. He doesn’t even move a millimeter. Until his knees begin to tremble.
Thinking he’s sick or in pain, I kneel next to him. “Do you need something? Can I help?” I put my hands on the floor and try to peek at his face. My butt’s in the air. Great, if those doors open, say hello to my little friends, Snoopy and Woodstock. He continues to tremble. Afraid something is terribly wrong, I reach for his gloved hand. “Should I push the emergency button?”
He pulls his hand away and raises his head.
I drop my hand and hold in a gasp. Anger, dark and intense, fills his features. “Ah…” I lean back on my heels. I blink. “I’m sorry. I thought you might be sick or something.” Okay, I suck at flirting. But where is this dislike coming from?
The elevator bell above us dings.
I shoot up. At least my ass isn’t in the air anymore.
He scoops up the basket and moves past me but pauses between the doors. Looking over his shoulder, he says, “Don’t take it personal. I’m just…upset.”
Though he can’t see me, I nod like an idiot.
“Take care,” he says, stepping in to the hall.
He moves down the hall with a graceful litheness. I’ve never considered walking to be an art but with each step, his body ripples with grace and agility like one of my father’s sculptures come to life. The elevator doors close and I stare at metal.
What was that about? My mind scrambles for an answer. Nothing comes. Maybe he’s just a great looking weirdo. Though I’d bet he thinks I’m more than a bit odd.
The sudden sight of my father’s gilded entrance startles me. In a trance, I search my bag for the key. Unlocking the door, I notice the note taped to it.
Nivea,
Remember to be ready and dressed properly for shopping and dinner by 5:30.
Mali
I tear the note off and crumple the paper in my fist while chanting to myself that I will get along with her. I will. I will. I will. Even if it kills me. And at her current rate of empty-headed fashion, it might.
Chapter 6~Snow
“No, she will not have a Coke.” Mali flips her black, shiny hair back. “Bring her juice, freshly squeezed if possible.”
The young waiter nods and offers me a quick glance of pity before leaving. My face twists into a mixture of anger, embarrassment, and want. I really want a Coke.
“What’s your deal?” I snap as soon as he’s out of range.
She tugs her huge purse open. “Caffeine and corn syrup pollute your body.”
I resist slapping my hand on the table. “You know you’re not my real mother.”
Her hand pauses inside the bag. “You know beyond giving up your disgusting eating habits,” she pulls a tube out of the leather bag, “you need to show some appreciation for the small fortune I just spent on you.”
She’d been pestering me about the shopping trip for days, acted surprised when she came to pick me up, and had been unbelievably bossy the whole time. Though I promised myself to get along with her, I’ve had enough. My palms screech across the smooth table while she slathers her lips. Although the dim light above us is tinted blue, red fills my vision. “I didn’t want any of those clothes. And as far as I’m concerned you can shove each overpriced piece of ugly crap up your—” I catch myself before the last word.
She stops painting, sputters, and snaps her mouth shut. However, the evil look she gives me says a thousand words. Her eyes spew the filth from every language known on earth, and maybe some from far away galaxies.
I could care less. Her anger is like a cherry on the top of a very bad day.
The waiter drops off our drinks.
Mali taps the bottom of her wine glass on the table.
I refuse to look at her.
She drums her long red nails.
My ears twitch at the sound, but I ignore her. She sips her red wine. I push the juice away. Soft jazz music fills the air. The scent of fresh flowers rises from the center of the table. Yet the atmosphere does little to quell the almost tangible fury between us.
Ignoring her malicious gaze, I glance around the restaurant. Even it irritates me. When I used to visit my father during the summer, I loved going to expensive, swanky restaurants. Never mind the food, the experience had been exciting. Now after half a year of living with him, the novelty has worn off. Fancy lighting, linen tablecloths, and artsy décor doesn’t improve the food. Good old fries and a hamburger beat a small filet of meat dribbled with mystery glaze over pureed mush any day of the week. However, my mother’s lasagna or fried chicken beat them all. My lip quivers until I push the memory of home cooked meals out of my mind.
Mali taps her glass again.
I finally look at her. Meeting her narrowed gaze, I feel pain shoot through my head. Her eyes narrow more and lightning sizzles behind my eyes. I tear my gaze away and catch my father passing a swirled, abstract painting across the room. He slides into the booth, gives Mali a quick kiss, and then faces me. “What happened today?”
I blink through the pain in my head. So used to his indifference and haphazard parenting, I haven’t given a thought to the e-mail the principal promised (threatened) to send him. What is this about? Has Mali’s over care inspired him? Or is he worried about his reputation? Forced into it—his look brooks no argument—I describe my lunch in detail as my head continues to pound. He listens with a fist under his chin while Mali’s eyes shoot sparks of anger. By the end of my story, she grips the edge of the table. As if any of this is her business.
My father rubs his chin. “Well, I guess I understand why you punched him, but why do you eat lunch in study hall? Why not the cafeteria? I believe I pay for lunch a
long with your tuition.”
I get into a fight at school and my father’s worried about where I eat lunch? “I like the extra time to do work.”
The lines of his face become stark. “Not only did I pay extra to get you in there, Nivea. I pulled in several favors. Don’t wreak the chance of a lifetime. That school is like Harvard compared to the public school you went to in Ohio. This is when you start making connections and opening doors for yourself. Start acting like you belong there. Mali’s trying to help you fit in. You’re even disregarding her.”
My self-esteem fizzles out of me to land under the table beneath his custom-made Italian leather shoes until a rush of anger hits me. Raised in the suburbs, educated at public school, and an average teen, I’ll never be good enough for him. I lack posh. I lack superiority. I lack class. And we both know—though the words have never been said—that raised by my mother I’ll never be any of those things.
“I’m just keeping up my grades,” I mumble.
My father leans back and smoothes the wave in his dark hair. “Other than art class and going to the therapist, you don’t do anything. You have enough time at home to keep up with your studies. It’s time you made some friends and some connections. Time you act like my daughter.”
My hands clench under the table. “Maybe I don’t want friends here, maybe my friends back in Ohio were just fine.”
Mali just gulps her wine and stares at me while my head pounds.
“You’re not in Ohio anymore,” my father says in a steely tone.
I unclench my hands and tell him what he wants to hear. It’s not like he’s ever going to find out. “Okay, I’ll eat in the cafeteria if it makes you happy.”
“It does,” he says with a nod while adjusting the heavy watch on his wrist. “So how was your day?” He puts an arm around Mali. She smiles up at him and I’m forgotten. Past the surge of anger, my heart is heavy. I excuse myself to the restroom. They don’t even notice me leave.
My head thumps all the way to the tiled room. Inside, I wet a brown paper towel and press it to my pounding forehead. I refuse to lose it. I will keep it together, I tell myself as I stare in the mirror. My father didn’t pay much attention before he married Mali, it’s not like anything has changed. Getting upset about it now seems a little after the fact. Still I can’t help a sudden stream of tears.
I take deep breaths and will my mind to clear. The coolness of the paper towel helps the pounding in my head until the door swings open. I open my eyes and find Mali standing next to me. My aching brain pauses. How the hell did she move so fast?
Her eyes meet mine in the mirror. “You know, your father’s just trying to help.” The thick, cloying scent of her perfume surrounds me. “I’m trying to help you, but you’re always so resistant.”
I rub the paper towel against my temple and wish her away. “I just need time to adjust.”
She raises a plucked eyebrow. “It’s been over six months. Your father says you’re depressed, have no friends, and won’t face your mother’s death.”
My fist clenches the paper towel into a wad. “Face it? I live it every day.”
Her bracelets’ jingling echoes in the tiled room as she brushes a strand of hair from my face. She rests a hand on my shoulder. “Let us help you, Nivea.”
I flinch from both her words and her touch. “If the most expensive therapist money can buy can’t help, how can you?”
Her eyes roam over my tear stained face before her fingers brush across a cheekbone. “You’re a beautiful girl.” A hand cradles my chin and forces me to look in the mirror. “You have such lovely skin,” her other hand sweeps the other side of my hair back, “such lovely coloring.”
I try to shake off her hands—enough with the touching—but she holds me tight and stares at my reflection. Why is my coloring so important all of a sudden? After the healthy eating and the clothes, are we moving toward skin care? Make-up? This woman is going to drive me nuts.
Her eyes widen then narrow on my reflection as she rubs a thumb against my jaw. A shiver runs through me. It’s like she covets my skin or something. She leans forward and murmurs softly, “Quit hiding yourself. You’re wasting a gift of nature. You should embrace what you’ve been given. Beauty is power.”
Okay, this woman’s shallowness has led her to be officially whack-a-doodle-doo.
The drip of the faucet echoes in the silence of the tiled room as my eyes find her’s in the mirror. I gasp. In our reflection, a different profile framed with reddish hair leans toward me. Younger hands hold my face. I jerk in her grasp and stare at her.
Mali smiles slowly at me.
My gaze snaps to the mirror.
Her reflection smiles back.
The faucet drips into the silence as my eyes still search her face. She still looks the same as always, nothing’s changed. My imagination has gone into over drive. The tight control I keep over my emotions just might be escaping in other ways.
Suddenly, she lets go of me. “Hurry up. Rinse the sadness from your face. Your father’s waiting. The waiter’s coming back for our order,” she says then leaves as fast as she came.
I lean against the counter and shudder. Why do I keep seeing different faces with her reflection? Either something’s wrong with me or with her—more than just her obsession with looks. But I fear the wrongness has everything to do with me. Everything to do with the grief I keep buried deep inside. I push my fear down. The grief is not coming out. It’s better to be a nut than the zombie I was after my mother’s death.
The pounding in my head returns with a vengeance. Another wet towel doesn’t cure the pain. After splashing cold water on my face, I trudge back out to the dining room. My head pounds with each step. The headache has to be a mixture of no caffeine, my awful day, and the irritation my stepmother produces. The last has to be the biggest offender.
I stop at the bar out of sight from our table.
“Cool t-shirt,” the bartender says, gesturing to my chest.
“Thanks,” I grumble, glancing at Tom and Jerry. I forgot which one I wore. I pull a five out of my pocket and slap the bill on the counter. “Give me a Coke.”
Chapter 7~Snow
I rush out of school for more reasons than one. Tuesday afternoons I have art class, but the strange looks I’d been receiving all day add to my haste. School had been awful. The hush of whispers followed me through the hallways and in each hour. Whoever said it doesn’t matter what they say as long as they are talking about you had it wrong. School had been way more tolerable when I’d been anonymous. I can’t wait to get to art class and forget about the mess—between home and school—my life has become.
A strange man waits at the curb. Hanging back, I double-check the car. It’s my father’s Rolls Royce and the man is at my school. He has to be here for me, yet I’ve never seen him in my life. Very weird.
“You are?” I ask from the snowy sidewalk.
“Call me Smith,” he responds in a monotone voice while opening the door.
I step closer. “Where’s Harrison?”
“He is on vacation.”
I slide into the back seat and try to remember Harrison talking about a vacation. I can’t. However, I haven’t talked to him since he pissed me off yesterday morning.
The driver pulls away from the curb. “We will be arriving shortly to your destination.”
Middle aged with white hair, the man is dressed like a professional limo driver with a long wool black coat and a matching cap. Maybe he’s like a rent-a-driver? Whatever he is that monotone is annoying.
The driver doesn’t matter. I just want to get to art class. My father signed me up for classes hoping I’ll create things similar to the crap gracing his living room. Although that’s never going to happen, I love the one-on-one time with the real artists the studio supplies each week. There are some perks to living with my father.
Smith turns the opposite way at the corner Harrison usually takes.
“Hey, where are we going?”
“To your art class,” he replies.
My brow crinkles. “It’s the other way.” When he doesn’t answer, I lean forward over the seat. “It’s in the other direction.”
“I know where it is,” he says in his monotone voice.
“Then why are you going this way?”
“This way is faster.”
As unfamiliar scenery passes by, I try to figure that out. Though I still don’t know the city well, going the opposite direction makes no sense. “It can’t be faster.”
He keeps driving and with each street we pass, my frustration grows. We enter an area of the city I’d never been to before. From the large colored awnings, sidewalk vendors, and Chinese lettering on the overabundance of brightly painted signs above, I guess we are in Chinatown. I’ve always wanted to check out this part of the city—my father refuses to come here—but not like this.
Staring at a bright open neon sign in a restaurant window, I say, “Turn around.”
“You should relax and enjoy the ride. Let me worry about driving.”
Ugh. Who does this guy think he is? And why does it seem like he wants to calm me with his monotone voice? I pull my book bag into my lap and tug on my gloves and hat. “Turn around or let me out.”
“Sorry, Miss Nash, your mother gave me explicit orders.”
“Stepmother,” I say, grinding my teeth together. Enough’s enough. I can’t stand being in the car with Monotone Smith for one more second. At the next stoplight, I flip open the lock, yank the door open, and take off in less than three seconds.
“Hey!” he shouts at last breaking the monotone.
