Marianne

by Elizabeth Hammer

“Ah, thanks,” said Marianne. “I’m going to get some new stuff today, in fact.”

  “Oh, that’s rad!” Sally was exceedingly passionate about clothes. “I’ve got this really cute new fabric that we could sew into—”

  “No,” said Marianne. “I’m only getting pre-fabricated mainstream stuff. Nothing morbid.”

  “Morbid?” Sally laughed and then reached over and caressed Marianne’s cheek. “You are so adorable. I love it when you show what an ill-mannered bigot you are.”

  Marianne leaned toward her and raised her eyebrows. “I’m sorry, did Miss Sneering Subculture just call me an ill-mannered bigot?”

  Sally smiled at her, perfectly unruffled. “I never sneer—I try to embrace everything. And that includes all styles of clothing.”

  “Yeah right. Aren’t you the one who gave me that mourning dress last week?”

  “You want me to sew you one in pink?”

  “Pink?” Marianne gaped at her. “Now I know you’re lying.”

  Sally looked almost offended. “I can do normal.”

  “Sally! You cover your ears at the word normal as if it were the Black Speech of Mordor.”

  “Dare me.”

  “Maybe next time.” Marianne cleared her throat. “Anyway, I don’t feel like crafting anything today. I’m just gonna buy some jeans and stuff.”

  “I’m not surprised,” said Sally, focusing on her doll head again. “We wouldn’t want you looking different from everyone else.”

  “Exactly. So, did you want to go with me to Wet Seal, or not?”

  “Not.”

  Marianne was glad. She didn’t like going clothes shopping with people. They always stood outside the dressing room, ready to stare and judge. She’d rather pass. “We’ve got some personal service time now,” said Marianne, changing the subject. “You want me to touch up your color?”

  “No. I’m fine just the way I am,” said Sally with cheesy emphasis. “What about you? I had a few ideas...”

  “Seriously, again?” Marianne was getting annoyed. She spoke slowly so that Sally wouldn’t miss any words. “I don’t want to look like a vampire, Sally.”

  “I would never make you do anything,” Sally said. “And that includes wearing the black dress. It wouldn’t be genuine if it made you uncomfortable.”

  Marianne opened her mouth to describe exactly how uncomfortable black hair would make her, when she realized that, actually, the idea had merit. She’d been getting bored with her brown and blond hair lately, and for some reason, she was feeling reckless this week.

  “Okay, fine. I give in,” said Marianne. “Have your evil way with me.”

  Five minutes later, when Marianne saw the cloudy bottle of black dye that Sally held over her head, she got a little nervous. Marianne wasn’t certain she’d be able to pull it off, but she resolved not to complain about it, no matter how it turned out. The price of recklessness.

  After Sally washed her out, she went to get her scissors. Marianne couldn’t hide the look on her face when she felt the chunks of wet black hair thud onto her shoulders and slide down the front of her cape.

  “Try not to pee your pants, Marianne,” said Sally. “You’re going to like it. I promise.”

  “Kay.”

  “Don’t nod!” said Sally. “You want to look like a cancer patient?”

  “Not unless I have cancer,” said Marianne. “Then it would be okay. Inspiring, even.” Marianne closed her eyes and tried to plan out exactly how she wanted her super short haircut to look, in case this one went south. By the time Sally had finished with blow-drying and the curling iron, a crowd had gathered.

  “OMG, Sally. It looks so good,” said a few people. Yes, they pronounced the letters.

  “Dude, she looks like a model,” said a girl named Brittney. “But you need to shorten this piece here.”

  “Excuse me?” said Sally in a monotone voice that scared Brittney off with the quickness. Poor Sally—she got fear from half the world and snide remarks from the other. But then, it’s not as if she shouldn’t have expected it every morning when she climbed out of her coffin and decked herself in death.

  Marianne clucked her tongue. “She seems pretty scared of you.”

  “It’s just my look,” said Sally, turning to the mirror and fluffing her already ratted hair. “Honesty scares people.”

  “Yeah, but you have to put so much effort into your style,” said Marianne. “You should just tattoo Eff Off on your forehead and be done with it.”

  Sally added one more spritz of hairspray to Marianne’s hair, and said, “All done, princess.” She slowly spun Marianne’s chair around to face the mirror. Moment of truth.

  Gack! Scary, weird, cut it off now.

  Well, maybe it was somewhat cool. The inky hair made her skin look good, clearer and less splotchy. And her brown eyes looked even darker under the new heavy bangs, almost black in this light. They were even a little freaky, at first. Like black holes, sucking her in.

  “Very nice, Sally,” said Ms. Valley, walking up to inspect. “I’m glad you finally took my advice on the dark color, Marianne. Now you look just like her.” Ms. Valley was always telling Marianne that she was the spitting image of Natalie Portman, and Marianne had always resented it. After all, if you’re not as pretty as Natalie Portman, but you look just like her, what does that mean? That you’re the ugly sister, that’s what it means.

  “Thanks,” said Marianne. And really, Marianne could almost see what Ms. Valley had been talking about. She decided, for now, to be flattered rather than depressed by the comparison. She smiled.

  “See?” said Sally. “I’m not a monster.”

  “I like it,” said Marianne, standing up and pulling some long, curled pieces in front of her shoulders. “I’ll stop worrying about all your future clients now.”

  “You’re welcome.” Sally started gathering up her things and putting them in her bag. “All righty, girl. Have fun selling your soul to Wet Seal.”

  Marianne rushed through shopping. She had to get the car back so her dad wouldn’t be late for a meeting. Still, it was the best half-hour of the year so far. She’d gone down a size, and it was like a whole new identity. She was now: Marianne York, eighteen years old, five-foot-five, size two. In control. Happy.

  Marianne’s dad called her cell phone to let her know that he didn’t need the car anymore; Mom would come home from the office and pick him up. James and Sophie York were both insurance agents and worked for the same company. They were always together—at work, at home, wherever. Even though she had the car now, Marianne didn’t have anywhere else she wanted to go, so just headed home like a dweeb.

  She parked on the far side of the curving driveway but didn’t get out. Her parents’ home was a regular one-story suburban house like any other, with a huge front yard shade tree that her dad considered air conditioning. Marianne was just debating whether to brave the heat of the house or sit in the car for a while, when she spotted a canvas tarp on Nana Deathrage’s driveway, peeking out from beyond the foremost wall of the house. “Unbelievable!” she grumbled, turning off the engine and getting out.

  Nana lived next door, and her yard was hard to describe to regular people. It was like one of those tacky community gardens made of trash, everything coated in a garish shade of thick paint. Crooked, mismatched pots made from old plastic containers; withered tomato plants covered loosely in cloudy, used plastic sheeting; a purple wishing well constructed from a stack of old tires; silk flowers and sun-faded lawn ornaments sticking out of random patches of dirt; rocks painted into golden nuggets scattered liberally throughout for extra sparkle. Vulgar colors, polka dots, and a desire to offend the neighbors seemed to be the unifying theme.

  A tarp on the driveway could only mean that Nana taking another stab at a garage door mural.

  “Oy! Nana!” yelled Marianne, clambering over a raised planting bed made of pink cinderblock and onto Nana’s property. She rounded the corner of the house and caught Nana by her front
door, attempting to pry the lid off the first paint can. “No. Absolutely not. We’ve talked about this.”

  “Butt out, Marianne,” said Nana without looking up. She was wearing her typical velour sweatsuit, her white hair covered in a kerchief.

  “My dad just painted over the last one.” Marianne walked over and wrenched the flathead screwdriver from her hand. “You want Code Enforcement to send you another letter?”

  “They’re not the boss of me!”

  “Yes they are,” said Marianne, backing away as Nana stood up and reached for the screwdriver. “They will fine you.”

  “How are they gonna know?” said Nana, waving around her spiral sketchbook. “They’ve got better things to do than worry about my house.”

  “No, they don’t!” said Marianne. They had been over this so many times. “It is literally their only job—to worry about houses like yours.”

  “Give it back.” Nana made a snatch for the screwdriver.

  “Stop it. No!” Marianne put the tool in her back pocket and went to start clearing away the paint cans. She’d just stacked the first two by the garage when Nana whacked her over the back of the head with her sketchbook. “What was that for?!” said Marianne, spinning around.

  Nana had picked up her black corduroy purse by its long strap, and Marianne danced to the side just in time to avoid getting smacked on the rear with it. “Go home, Marianne!”

  “Knock it off!” said Marianne, dodging the purse again. “You can’t just hit people!” Nana was old school and had never been above doling out outmoded discipline to kids who needed it—Marianne had hoped she’d passed that stage, but apparently, Nana didn’t agree.

  “Then you’d best stop interfering,” said Nana, her most imperious expression on her face.

  “What’s going on over here?” yelled the cranky man from across the street.

  Marianne looked up, distracted, and got clocked in the face with the purse, the zipper grazing her lip. “Enough!” she yelled, wrestling the purse from Nana and tossing it out of reach.

  The man came charging up the driveway, looking ready to explode. Ronny Grant was one of those retired guys who brought up each trashcan right after it was emptied, rather than waiting for the end of the day. He turned his lights off on Halloween so kids would skip his house. If your ball went over his fence, you didn’t get it back. Ronny Grant saw no difference whatsoever between municipal regulations and moral imperatives.

  “Crap,” said Marianne under her breath.

  “Watch your mouth,” said Nana, with another mighty smack of the notebook on the back of Marianne’s head.

  “This has got to stop,” said Ronny. “Or I’m going to call the cops.”

  “For what?” said Marianne and Nana at the same time.

  “This crazy stuff is getting really old,” said Ronny, pointing toward the paint cans.

  “It’s fine,” said Marianne, waving toward the paint. “No more murals. It’s fine.”

  “The hell it isn’t,” said Ronny. “I can hear this racket from my backyard. This city has noise ordinances, you know. I’ll call ‘em. I will.”

  “Aha!” yelled Nana, pointing an accusing arm at him. “He’s the one that’s been reporting me to the government!”

  “It’s everybody, Nana,” said Marianne, sighing. “Everybody on this street has called on you, except my dad and Danielle.”

  “Snitches get stitches!” said Nana, suddenly pulling the screwdriver out of Marianne’s pocket and pointing it toward Ronny, who was still about ten feet away.

  “What?!” Marianne jumped between them.

  “This is too far,” shouted Ronny, getting red in the face. “She’s nuts.”

  “She’s kidding,” said Marianne, turning to face him. “Come on. You know she’s not going to stab you. Right, Nana?”

  Nana shrugged. “We’ll see...”

  “Nana!” Marianne spun around and tried to yank away the weapon, but Nana had an iron grip.

  “What can I do?” said a voice.

  Marianne looked up to see that Patrick had materialized right behind her. She could have cried. “Help me get her inside,” she breathed. She nodded toward Ronny. “Before that jackass over there has her arrested.”

  “What’d you say to me, Marianne?” said Ronny, his skin turning more blotchy. He closed the distance between them.

  Marianne flinched instinctively, but Patrick stepped in front of her before she could even move back. Of course, Ronny hadn’t been planning to do anything, but she was thankful for Patrick, anyway. Her legs were starting to shake from the adrenaline.

  “You can probably just go home now,” said Patrick to Ronny. “We’ve got it.” He wasn’t making any effort to be threatening, but with his size and all the tattoos, he was still an imposing presence.

  “Have you heard this racket?” said Ronny, gesturing past Patrick. “This city has noise ordinances, you know. I’ll call the cops. I will.”

  “I don’t think that’s necessary,” said Patrick. “You should just go back home—”

  “Don’t tell me what to do!” Ronny leaning around him to glare at Nana. “You haven’t had to live with this for thirty-five years. I’ll tell you right now—”

  “Come on, man. I’m just trying to quiet everything down,” said Patrick, still perfectly calm. “I only want to help Marianne get her inside. It’s all right; there won’t be any more noise today. I’ll handle it.”

  “Yeah, go away!” said Nana Deathrage. “We’ve got this handled.”

  Marianne would have covered Nana’s mouth with her hand, had she not been afraid of getting bit.

  Ronny gave Patrick the stink eye for a few seconds and then seemed to deflate. “Yeah, well, you handle it then,” mumbled Ronny. “And if I see another stinking frog pond painted on side of that house, there’s gonna be hell to pay!” He turned around and huffed his way across the street.

  Patrick waited until Ronny was on the other side of the street and then stepped over where Nana stood, still wielding her shank. “All right, that’s enough,” he said, pulling it out of her hand impatiently. “What d’you think you’re doing?”

  Marianne was shocked at his take-charge tone, given how friendly-sounding he’d been with Ronny. Nana looked totally outraged that Patrick had interfered, but didn’t start up screaming again like Marianne expected. She glared at him for a second and then made a snatch for her tool.

  Patrick let her take it, but he took half a step in front of Marianne at the same time. Nice. Patrick was like her own personal German Shepherd. He was wearing similar clothes to the first time she’d seen him, black t-shirt, jeans, and work boots. The same short and messy black hair; the same wretched perfection as before. And just as overwhelming as before.

  “Keep your hands off my stuff,” said Nana, rather half-heartedly.

  “You gonna point it at Marianne again?”

  “No,” she mumbled.

  “Okay then,” he said, smiling. “Nana, I’m Patrick, I live a few houses down. My sister’s told me all about you.”

  “Only the good things, I hope,” said Nana, eying Patrick up and down in an appreciative way and smirking slightly. “You can call me Jean.”

  Good grief.

  “Hi,” he said, laughing. “Now, I think you should go inside before you start any more trouble. What do you say?”

  She sighed dramatically, “Oh, all right,” and turned toward her porch. She stopped on the step to glare at Marianne. “You’d best go home, too.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Patrick retrieved Nana’s purse from a corner of the driveway and held it out to Nana once she had opened the door.

  “Do you want me to stay and help put away the paint stuff?” asked Marianne.

  “Of course not,” said Nana. “Just go away and stop bothering me.”

  “Sure thing,” said Marianne, only half hiding her grin. She peeked sideways at Patrick, trying to be sneaky, but he was already staring back at her. He was smilin
g slightly and didn’t look away when she caught him.

  “Well, go then,” said Nana. “And you, boy. Come here.”

  Patrick didn’t seem to hear her. He didn’t look away from Marianne at all. Oh, my.

  “Come here, boy,” said Nana, louder.

  “Yeah,” he said. He turned then and stepped up onto the porch in one stride.

  “Leave, Marianne,” said Nana, “I need to speak to this one alone.”

  Marianne walked a few paces down the driveway. Maybe Nana was going to berate him again for touching her purse.

  “Not far enough,” said Nana. “Go home already and mind your own business.”

  “Fine then,” said Marianne. Stupid old hag. She heard Patrick laughing at her as she stomped away.

  5

  Drawn and Quartered

  About an hour later, Marianne was sitting on her back porch flicking the remains of her toast across the patio and onto the pool deck for the birds.

  “And then do you know what happened?” asked Big-Mouthed-Beth. She was standing on top of the doghouse next door, leaning over the cinderblock wall and gabbing to Marianne.

  Marianne smiled and tried to focus on her again. Beth’s story was unbelievably boring, but Marianne would die before she let on. “No. What happened then?”

  “Well,” She stopped and covered her mouth while she laughed. Her face got all pink at the memory. “Then, after my friend Lori asked my friend Heather if she liked my other friend Andy...”

  Marianne bit her thumbnail to keep herself from telling Beth that she’d already heard this part. Twice.

  “... my friend Heather told my friend Lori, ‘No, I think he’s stupid!’”

  “Wow,” said Marianne. “That was...”

  “It’s funny, huh, Marianne?” Beth bit her fingers and giggled.

  “Yeah, it’s funny.”

  Mickey popped up by his sister. He crossed his arms on the top of the fence and laid his head down. “This has got to be the most boringest story I have ever heard. In my life!”

  Beth blew her bangs out of her eyes. “You’re the most boringest thing in my life!” Beth turned back to Marianne. “And so then, my friend Lori went and told my friend Andy what my friend Heather said about him.”