Bulletproof (Healer)
Page 5
The wig irritates my scalp and I keep itching at it. Rose laughs. Gabe is taking his job as stylist much more seriously, “Stop preening yourself like that. It’ll only draw attention to yourself.”
Rose tells Gabe to leave the girls alone while she paints my face delicately using materials from her huge case of make ups. I admire the many palettes of shimmering gold and silver, neon pinks and oranges, sinister reds and blacks. At home I have one nude lipstick and a mascara that goes all stodgy and thick on my eyelashes.
Once Rose is finished my face looks entirely different. She has filled in my blonde eyebrows with a dark brown pencil, they are bold and fierce and make me look angry. My pale blue eyes are ignited with heavy smoky shadows. My skin is good anyway so she didn’t need to put on much foundation or powder. She has dusted my cheeks with a soft pink blusher that makes me think of my glowing, sunburnt face on a hot Summers day except my face is void of the tiny brown freckles that usually accompany it. On my lips Rose slicked a thin layer of peach gloss; the only understated part of my face. I am in awe of the face I see in the mirror. She looks like the airbrushes models in magazines but sickened when I realise that the plastic face staring back is in fact me.
“The only trouble is now the passport we have for you is a little less believable,” she says, showing me the fake passport Maurice sent in his package.
I finger the burgundy leather booklet, “How did they do this? Will it really work? Won’t people notice?”
“Maurice has a lot of connections in high places, Cassie,” Rose smiles, applying a dash of nude make up on my face to conceal the small brown mole situated beneath my left eye.
Looking at the fine work on my fake passport, I shudder at the idea that one man can get and do anything he wants. There is something eerie about the concept of nothing being out of reach to me when everything I’ve ever wanted has been so ungraspable. Until now.
“Will it be a problem?” I ask, staring at the identification photo which is my most recent school photograph. The limp blonde waves, the bare and simple face, the indescribably aching look registering in my eyes. The girl in the mirror doesn’t resemble this girl on paper.
“No,” Rose shakes her head. “Nothing is a problem for you.” Then she laughs and calls me by my new name: Melissa Curele. She even explains to me that it is an anagram of my own name. Not very sneaky, in her opinion, if we are running from the law but amusing nonetheless. I try to imagine living my life under the name Melissa. Somehow it is fitting of the girl with the sophisticated bob and excessive eye make up but it doesn’t match up with the pale faced Miracle Girl from a small town in the west of Scotland. That’s Cassie.
Rose decides to pick me a different outfit for travelling in because my simplistic approach to fashion will be more recognisable to people searching for me. If dad was describing me he would talk about my sandy hair, my vivid blue eyes and my nondescript choice in clothes. The search party would have their eyes peeled for an Arian with a plain tee and ill fitting denim jeans on. If it wasn’t for the fact that my soft jowls, cushiony lips and clumsy demeanour were still in tact I don’t think my dad would even recognise me walking through the airport.
After some experimenting, Rose picks a silk shirt, the same colour as the handful of dried apricots I’d eaten with my cereal this morning, and it glimmers when I move and the streaming light from outside hits it. She adds a tight leather skirt which sticks to my thick thighs when I walk and a pair of heels. I’ve never walked in high heels before and I try to convince Rose it isn’t a good idea as I stumble across the bedroom. I have enough trouble staying out of danger without adding six wobbly inches to it. But Rose is persistent that these black stilettos are the perfect touch to my transformation.
“You look fantastic,” she says, looking proud of her creation.
“I look like a hooker,” I say, twirling around and watching the light bounce off the glass chandelier on to my shiny blouse.
When I trundle down the stairs with my heavy case, Gabe is pacing back and forth in the hallway. “Come on,” he grabs my bag from my hand and packs it into his car which is parked in the driveway. Rose is following behind me and is telling him off for being so rude to me. He shrugs and I can’t help but notice how breathtaking he looks as he leans against the smooth, polished surface of his car. It’s a ostentatious black sports car and I presume it is a gift from Maurice. Something Gabe resented. But as dazzling as the car is, it is the boy who steals the show.
Today he is wearing his black hair slicked back, like a glamorous movie star from the nineteen-fifties, so I can see the clean lines of his jaw, nose and cheekbones. He has his leather jacket on again even though the weather hasn’t been this pleasant for months. He wears it over lightweight charcoal shirt and black jeans. As usual everything about his body language is building a stony barrier between us.
After three days in a house with Rose and Gabe I am no further in discovering what lies beneath Gabe’s bad boy image. While Rose has bloomed and opened up like her namesake in Spring. She talked fondly of the places she has visited and how the opportunities working for a vampire like Maurice has brought her. I have learned about her older brother who was is disabled and needs full time care and since her parents are both dead it is Rose’s job to care for him and it is only through her job with Maurice that she can afford the best care in the country. The way she spoke tenderly of her brother makes me think of dad who gave up his life to put me first. But Gabe. Gabe is a mystery. As rigid and unbreakable as his clenched fists.
Rose is still lecturing him when my mind breaks from my daydream and into reality. “And remember,” she fiddles with the collar of his shirt and I am envious of how good they look together. “Be nice.”
“I’m always nice,” he grins. Their faces are at such close proximity now that I could have sworn they were going to kiss. A sight that would be sure to make me squirm.
But Rose just laughs, pats his chest gently and turns to me. She gives me a tight hug and we exchange goodbyes. “I’ll see you in Paris later one today,” she says and there are tears in her voice. She laughs, “Look at me, getting emotional and I’ll see you in a few hours.”
“You are truly pathetic, Rosie,” Gabe says, opening my door and ushering me into the passenger seat without actually touching me. I’ve noticed Gabe has an aversion to touching me. No matter how close he gets to me, he is careful never to bump into me or graze hands. Whenever we do we catch eyes and it feels unnatural.
Gabe kisses Rose on the cheek. Showing me a glimpse of the real gentleman that I am waiting to come out around me. The car starts and we are waving goodbye to Rose who looks sad but radiant in a floating floral dress that blends with this delightful Spring day.
“Women,” Gabe rolls his eyes. “So emotional.”
“I resent that,” I say folding my arms across my chest. “I haven’t cried once since you kidnapped me from my hometown and I lost all contact with my family.”
“Sorry about that,” he says in a pitiless voice. Come on and break, I scream silently, you’re going to have to eventually.
SIX
Driving from Rose’s house to the airport doesn’t take long. I am stunned by the sheer size of an airport. I’ve never seen one in person before which makes me too aware of how much the world has shunned me, so much I haven’t been allowed to see because my dad was afraid I’d never come home. A cruel joke that I should be blessed with the ability to survive anything but never allowed to put myself in harms way.
Gabe parks the car and explains that another one of Maurice’s employee will come collect it later this week. I stand around unsure what to do or where to go while Gabe grabs our cases from the bag. I follow Gabe. His breathing is heavy, almost angry, as we snake through the crowds of holiday makers in the airport until he stops dead. His tatty black converse shoes squeak on the shiny floor and he looks at me like I am dead weight. “Hold my hand,” he holds out his hands to me.
“Why?” I ask.
He pulls his case and I drag mine along. I was unaware of just how much stuff Rose had bought for me and packed into that pricey suitcase. I try to imagine how this scene plays from the outside. Boyfriend and girlfriend going on a romantic trip to Paris. He is tall and striking to look at with his smooth oil slick of hair and jagged features. I am plain and my appearance is void of touches of personality like the way Rose dresses. I can imagine the girls around us looking on and whispering to themselves. Why is he with her? She’s so simple. My palms begin to sweat and I pray he doesn’t notice.
I am mirroring his every step because I feel so out of place in the airport. People have a different way of speaking to each other here. Everyone is rushing and aggressive like they’re all afraid the planes are going to disappear if they don’t make it to the front of the queue. Gabe moves with ease though as if he’s done this a thousand times before.
Standing the queue to check in for our flight, Gabe leans in unnervingly close and whispers into my ear, “We need to be a little more convincing. There’s a guy on the second floor watching down on us at the balcony. When I pull away giggle like I said something seductive.”
I feign giggling easily because Gabe’s husky voice so close and breathing on my neck left me somewhat giddy. I’m not good at acting though as my brain overanalyses everything about the way I stand and talk I can’t relax and just be. Should I hold his hand differently? If I was his girlfriend would I touch his arm playfully, kiss his cheek, wrap my arms around his waist. My breathing becomes uneven as I get flustered thinking about all the way I would act if I was his girlfriend but find it too difficult to because I’m not.
Acting comes naturally to Gabe though. His moody face softens and he releases bouts of flirtatious laughter occasionally. He plays with the loose curls that sway around my shoulders and his fingers reach to stroke the back of my neck. I can see why most of my peers enjoy chasing boys and spending long afternoons watching television with their boyfriends. This is pretend. Imagine how good it feels when it’s real, I tell myself.
The man surveying us must have gone because Gabe relaxes and the boyfriend act lessens to just a limp hand holding and the occasional forced smile. I’m left with a sensation like I’ve been punched in the gut as I remember how much Gabe actually dislikes me.
We check in and make our way to the departure lounge. Gabe asks if I want anything and screws up his face when I ask for an extreme sports magazine. “You never fail to amaze me, Cassie,” he says in a toneless manner.
I paw through the glossy pages of EDGE. A magazine which I’m subscribed to back at home, ever since I learned that my biggest aspiration in life was to become a renowned adrenaline junkie. Dad would pull ridiculous faces when he’d see me with my nose buried in an interview with an Olympic snowboarder. He hated that I loved it so much because he knew eventually I’d be old enough to fight back and live my dreams.
An announcement reveals it is time to board our plane. There is a stampede running a riot inside my stomach. I am glad that I am allowed to clutch on to Gabe’s hand as I make my way down the walkway into a plane for the first time in my life.
The interior of a plane is nothing exciting. It looks exactly how I pictured for the dozens of movies I’ve watched. But the feeling of take off is inexplicable. I haven’t felt this rush of adrenaline pumping violently in my veins for such a long time. Like chicken pox, once you’ve had it you don’t get it again; I have become immune to fear. I am sure I catch Gabe smiling at me as he watches my thrilled expression appear.
Once we’re in flight Gabe turns to me, “You’ve really never been on a plane before?”
“No,” I shake my head, “My dad takes paranoid parent to a new level.”
“But why?” Gabe blinks at me. “You’re untouchable. Nothing can hurt you.”
“We don’t know that,” I shrug. I feel like a broken record player. This conversation has played out so many times in the past few years with different people. Eventually I just stopped talking about it. A vacant expression is easier than trying to make people understand a concept so foreign to them. After Dave, the genetic mutations researcher that befriended me for his own selfish reasons, I learned that even the nice guys will never see more than a girl void of physical pain. I live and breathe isolation from the world around me; I would gladly swap this mental anguish for a broken bone.
“What do you mean?” Gabe leans on the small plastic dinner tray that folds out in front of him and is staring at me peculiarly like I am a puzzle he is trying to solve.
“The accidents haven’t always been here. Sure, we always knew I was different because I didn’t get bloody knees like the rest of the kids my age but it was nothing serious but now there are car crashes and crazy stuff. There’s no formula to it and my dad worries that one day his luck will run out and I will meet a hazard that I can’t overcome,” I explain steadily.
“Do you worry about that?” Gabe asks. “Your time running out?”
I shrug my shoulders and bite my bottom lip. Do I think about a day in the future when I will no longer be Miracle Girl? Yes. Does it worry me? I don’t know. It is evident I’m searching for something that is too perilous; something that I can’t overcome so I can show that I, like everybody else, have weakness. First, the extreme sports magazines and then the avid passion for vampires. Yes, I assumed, I prayed that one day the day would come when I could live and breathe an ordinary life but it didn’t frighten me. When it came I would embrace it like an old friend. “No, I don’t think so,” I say but I don’t explain why and he doesn’t ask me either. We revert to silence but for once it is comfortable. I read my magazine and look out of the window into the blue sky and white clouds which makes me think of Rose’s study. If I ever got to decorate a room, it would be exactly like that. Free as a bird, exploring the world at my own leisure, high in the sky.
I must have dozed off during the flight because the next thing I know Gabe is digging his elbow into my side and telling me to wake up. “We’re here,” he whispers.
I am dizzy with anticipation of what I will see, smell and hear when I step off of the plane. I am already having conversations in French in my mind with the limited vocabulary that I have. I can almost taste the alien foods on my tongue. The patisseries filled with creamy, spongy, delightful cakes of pastel pinks and yellows.
I wish dad and Shannon were here with me. Especially Shannon. She has fought with my dad for as long as I can remember to convince him to take us away for a long weekend to see the sights we only know from postcards and television advertisements. Before she met my dad, when she was my age, Shannon dreamed of bag packing across Europe but little did she know in three years time she would meet a charming man, settle down and marry him only to discover he didn’t share the same enthusiasm for culture as she.
We are back in another airport and Gabe and I are back in our pretence of couple status. He holds my hand but this time our fingers are completely intertwined. Although it is feigned, I’m comforted by this gesture. I am abroad for the first time. These emotions I’m feeling are as foreign to me as the exquisite food and thick accent. So Gabe’s cooling touch is the weight I need to steady me.
He grabs our bags from the conveyor belt which amuses me momentarily. At the exit, we find a man standing with a piece of card which has the name CASSIE MUELLER and an adorable character of a grinning Frenchman complete with a twirling moustache and baguette in hand. The man is short, round and has a bright red face like he has be
en running up flights of stairs before meeting us. Gabe appears to know him but speaks to him with minimum interest, “Afternoon Chec.”
The plump man named Chec ignores Gabe and shakes my hand which startles me. I decide I must get used to strangers being overly zealous to me because it seems to be happening a lot. “Bonjour my dear Cassie,” disappointingly Chec is not French. “I’m Chester Wright but everyone calls me Chec.” I don’t ask why nor do I care. This man’s excessively cheerful face is infuriating me, I try to attribute this to my travelling as I might just be cranky. And try to be as pleasant as possible.
“Hi, it’s nice to meet you.”
“Maurice told me you were beautiful but I didn’t think you’d be this stunning,” he chuckles and I feel uncomfortable. It’s strange to me that Maurice would know what I look like but then I remember Gabe’s box of newspaper clippings. Maurice has probably caught a glimpse of the black and white photographs from those which unnerves me as I don’t like any of them. I can’t help wonder how I appear now, compared to the pictures of me in my school uniform, with my trendy bob and provocative ensemble. Chec is leering at me and I am desperate for Gabe to take the reigns in this conversation. It is clear from the look on Gabe’s face that he dislikes this slimy, portly man as much as I do.
“Thanks,” I say awkwardly. Please don’t tell me I have to spend the rest of the day with him.
“What do you want, Chec? Do you have a message or are you completely useless?” Gabe asks.
Chec plays ignorant to Gabe’s aversion to him and continues to grin, pushing apart his massive pink cheeks even further, “I’ve missed you Gabby. It’s been too long. But let’s be serious, Maurice asked me to chauffeur you to your hotel in Paris for the night and make sure everything is running… smoothly” Gabe must just realise we are still holding hands because he drops mine as if it is explosive.