The Dolls

by Kiki Sullivan

  “Sorry I made you late,” I whisper to Drew as the minister begins to read from the Bible in a monotone voice.

  “Don’t apologize.” He reaches for my hand and squeezes. “I’m glad you came.”

  He lets go, and I can feel my heart thudding. I don’t exactly have a ton of experience in the boy department. Back in Brooklyn, Meredith was usually the one at the center of attention while I played wingwoman, which was fine by me.

  My mind wanders as I scan the crowd, wondering which people here will be my classmates at Pointe Laveau.

  And that’s when I see them.

  Across the group of mourners, two impossibly beautiful girls are staring right at me. One is a gorgeous honey blonde with perfectly tanned skin, ridiculously long legs, and huge blue eyes. The other, who’s even more stunning, has glistening cocoa skin, a model’s body, and mounds of wildly gorgeous ebony curls that surround her like a halo. Both are dressed in clothes that are obviously designer and expensive; the blonde is in a black lace minidress plus open-toed stilettos and loads of pearls, while the dark-haired girl is wearing a formfitting leather sheath, fishnet stockings, and leather spike-heeled boots that come up over her knees. Both have nearly identical black stones with jagged edges hanging from long chains around their necks. They’re surrounded by three guys and two other girls, all of whom are also gorgeous, but not as much so as the two in the middle.

  The dark-haired girl’s eyes burn into mine, and I look quickly away, embarrassed to have been caught gawking. There’s something vaguely familiar about them that I can’t quite put my finger on. “Who are they?” I whisper to Drew.

  “Everyone calls them the Dolls,” he says, and I sense disgust in his tone. “The whole group of them. They all go to Pointe Laveau too.”

  “Oh.” My heart sinks. I hoped to make a fresh start here; I’d even hoped that coming from New York City might make me seem a little edgy. But with girls like that at Pointe Laveau, my dream is fading fast. In the cool department, I obviously don’t hold a candle to them.

  “I call that one Medusa,” Drew adds in a whisper. He nods slightly toward the girl with the cocoa skin and the killer curls, the one who’s still staring at me.

  “Because of her hair?” I vaguely remember the story of Medusa from Greek mythology; she was a monster with serpents growing out of her head.

  “Sure, that’s one reason.”

  I’m trying to puzzle out what he means as the minister asks everyone to bow their heads and pray. As he begins to read from the Bible, I sneak a look back at the Dolls and am unsettled to see the Medusa girl still staring at me. She holds my gaze for a moment then reaches into her purse and whispers to it. Something moves inside, and I clap my hand over my mouth when I realize it’s a fat black snake, which is weaving back and forth, its eyes fixed on her face. I take a big step back, nearly tripping over Drew’s foot.

  “Drew!” I whisper urgently, pointing shakily in the direction of her purse. “She has a snake!”

  “Like I said,” he replies with a laugh. “Not just her hair.”

  I shoot him a look; I don’t see anything funny about this. “Who in their right mind would bring a snake to a funeral?”

  “Who says she’s in her right mind?”

  My heart is still pounding when I notice something else; although Medusa and her blond friend have finally looked away, and most of her group appears to be paying attention to the ceremony, one of the guys is staring directly at me, an indecipherable expression on his face.

  Suddenly, I recognize him: it’s the gorgeous jogger I caught a glimpse of the day we moved to Carrefour, and he’s even hotter than I’d originally thought. He has smooth caramel skin, close-cropped dark hair, and pale blue eyes, and judging from what I saw that day out the car window, he has a hot body hidden under his crisp charcoal suit. I can feel the heat rising to my cheeks, but I’m finding it impossible to look away.

  The minister puts the Bible down then and begins to speak. “It is with great sadness today that we lay to rest one of this town’s daughters, only seventeen years old. She was a member of our church, and I knew her as a kind, good-hearted young woman. I pray that the Lord is welcoming Glory Anne Jones into his kingdom.”

  My heart skips a beat, and I momentarily forget all about the hot jogger. “Wait, it’s Glory Jones who died?”

  Drew looks surprised. “You knew her?”

  “N-not really,” I stammer. “We just met once. She was picking herbs in my yard on Saturday night and I interrupted her. She seemed . . . nice. Happy. Not like she was planning to kill herself.”

  “Wait, you saw her Saturday night?” Drew asks. “What time?”

  “Maybe eight, eight thirty.”

  “Eveny,” he says, his voice hollow, “that was the night she died. You may have been the last person to see her alive.”

  4

  The rest of the ceremony goes by in a blur. I’m reeling as the minister drones on about how much Glory will be missed, and leads the group in a closing prayer. All I can think is, The only new person I’ve met so far in Carrefour is dead.

  After the funeral, I’m still deep in thought and staring at the tomb where Glory has just been interred when I hear Drew say, “Brace yourself.” I look up to see the group of four stunning girls and three perfect guys approaching. I open my mouth to say hi, but the girl in the middle, the one with the Medusa curls, speaks first.

  “You’re new,” she says bluntly. “And very underdressed.” Up close, she’s even more stunning. Her dark skin is flawless, and her eyes are a startling violet. I glance uneasily at her big black bag.

  “You have a snake,” I reply and immediately feel like a fool.

  After a tense silence, she surprises me by laughing. “You’re very observant, new girl,” she says, her silken voice dripping with sarcasm. “What’s your name?”

  I take a deep breath. I’m not ready to be marked as the poor little daughter of the suicidal lady just yet, so I shoot back, “What’s yours?”

  She looks caught off guard. Behind her, I see the guy with the blue eyes hide a smile. “You must be the only person in a hundred-mile radius who doesn’t know,” she says.

  “I must be,” I reply, trying to sound a lot more confident than I feel.

  When she replies, her words are clipped and cold. “Have it your way. I’m Peregrine Marceau, and this is Chloe St. Pierre.” She jerks a thumb at the Barbie doll girl beside her and adds, “Obviously.”

  “Wait, I know you. I mean I knew you,” I clarify.

  “What are you talking about?” asks the blonde. Her tone is aggressive, but I have a feeling she’s trying to sound tougher than she is to match up to her friend.

  “We played together when we were kids,” I say. Their mothers were my mother’s best friends, the two women who accompanied the police chief the night he told me my mother was dead. And their families are, if I remember right, the two other founding families of Carrefour.

  “What on earth are you babbling about?” Peregrine asks in a bored voice.

  “I’m Eveny Cheval,” I say.

  The girls’ eyes widen, and behind them, I hear the gorgeous guy draw a deep breath.

  “Eveny Cheval?” Chloe repeats in a whisper. She touches the black stone hanging from her neck and looks at Peregrine. “Sandrine Cheval’s daughter?”

  “That’s me,” I say weakly. It’s just like I thought; everyone knows I’m the girl with the dead mom. The two girls behind Chloe and Peregrine are whispering furiously and shooting me strange looks. The guys are standing silent, but all of them are gazing at me too.

  “Eveny,” Peregrine says after a moment. “Why yes, of course.” She pauses then shoots me a dazzling and undoubtedly fake smile. “Our mothers will be thrilled we ran into you. They’ll want to see you immediately.”

  With that, she whirls on her stiletto heel and whisks away.

  “Well, welcome home,” says Chloe, giving me an odd look before following Peregrine. The other two gir
ls skitter after them, while the three guys take turns sizing me up as I stand self-consciously glued to the spot. The first guy, who has floppy hair and hazel eyes, waits only a moment before running after the others and grabbing Chloe’s hand. The second, who’s smarmily handsome in a Clark Gable kind of way, shoots me a knowing look before turning. But the blue-eyed guy stands as rooted to the ground as I am before Peregrine calls for him. He looks back once with a confused expression on his face before following after the rest of the Dolls.

  “Well, that was bizarre.” I feel strangely breathless after they’re gone.

  Beside me, Drew snorts. “Welcome to Carrefour.”

  We walk back to the house in silence as I think about the perplexing reaction of the girls I remember vaguely from childhood. I’d expected a weird welcome, since I’m sure everyone in town knows the tragic story of my mom, but they’d stared as if I were a movie star—or a murderer. There must be something I’m not getting.

  “You want to sit outside for a bit?” I ask once we’ve climbed over my back wall. Drew agrees, so I dash inside to grab two Cokes from the refrigerator before leading him out to the garden. Boniface is there trimming rosebushes and humming to himself, but when he sees us, he says hello, winks at me, then makes himself scarce.

  “Well, that’s about the welcome home I’d expect from that group,” Drew says once we’re alone.

  “I thought they might judge me for what happened to my mom,” I say as we sit down on the edge of one of the rose planters. “But that felt like an overreaction, right?”

  “They’re just weird. It’s not about your mom’s death as much as it’s about them thinking they’re better than everyone. They’re only giving you a hard time because you’re new here and they can.”

  “Well, they sound delightful,” I reply. “This school year should be great.”

  Drew laughs. “Hey, Carrefour’s not all bad. Wait until you come out for a day in the Périphérie.” He pauses. “In fact, how about Sunday? There’s a crawfish boil at my buddy’s place.”

  He launches into an elaborate explanation about how it’s a big Louisiana tradition, and although it’s early in the season for fresh crawfish, he has a friend who flash-freezes them each year so he can host big blowout parties in the winter. “There’s corn, potatoes, onions, sausages, hot sauce . . .” He keeps going, but I tune out when he begins listing beers.

  I find myself thinking instead about the cute guy from the funeral and feel immediately foolish when I interrupt Drew’s story to ask, “Who was that guy, anyway?”

  Drew stops mid-sentence and looks at me. “What guy?”

  I swallow hard. “Sorry,” I say. “Just the one from the funeral who was looking at me funny.”

  “Eveny, they were all looking at you funny.”

  “But I mean the one with the blue eyes,” I mumble.

  “The light-skinned black dude?” Drew asks.

  I hesitate, not quite liking the face he makes as he says it.

  Drew rolls his eyes. “Oh, that’s Caleb Shaw,” he continues. “He’s, like, a genius at school or something. I heard he got a perfect score on his PSAT in the fall, but he’s a little . . . odd.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “I don’t know. Like he’s always leaving town for a few days at a time. Most people in Carrefour only leave once or twice a year, if at all. But it’s like Caleb thinks Carrefour isn’t good enough for him.” I think Drew’s being critical until he adds, “Though I kind of admire the guy for realizing there’s more out there than what this town has to offer.”

  “Do you know where he goes?”

  “Nah. He kind of keeps to himself.” He gives me a look as he adds, “Every girl in Carrefour is in love with him. Don’t tell me you are too.”

  “Of course not,” I say quickly. “I don’t even know him.”

  “Well, I’m sure you’ll have a crush on him soon enough, just like everyone else.” He studies me for a moment. “So you want to know about the others too?”

  “Sure.” I’m embarrassed that he apparently thinks I just want to hear about Caleb, although that’s exactly what I want.

  “The guy with the dark hair who looks like a model is Pascal Auteuil,” he begins. “Rich as sin, and the biggest man-whore in town. Rumor is he’s even slept with a few teachers.”

  “Ew,” I say, wrinkling my nose.

  “The other dude’s Justin Cooper. Never heard of him a year ago, but now he’s always there, following Chloe around like a lost puppy. In case you hadn’t guessed, pretty much every guy in town lusts after her and Peregrine.”

  “Do . . . you feel that way about them too?” I hate that I sound jealous, because I’m not exactly. I just don’t want to hear that Drew is also under the snake girl’s spell.

  Drew’s eyes bore into mine as he says, “No. I appreciate it when a girl is kind and down-to-earth.” He pauses and adds, “Like you.”

  I look away, flustered. “So who are the other two?”

  “They’re impossible to tell apart—not that you really have to. I’ve never seen them separated from each other—or from Peregrine and Chloe. Out in the Périphérie, we call them the Clones, but their real names are Margaux and Arelia.”

  “Arelia?” It takes me a moment to realize why the name rings a bell. “Wait, that’s who Glory said she was going to meet the night she died.”

  “She did?” Drew blinks a few times. “Did she say anything else?”

  “Not really.” I shudder. “I still don’t understand it. She seemed like she was in a good mood. We talked about school. She was picking herbs. Why would she be doing that if she was on her way to stab herself through the heart?”

  He hesitates. “I have no idea. But Glory, she was a cool girl. Not like the rest of the Dolls.” He checks his watch and stands up. “Listen, I’d better be going. But how about Sunday? The Périphérie’s always a good time. I promise, you’ll have fun.”

  I tell him I’m in, and he says he’ll pick me up at five thirty. But as I walk him out of the garden toward the front yard and we hug good-bye, I’m only thinking about Glory and what she could have been doing the night she died. And despite myself, I’m also thinking of the guy with the brilliant blue eyes, the intriguing Caleb Shaw.

  That night, I dream again of the parlor off the front hall. I’m walking down the stairs, but when I look at my feet, I’m surprised to find that I’m floating. In a panic, I grab for the railing, but my hand goes right through it. I’m being carried toward the parlor, powerless to stop.

  I smell blood in the air, and there’s the scent of roses and fire too. As I float across the front hallway, the parlor doors creak open, and blood oozes out. I hear crying from inside the room and as I move through the doorway, I see a little girl standing off to the left, her back to me, the bottom of her nightgown soaked in blood. There’s something beside her on the ground, and I strain to see, but it’s hidden in the shadows.

  That’s when the girl turns. Her hands are stained with blood, and her face is streaked with tears. My whole body goes cold as I recognize her immediately.

  It’s me, as a child.

  “Please help,” she whimpers.

  I wake up with a start. It takes me an hour to fall asleep again, and the smell of blood and death are still with me when morning comes.

  5

  By the time I finally drag myself out of bed the next morning, Aunt Bea is gone. She’s left a note saying she went out early to receive a big shipment of bakery supplies, scribbling on the bottom, Only five days to go until the opening!

  I pour myself a bowl of cereal and settle at the kitchen table with my laptop, determined to find out more about Glory’s death. I Google her name, but nothing appears. I try suicide + Carrefour, thinking that maybe Glory’s name wasn’t printed in the paper because she was a minor. But I strike out there too.

  I backspace again and this time, I type in Carrefour newspaper. But when I press enter, I’m only hit with a long list of meaningless
options that have nothing to do with this place.

  I’m still staring at the screen, trying to decide what to search for next, when I hear Boniface’s voice from the back garden. I look out the window and see him talking to two women wearing expensive-looking black dresses and heels that make their legs look miles long. I recognize them immediately—not just from my foggy memories, but also because they look exactly like their daughters.

  Annabelle Marceau and Scarlett St. Pierre. I haven’t seen them since the night they accompanied the police chief to deliver the news that changed my life. Honey, your mama killed herself. Drove right into a tree.

  Boniface’s eyes meet mine through the windowpane, and as he approaches the back door, I see him grimacing.

  “Eveny, we have a couple of visitors,” he says. He lingers uncertainly for a moment before walking back toward the garden.

  “Ms. St. Pierre, right?” I say, smiling at the one whose honey-blond hair cascades over her shoulders just like Chloe’s. “And Ms. Marceau?” I ask, glancing at the one who looks like a slightly older version of Peregrine, but with short, spiky black hair.

  “I knew she’d remember us, Annabelle,” trills the blonde. “And I’ll be damned if you are not just the spitting image of your mother!”

  “Thanks,” I say awkwardly. “Want to come in?”

  “Don’t mind if we do,” Peregrine’s mother says, already sweeping past me like she owns the place. “It’s been ages since we’ve been inside this house, hasn’t it?”

  Chloe’s mother hands me a white cardboard box wrapped in an intricately tied purple ribbon. “This is for you, sugar,” she says. “It’s a coffee cake.”

  “We baked it for you last night,” Peregrine’s mother adds. “A little welcome-home treat!”

  They stand there smiling at me for so long that the silence grows uncomfortable. “Would you like a cup of coffee?” I finally ask, trying to be polite. I turn and walk toward the kitchen, and they click-clack after me in their impossibly high heels.