by Marta Acosta
“Really?”
“Really. My grand-mère and all the aunties keep buying them hoping she’ll be more feminine, which is like, ugh, why do they need her to be feminine when they’ve got me?”
“Good point.”
“Come over tomorrow after school. We can get ready for the party together and then you can stay overnight. My parents don’t care what time we get home so long as no possums are killed between here and the country club. Constance is coming, but Hattie’s going out to dinner with Jack first. He’ll probably take her to that depressing old-people restaurant in town.”
“Are you sure? You keep giving me things, MV.”
“I know—isn’t it fabulous? Aren’t I fabulous? The answer is yes! Until tomorrow, darling!”
* * *
I awoke early and gathered all the things I needed for tonight. I didn’t have any heels, so I put the black flats and the ratty plastic sandals in a bag with my overnight things. Classes seemed interminable, and I bolted from my desk the moment the bell rang and hurried to meet Mary Violet and Constance by the front entrance.
MV skipped over to me. “JW, you will not believe the ensembles I’ve put together for you to try on. I will transform you into a mini-diva.”
“MV, repeat after me: Jane is not a Barbie doll. I’m not even a Bratz.”
“Jane is not blah, blah, blah. My mother told me I can’t dress like a courtesan. Courtesan is French for high-society ho. They could discuss politics and art and also knew techniques to make men insane with desire and lust.” Mary Violet widened her big blue eyes and puffed out her pink cheeks. “Can you imagine! Maybe I can discover their secrets.”
Constance moved a garment bag to her other hand. “MV, you should restrict your fantasies to entries in your Hello Kitty diary.”
“You are so unambitious. If you had been in charge of the space program, we never would have put a man on the sun.”
“We haven’t…” Constance began, and then smiled.
We rounded the drive and my friends waved and called out to all the other girls going home. It wasn’t until we were on the Holidays’ street that Mary Violet said, “Constance thinks that Lucky won’t ever fall dementedly in love with me. She thinks I’m too ugly and stupid.”
“I did not say that!” Constance narrowed her almond eyes. “I said you’re too girly-sissy.”
“That’s the same thing.”
“It is not,” Constance answered. “Jane, tell her it’s not the same thing.”
“It’s not the same thing.” I kept my tone nonchalant. “It’s okay that you’re a sissy. You’re really good at it. Exceptional even.”
Constance said, “Even if Lucky finally notices that you’re…”
“Fabulous and fascinating and sexy.” Mary Violet fluffed her hair.
“Sure, why not? Why would you even want to date the headmistress’s son? It would totally complicate everything at school for you.”
“Hattie dates the headmistress’s son, and you don’t give her grief.”
“That’s different. Hattie’s a Tyler. They’ve been here as long as the Radcliffes and the Belvederes. Mrs. Radcliffe couldn’t object even if she didn’t like Hattie.” Constance frowned. “Why do you care about Lucian Radcliffe anyway? He’s kind of…”
“He’s spectacular!” Mary Violet cried. “Jane, tell Constance he’s spectacular.”
“Lucky’s spectacular,” I said as if I didn’t care, but my heart was pounding. “Constance, he’s kind of what?”
“A little too perfect. He’s all polished surface, like a mirror reflecting what you want to see, and I seriously doubt if there’s anything below the bright shiny.”
“Con, you’re crazy!” Mary Violet said. “His manners are divine. Don’t you remember in sixth grade when the boys came to Miss Harlot’s School of Croquet? Jack put on his blazer backwards because he thought it was funny—”
“It was hilarious,” Constance said. “You laughed so hard you peed your tutu.”
Mary Violet’s cheeks turned bright pink. “We do not need to bring that up ever again. Lucky was the only one who bowed after a waltz. He was the best at the two-step.”
This was finally my chance to ask questions. “Has Lucky ever gone out with anyone at Birch Grove?”
“Frosh year he was a total womanizer,” Constance said.
“A cougarizer,” Mary Violet said. “He was going through all the juniors. Mrs. Radcliffe heard about it, though, and Lucky got sneakier about whatever he does. I always thought he’d date Hattie.”
Constance waved her narrow fingers like she was shooing away a fly. “MV, I don’t know why you find it impossible to believe that Hattie would choose an interesting personality over a pretty face, although I think Jack’s way hotter than Lucky.”
“It’s just that I’ve never sensed a real spark with Hattie and Jack. Where’s the chemistry?”
“Not everyone wants to have dramatic fireworks,” Constance said. “Jane, you must think we’re pitiful. We have so few guys here that we get worked up over the headmistress’s sons.”
We arrived at the Holidays’ house and went through the back entrance. Mrs. Holiday was in the kitchen swirling chocolate frosting on cupcakes. We all said hello and MV stuck her finger in the bowl of frosting to swipe a taste before saying, “Mother, dearest, we’ll be in the Wardrobe Museum.”
Mrs. Holiday gave her daughter a stern look. “You are not allowed to borrow any of my gowns. Nothing with a low neckline.”
“I know, I know, no displays of my décolletage.” MV winked at me. “That’s French for bodacious tatas.”
As soon as we were away from the kitchen, Constance said, “Mary Violet is still in trouble for wearing a halter dress to the Spring Frolic that was too scanty.”
“It was only a little side-boobage. Meanwhile, my mother does scandalous things like making pink cupcakes with Hershey’s strawberry kisses in the center of each one.”
“They tasted good,” Constance said.
“I had to close my eyes to eat them. We had an intervention and begged her never to make cupcakes that resemble her paintings.”
“No, you didn’t!”
“We did, and I recited my poem ‘Ode to an Artistic Mother.’” Mary Violet dropped her bag, and threw out her arms.
“Your cupcakes are tender and taste quite delightful
But please don’t decorate in ways most unsightful.
You zealously guard us from X-rated crudeness
Extend this policy to baked dessert lewdness
We celebrate all your creative expressions
But lady-parts cupcakes will cause insurrection.”
Constance and I doubled over with laughter, and Mary Violet huffed. “And she has the nerve to tell me not to dress skanky.”
“Please don’t ever change, MV,” I said.
“Only my clothes.” She opened a door to a room that was so astonishing that I stopped and stared. Clothes, shoes, and accessories filled shelves, racks, and stands like a boutique. There were full-length mirrors, and chairs and benches with pale blue velvet cushions. MV waved to a rolling rack with several dresses. “Voilà! That’s French for Ta-da! Agnes won’t wear these even though I tried to convince her that jocks glam up occasionally.”
“MV, this is amazing!”
“I know, although my mom locks away her couture in her bedroom.” Mary Violet fluffed the skirt of a sleeveless sky-blue dress. “What about this one?”
Constance liked a scoop neck with a peach-and-white geometric pattern. “This is cute. Try it on.”
When I stripped down, I made sure to let my hair fall over my shoulder and the scar, and I was self-conscious of my friends looking at my body.
Mary Violet said, “What an interesting tattoo! What’s the H for?”
“A friend of mine named Hosea, who got sick and died.”
“I’m sorry, Jane. Did you do the tattoo yourself?”
“MV, how could she do it herself on that p
lace? She’s not a contortionist.”
“My friend Wilde did it for me. I lay down on the bed and she drew it in first and then used a homemade tat kit.”
Mary Violet made me describe the process. “How very crafty! Maybe we should all make a pact and—”
“No way, MV,” Constance said. “I will not ever get a tattoo of your face for any reason.”
I tried on a dozen dresses, wondering which one Lucky would like best. There was a blue print that was the same color as his eyes, and a dress that matched the teal shirt he’d been wearing when we met. Maybe he liked really sexy girls, and I pulled out a slinky black spaghetti-strap mini.
Mary Violet said, “An aunt gave that to Agnes for her last birthday. I thought my mother would have a heart attack, but it would be hot on you.”
“It’s not quite my style.” I eventually decided on a sleeveless emerald-green dress with a narrow cut and empire waist that made me appear taller.
My friends approved and Mary Violet said, “You can totally work the Audrey Hepburn–elfin-waif thing.”
“I never know what you’re talking about, MV.” I gazed at the shelves of beautiful shoes, all too big for me, and I was about to put on my flats when Constance said, “Wait!” She went to her garment bag and brought out a lumpy cloth sack tied at the top with a big red ribbon. “This is from us to you.”
I untied the ribbon to find a pair of sleek black open-toe heels. “How did you…” I began, touching the smooth leather. “They’re my size.”
“Well, duh,” Mary Violet said. “I told you I inspected your closet. We all pitched in.”
“Thank you.” My eyes welled up.
My friends put their arms around me and said, “Group hug!”
They helped me pick out a copper velvet evening bag and a copper cashmere shawl that was so soft I couldn’t stop stroking it.
Mary Violet’s younger sister, Agnes, poked her head in the wardrobe museum. She nodded at me. “That fits you just right. Keep it. I hate dresses.”
In a few minutes, I’d put on my makeup and fixed my hair. When I stepped into the high heels, I was suddenly four inches taller. Jack wouldn’t be able to call me any stupid pee-wee names tonight and I hoped Hattie would keep him from interfering with me and Lucky.
I practiced walking in the heels while Constance got ready in a turquoise-and-white-print dress and clipped up her braids with silver combs that matched her dangling silver earrings.
Mary Violet changed into a dozen pink dresses that all blurred into sameness after a while. Constance used her phone to snap pics of Mary Violet’s outfits and send them to Hattie. She was texting and grinning. “Hattie says you look like a Teletubby cousin, Pookie Pinkie.”
Mary Violet said, “That’s so hilarious, not! I look fabulous.”
Constance set down her phone and told me, “We can take pics at the party, but nothing incriminating or all of our TSGs will get taken away.”
“It’s draconian the way Birch Grove treats us.” MV twirled around. “How’s this?”
I squinted at the pink dress. “MV, isn’t that the first thing you tried on?”
“Maybe.” MV spent ages messing with her blond curls before letting her hair down as it had been when we left campus. When she was finished, she inspected me and snapped her fingers. “Jewelry.”
She wanted me to wear big hoop earrings. “Even Constance is wearing earrings and a bracelet and she’s practically a Puritan.”
“Jane, tell her I’m not a Puritan.”
“Constance isn’t a Puritan, and I can’t wear the hoop earrings because I don’t have pierced ears, and don’t offer to pierce them with a needle and a potato.”
“You can pierce ears with a potato? Interesting.” Mary Violet fastened gold bracelets on my wrists. “Okay, baby steps. Are we ready?”
We leaned our heads together so Constance could take a picture. I could ask for a copy of it later and keep it as a memento of a night that I would remember forever.
I looked, and had an acute pleasure in looking—a precious yet poignant pleasure; pure gold, with a steely point of agony: a pleasure like what the thirst-perishing man might feel who knows the well to which he has crept is poisoned, yet stoops and drinks divine draughts nevertheless.
Charlotte Brontë, Jane Eyre (1847)
Chapter 17
As Mary Violet drove us to the country club in her Saab, she blasted a silly musical song where someone trilled, “I feel pretty, oh, so pretty!” I kept touching the silky material of my dress and the soft shawl as MV navigated winding, unlit roads into the hills. She stopped at a gate with an elderly guard at the booth. A narrow sign read GREENWOOD COUNTRY CLUB in small white letters.
Mary Violet rolled down her window. “Hi, Mr. Haggerty.”
“Hi, sunshine.” He pressed a button so that the big gate swung open. “Have a good time.”
“Thanks! See you later.” Once through the gate, we drove along the golf course. “Mr. Haggerty has been here since the dawn of man,” Mary Violet said. “He once caught my mother and her friends skinny-dipping, and she still gets as red as a tomato when she sees him. That’s why you should never ever skinny-dip near where you live.”
“I think I lose brain cells whenever I spend time with you, MV,” Constance said.
“Someday you’ll appreciate my important life lessons.” MV parked in a lot by a low building near swimming pools that glowed aqua in the night. Another older and more impressive building was set farther back.
Constance said, “This depressing warehouse is the Teen Center.”
“They keep us away from the civilized people,” Mary Violet added.
Kids were getting out of cars and going into the building. The guys wore suits, most of them with loosened ties and tennis shoes, and the girls darted to greet one another, as vivid as butterflies in their party dresses.
I asked, “Where’s the security? I mean, besides Mr. Haggerty, to handle people who crash?”
“No one crashes,” Constance said. “The police watch any car that comes into town.”
“And I’d thought this place was so different from the hood.”
We walked inside to a cavernous hall. A DJ, stationed on a platform in the corner, was spinning an indie tune that sounded familiar. Strings of lights radiated out from central points on the ceiling, like starbursts. Chairs, sofas, and trees in large pots created nooks around the periphery of the room. Tables with refreshments were set up at one end of the hall. At the other was a stage with band equipment.
Most people clustered in small groups, and there were so many tall guys here that I couldn’t see over the crowd as I searched for Lucky.
Constance led the way, speaking loudly so we could hear her. “What were the parties like at your old school, Jane?”
“A lot like prison riots. I’d get away before anything serious went down.” When I was thirteen, I’d whined until Hosea agreed to sneak me out of the house for a back-to-school dance. We’d walked by the police cars parked at the entrance, been patted down by security, and passed through metal detectors into City Central’s packed gymnasium. Excitement and danger had electrified the atmosphere. We hadn’t been there half an hour before a shouting match started. I’d wanted to see what was happening, but Hosea had put his arm around me, protecting me with his big body, and calmly maneuvered me through the mob, saying, “’Scuse me, bro,” and “Pardon, sister.” The guards had been barreling inside, but Hosea shielded me, saying, “Just leaving, thank you, sir.”
We’d gotten halfway down the block when we heard the sharp crack of gunfire. Hosea had kept his arm around me. “Listen up, Jane. In an emergency, this is what you do. Try to stay calm. Figure out where the danger is. Don’t show fear and talk respectful. Get away as soon as possible. You listening, Sis?”
I’d nodded and he’d made me repeat his instructions all the way home.
Mary Violet, Constance, and I claimed a spot near the DJ’s stand and put our sweaters and shawls on the
chairs. Mary Violet and Constance left their clutches, but I kept hold of my small bag.
We went to the refreshment table, where people were ladling red punch from big silver bowls to glasses. “It’s the famous Greenwood Country Club punch,” Mary Violet said. “In the old days, someone always had the decency to put rum in it. Now the club’s so strict that we have to drink outside like animals.”
Constance said, “You can’t drink anyway. You’re the designated driver.”
“They let you drink in the open?”
“Only if everyone pretends it isn’t happening,” Constance said. “It’s part of Greenwood’s see-no-evil, hear-no-evil moral code.”
“Hey, guys!”
We saw Hattie coming toward us, holding hands with Jack. Hattie’s tousled dark hair hung down her back and she wore a strapless scarlet dress that exposed her pale and perfect skin. Glittering gold earrings with red gems dangled almost to her shoulders.
I felt a complicated pang of admiration for my friend and self-pity because I would never be beautiful.
Standing beside Hattie, Jack seemed less ramshackle and more arty and rakish. He wore a battered old tuxedo jacket over a black t-shirt, ancient jeans, and black boots. He hadn’t shaved and his curly hair looked like he’d been cycling in a hurricane.
I hung back as MV squeezed Jack’s arm. “Oooh, muscles! I can’t believe your mother let you go out like this.”
“I’m a grown-ass man.” He gave MV a loud smacking kiss on her cheek. “You’re very blond tonight, Mary Violet.”
“I hear that sarcasm in your voice, Jacob Radcliffe, and I’ll have you know that Albert Einstein was very blond as a child.”
“Is that true?” he asked suspiciously, and MV turned her head and winked at Constance and me.
“Speaking of spectacular blondes,” she said, “is your brother here yet?”
“Not that I’ve seen. Don’t look so disappointed. He always shows up eventually.” Jack was facing MV, but I thought his comment was directed at me. “Jane, did you come to hear Dog Waffle?”
