Tiffany and Tiger's Eye

by Foxglove Lee

  Tiffany and Tiger’s Eye

  © February 2017 by Foxglove Lee

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Cover design © 2017 by Foxglove Lee

  First Edition 2014 by Prizm Books

  Second Edition 2017 by Foxglove Lee

  Tiffany and Tiger’s Eye / by Foxglove Lee.–2nd ed.

  Summary: There’s nothing more dangerous than a jealous doll who knows all your secrets! In the summer of 1986, after her father’s disappearance, Rebecca is sent to stay at the cottage, where she meets Tiffany: a water-skiing blonde who dresses like Madonna, makes her own jewellery, and claims to see auras. Strange things happen when Rebecca spends time with Tiffany. Her aunt and uncle think she’s acting out, but Rebecca’s convinced the culprit is a creepy antique doll!

  [1. LGBT—Juvenile Fiction. 2. Fantasy & Magic—Juvenile Fiction. 3. Canada—Historical—Juvenile Fiction.]

  Tiffany and Tiger’s Eye

  A Paranormal Young Adult Lesbian Romance

  By Foxglove Lee

  Prologue

  We called it “the cottage,” but it was more like a storage unit with bedrooms.

  In the seventies, when my grandparents were still alive, they’d painted the main space a deep Pumpkin Orange. That went over well, so they did the bedroom doors China Red, and the kitchen cupboards Harvest Gold. As a finishing touch, they pasted hippie daisy stickers all over everything—doors, walls, chairs. Obviously, they were trying to disguise the dinginess of the place. Funny enough, they turned the cottage into such an eyesore that you didn’t notice how run-down it was. So, in a way, their plan was a roaring success.

  That is, until you stepped into the bathroom.

  I guess it couldn’t technically be called a bathroom, since it didn’t have a bathtub. Or a shower. It was more like a powder room, though it sure didn’t smell like powder.

  The plumbing at the cottage wasn’t as reliable as what we had at home. Even though the bathroom was technically indoors and it had some of the fixtures you’d expect, the taps weren’t plumbed at all. Every morning, Aunt Libby filled a shallow metal bowl from the cold-water pump in the kitchen. She set the dish in the bathroom sink so we could wash our hands.

  The toilet was the worst thing about the cottage. Uncle Flip was convinced that if we flushed too often, the rudimentary septic system would be overwhelmed. The rule passed down from my grandparents was that the toilet could be flushed only once per day. It was Uncle Flip’s duty to push that lever. No matter how many people used the toilet, there’d be hell to pay if we flushed it ourselves.

  I learned the hard way three years ago, when I was thirteen.

  Uncle Flip had brought my brother and me up for the weekend while my mom and Aunt Libby drove my dad to some rehab place up north. Mikey and I never went on those trips. I only knew what was going on because I overheard Mom telling my aunt about it over the phone.

  Ever since I was little, I’ve been a pro at picking up the receiver in the family room, hiding behind my dad’s big stereo speakers, and listening in on other people’s conversations. I heard way more than I wanted to that way. Some of it I didn’t understand at the time, and some of it I’m still not sure I understand now.

  Anyway, that particular weekend when I was thirteen, it was just me and Mikey and Uncle Flip at the cottage. In the car on the way up, I had a suspicion that I was getting my period—and that suspicion turned out to be right. It wasn’t my first period or anything, but still, perfect timing, right? Girl stuff embarrassed me so much that I’d never told my mother, even though I’d started more than a year before. There was something about my body and its functions that made me deeply ashamed, and I didn’t want to talk about it with anyone. Not even my mom.

  And especially not with Uncle Flip or my little brother! At that age, Mikey probably didn’t know what a period was, but that didn’t matter in my thirteen-year-old mind. Half my life was devoted to preventing embarrassment back then. It still is now, for that matter.

  That’s why I flushed the toilet.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Uncle Flip howled. In no time, he was right outside the door. “Becca? Rebecca! Answer me.”

  I’d never heard my uncle raging like that, and it scared me because he’d always been so nice.

  “Please, no,” I whispered as I stared into the toilet bowl. It refilled with its typical browny-yellow water while Uncle Flip banged on the door.

  I wanted to cry.

  The bathroom door burst open, which wasn’t unusual. The cottage leaned to the left enough that none of the doors closed firmly. But usually when someone walked in on you, it was an accident.

  This was no accident.

  Uncle Flip stood in the doorway with Mikey right behind him, reflecting my wide eyes back at me. I’d already pulled up my pants and tucked in my shirt. It’s not like he’d walked in on me naked or anything, but in that moment it didn’t matter. I felt so humiliated that I burst into tears.

  My uncle’s expression changed as I cried. The red drained out of his face and his eyes took on a pitiful, puzzled look. “Becca? Rebecca, what’s wrong, honey?”

  I shook my head, heaving with sobs. It wasn’t like me to cry, and he knew it. He sent Mikey to play outside while he pulled me out of the tiny bathroom and tried to explain what atrocities might befall us if we flushed too often. I was too upset to really listen. I threw my arms around him so hard we both fell on the couch. He shut up and let me bawl.

  I never did this. Never. We weren’t a touchy-feely family. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d hugged my mother, let alone my dad. And there I was with my face pressed to my uncle’s T-shirt, simply because he was in the right place at the right time. Or the wrong place at the wrong time.

  When I’d calmed down a bit, he asked me gently if I understood the rule about the toilet. “I know it’s different than at home, but you’ve been coming here long enough that you know how the cottage works. Did you forget this time?”

  I don’t know what came over me, but I blurted out, “I got my period!”

  Uncle Flip’s eyes shot wide open like I’d just punched him in the stomach. A blush came over him, starting with his ears and devouring his face. He squirmed so much I actually felt sorry for him. I sat up straight on the couch and bit my lip, wishing I could take the words back.

  “Is it the first… the first…time?” my uncle stammered.

  I looked away and lied. “Yes.”

  “Oh.” He swallowed hard. “So, you don’t have any…any…” He lowered his voice and said, “Supplies?”

  I shook my head. I couldn’t look at him. When I needed pads at home, I took them from the cupboard in my mother’s bathroom and hoped she wouldn’t notice. Any time I was babysitting, I’d sneak off to the bathroom and take just a few. It was easy to hide things down the front of my overalls. Overalls concealed all sins.

  Uncle Flip rose stiffly from the couch, disappearing into the bedroom he shared with Aunt Libby. He was in there so long that I got up to check on him. I felt like I was floating as I stuck my head beyond the door. Me and Mikey never went into Aunt Libby and Uncle Flip’s bedroom.

  The curtains were closed and the light was off. Even in the relative darkness, I could see how cramped it was. They had a double bed in the middle, flanked by long dressers pushed up against the walls.


  But the furniture had nothing on the décor. Somebody had installed shelves along all the walls, and they were packed to the gills with…dolls!

  My heart thundered as I stepped inside. I felt like I shouldn’t be there, like I was walking on hallowed ground. Aunt Libby wouldn’t like it. I could feel her presence like a ghost just over my shoulder. There were porcelain babies, girls in ostentatious dresses, and little women with sun umbrellas. I’d never been a doll person, but they were obviously antiques. They must have been worth a fortune.

  “Your grandmother collected those,” Uncle Flip told me. He was standing in the corner, holding a box of maxi pads. The packaging was cardboard, not plastic, and it looked almost as old as me. “Your aunt…” He bowed his head and the box rattled in his hands. “God, I wish Libby was here…”

  “It’s okay,” I said, wanting to comfort him.

  “Do you know how to use these things?”

  “Yeah.” There was very little floor space in the cottage bedrooms, but I wedged myself inside and took the box from him, clutching it to my chest. “Don’t worry. I’ll figure it out.”

  Uncle Flip nodded and shot me a brief smile. “You’re a smart girl.”

  I wanted to run away, but the dolls had a hold on me. I could feel their eyes burning into the bare flesh beyond my T-shirt. My armpits poured out sweat, despite the deodorant I’d only just started using. I’d shaved the week before, even though my mother insisted I should wait until I turned sixteen. The re-growth pricked me terribly.

  “Why don’t you take one of these guys?” my uncle asked, reaching up and grabbing a doll. His big hand made her body look so small.

  “Take one? Why?”

  “Well, I thought…doesn’t a girl usually get a present when she has…has her first…”

  “Yeah, and a party.” I felt bad for laughing, but I couldn’t help it. “And a pony!”

  Uncle Flip’s ears glowed red, but he laughed too.

  My uncle and I both looked at the doll he’d chosen for me. She wasn’t a baby doll or a little girl, but she didn’t look like an adult woman either. Somewhere in between, just like me. Uncle Flip brushed a stray orange ringlet from her porcelain forehead. I was no doll expert, but just by looking around the room I could tell redheaded dolls weren’t all that common. He was giving me something special, and I think he knew that.

  “Won’t Aunt Libby be mad?”

  “Nah.” Uncle Flip ran the back of his hand down the front of his moustache. “These dolls scare the hell out of your aunt… oh, sorry, scare the heck out of her.”

  I smiled at how careful my family was about swearing. We rarely said bad words out loud, not even the minor ones like hell and damn.

  “If they scare her, why does she keep them?”

  “Because they belonged to her mother,” my uncle said, and I understood well enough that I didn’t ask any follow-up questions. “I’m going to check on your brother, see what that little monster’s up to. You sure you’re okay?”

  When he left the cottage, I lingered in my aunt and uncle’s bedroom. It still felt out of bounds. I looked up at the shelves of blonde dolls with parasols or teddy bears sewn under their arms. Their prettiness overwhelmed me, and I cast my gaze down over the one doll that was mine.

  With her pouting crimson lips, huge green eyes and thick black lashes, she was beautiful in a way that enchanted and perplexed me. I put my box of maxi pads down on the bed and held my doll with both hands. Her dress had a country flavour, tiny rust-coloured flowers on a cream background, rosettes up the front of her chest and lace around her neck. Over the dress, she had on a half-apron in less-than-pristine white.

  She looked at me so inquisitively I was convinced she had a mind beyond those deep, dark eyes.

  “What should I call you, dollface?”

  Like a flash, the name Yvette streaked through me. I could have sworn that I heard it, with a hint of an accent, like the doll had spoken to me.

  Of course, I was being silly. My mother always said I let my imagination get the better of me. She was right.

  Even so, I lifted the doll to my face and rubbed her cool porcelain nose against mine. Closing my eyes, I kissed her little lips.

  Chapter 1

  On the last day of the 1985-1986 school year, my mom told Mikey and me to pack our bags—we were spending the entire summer with Aunt Libby and Uncle Flip. Luckily, we were used to the cottage’s quirks. Even though I was sixteen years old and probably should have been super-concerned about hygiene, it didn’t bother me that there was no shower. The lake was only a five-minute walk down the gravel road, and we swam every day, rain or shine.

  Anyway, it would just be the four of us. Who did I need to impress?

  Mikey wasn’t as pleased about getting away from the suburbs as I was. He wanted to spend his summer playing with friends, not hanging out with his dorky older sister. What else was new? Nobody seemed all that interested in spending time with me.

  My brother was different. He had a lot of friends. They lived in those gigantic houses on the other side of the bridge. I only knew that because it was my job to pick up Mikey every day after school. Sometimes, while I waited by the playground with all the moms, I hear them whispering what a “responsible young lady” I was. That always bugged me, because I could hear the pity in their voices. They felt sorry for me, and that made me wonder if they knew what life was like at our house.

  Maybe they did. Maybe that’s why Mikey’s friends’ moms invited us over for dinner so often.

  Most days, I bashfully brushed off the invites. If dinner wasn’t ready when my father regained consciousness after a full day of drinking, there’d be hell to pay—and I’d have to pay it, since my mom worked her second job in the evenings. During the day, she cleaned people’s houses. At night, she cleaned office buildings. Even in my sleep, I could tell when she got home at three in the morning. When she walked through the door, the whole house filled with the sharp scent of lemon cleanser. It became a perfume, of sorts, a kind of class marker that never washed off.

  But there were other times, like when my dad was in rehab or when he was off trying to be a rock star, that I took the moms up on their offers. In truth, I loved going to their houses. Mikey would play with his friends while the moms brought me milk and cookies, then told me to start my homework while they got dinner going.

  There was one special mom, Mrs. Kaufman, who would make a pot of tea and sit with me at her big oak table. She’d ask me about school, which all the moms did, but she’d talk to me about her life too. Nothing weird, just stories from when she was sixteen. Or she’d tell me about celebrities she met when she worked as a stewardess. That was before she got married.

  After our tea break, Mrs. Kaufman would get up, brush her hands together, and say, “Well, then, Miss Rebecca, what say we start dinner?”

  I’d make salad and veggies, she’d do the entrée and starch. We were a team, preparing meals together for the kids. There was something so comforting about those evenings in Mrs. Kaufman’s kitchen. We were like parents together. I was her wife and she was mine—not that women could get married. That’s just how it felt, to me.

  If I had a social life I’m sure the incessant child-minding would have bothered me, but I didn’t, so it didn’t. When I was Mikey’s age I’d had as many friends as he did, but by the end of Grade 10, the whole school thought I was a freak. It didn’t take much not to fit in. Just kiss another girl.

  Generally, I wasn’t drawn to high school parties. I knew there would be drinking and, God forbid, drugs. Growing up the way I did, alcohol had absolutely no appeal. It was like an anchor weighing our family down to the bottom of the ocean, keeping my father in a stupor, except when he emerged struggling and screaming.

  That’s not what I wanted out of life. I wanted to be better.

  But when Chloe invited me, I couldn’t say no. Chloe was one of the prettiest girls in school. She had that same hold on me as Mrs. Kaufman, except I felt free with h
er, like there was a chance something real might happen.

  When we got to the party, I didn’t drink… but Chloe sure did. She got all giggly and wild, jumping around the basement to the Eurythmics. Chloe knew the words to every song on the radio, and her elation got inside of me, making me giddy. She’d worn white denim jeans and jacket over a fluorescent pink top. Her crimped hair was up in a high ponytail. Plastic beads bounced against her chest as she danced.

  I wasn’t fancy, but I’d let my mother braid a few strands of embroidery thread into my hair just for fun. I wore my black stirrup pants and a white button-down shirt that was big enough to disguise my boobs and my butt. The outfit looked enough like Boy George to pass for fashionable, although a lot of the older kids thought I was a boy. I really only dressed that way because… well, ever since I’d started “developing,” as my mother called it, I’d felt super-self-conscious. Every night when I went to bed, I prayed that, when I woke up the next morning, my chest would be flat.

  Dancing in the Street came on the radio, and the rowdy kids took the boom box outside to wake the neighbours. Everybody left the basement… except for Chloe and me. We fell into an old beanbag chair, laughing as the strobe lights flashed off the disco ball. I could barely see. So much flash and glam! But I could certainly feel Chloe’s warm body next to mine.

  The basement was quiet now. The party had moved outside, where everyone was screaming along with Mick Jagger and David Bowie. I was breathing so fast I thought my lungs would explode.

  Chloe’s eyes gleamed greenish-grey. Her lips were so close I felt her breath in my mouth. So close. We were so close. All I had to do was lean forward and press my lips against hers.

  My brain short-circuited when we kissed. It wasn’t just me, wasn’t just my teeth parting or my tongue wrestling hers. Her hand found my thigh and she dug her fluorescent green fingernails into my flesh. It hurt, but I didn’t care. I just wanted to kiss her, kiss her forever…