Mixed Bags

by Melody Carlson

  “Which is…?” asked DJ.

  “The rose room.”

  Of course, thought DJ as she led Eliza from the office. Next to her grandmother’s suite, the rose room was probably the best room in the house. Naturally, someone as important as Eliza would be entitled to that. Not that DJ had wanted it. And perhaps her grandmother had actually offered it to her last month. DJ couldn’t remember. But she had never been a flowery sort of girl, and she knew the rose wallpaper in there would’ve been giving her a serious migraine by now. Besides she liked her sunny yellow bedroom and, in her opinion, it had the best view in the house. On a clear day, you could actually glimpse a sliver of the Atlantic Ocean from her small bathroom window.

  DJ started to do a repeat of her earlier tour, even using the same lines, until she realized that Eliza was actually interested.

  “How old is this house?”

  “Just over a hundred years,” DJ told her. “It was built in 1891.”

  “It has a nice feel to it.”

  DJ considered this. “Yeah, I kinda thought that too, after I got used to it. To be honest, it seemed pretty big to me at first. But then you’re probably used to big houses.”

  “I suppose. Not that I’m particularly fond of mansions.”

  “Why aren’t you with your parents?” asked DJ. “In France?”

  “They’re concerned about things like politics and security,” said Eliza as they exited the library. “In fact, they almost refused to let me come here.”

  “Why?”

  “Oh, I think they felt I was safer in boarding school. If our grandmothers hadn’t been such good friends, I’m sure they never would’ve agreed.”

  “So, you’re happy to be here?” DJ studied Eliza’s expression.

  “Sure, aren’t you?”

  DJ frowned. “I don’t know…I guess.”

  “I think it’ll be fun to go to a real high school, to just live like a normal girl, with other normal girls.”

  DJ tried not to look too shocked. “You think this is normal?”

  Eliza laughed. “I guess I don’t really know what normal is, but it’s more normal that what I’m used to.”

  “But what about the whole fashion thing?” asked DJ. “I mean you must know about my grandmother’s plans to turn us all into little debutantes. Are you into all that?”

  “That’s nothing new. Remember, I’m from the south. My family is obsessed with turning me into a lady. That was one of the other reasons my parents agreed to this. I think they see the Carter House as some sort of finishing school.”

  Or some sort of reformatory school, thought DJ. Although she didn’t say it out loud. Not yet, anyway.

  2

  DJ was JUST FeeLInG HOPeFUL that life might return to normal. The house had been quiet for a couple of hours, and DJ had retreated to her room with an old Fitzgerald novel that she’d scavenged from the library. Then she was interrupted by a quiet tapping on her door. “Who is it?” she called out lazily.

  “Desiree?” Inez poked her head inside DJ’s room and then actually smiled in a sheepish sort of way. “Sorry to disturb you, but your grandmother is asleep, and we have another girl downstairs. Do you think you could show her around?”

  DJ let out an exasperated sigh as she set the book aside and pried herself up from the padded window seat. She knew why Inez had come to her. She didn’t want to risk her employer’s wrath by interrupting her “sacred” afternoon nap. But weren’t these girls Grandmother’s problem, not DJ’s? Still, after witnessing Taylor’s rudeness to Inez earlier, DJ was resolved to treat the housekeeper with a bit more respect.

  “I’m coming,” she said as she shoved her feet into her flip-flops.

  “She’s in Mrs. Carter’s office.”

  “Okay.”

  DJ wondered what this next girl would be like. Perhaps she should have paid more attention to Grandmother when she’d described the soon-to-arrive residents these past couple of weeks. However, DJ doubted that it mattered much. She suspected that the Carter House girls (except for her) would probably be pretty much the same. Wealthy, attractive, impeccably groomed, tall, fashion-conscious, weight-obsessed, a bit on the spoiled side, and probably snobbish.

  Even sweet Eliza with her southern veneer of good manners and charm would probably act differently once school started. She and Taylor would probably both worm their ways into the “elite” clique—a group of snotty girls that held no attraction for DJ. The same girls who had pushed DJ (and kids like her) off to the sidelines—or worse, made fun of them.

  DJ tried to block these miserable thoughts as she went into the office to meet the next Carter House girl. But, to her surprise, she found a petite, dark-skinned, black-haired girl sitting in one of the leather chairs. At first, DJ thought there must be a mistake. This girl not only didn’t fit her Grandmother’s model-criteria mold, but she looked really, really young. Like maybe twelve.

  “Hello?” ventured DJ.

  The girl stood now, holding her hands nervously in front of her. “Hello.”

  “I’m DJ,” she told her. “My grandmother is Mrs. Carter, but she’s taking a nap right now. Are you one of the new residents?”

  “Yes. I’m Kriti Nahid,” she said politely. “My mother is outside with the taxi and my bags. We wanted to be sure this was the right house. It seemed that no one was home.”

  DJ spotted Inez walking through the foyer just then. “Inez,” she called, “Could you go and help…uh, what was your last name again?”

  “Nahid.”

  DJ nodded. “Could you help Mrs. Nahid with Kriti’s bags?”

  “Okay.”

  DJ turned back to the girl. She really wanted to ask how old she was, but a second glance told her that although Kriti was petite, she had curves and was most likely older than twelve. It was probably her Indian heritage (DJ’s guess at her ethnicity) that made her so petite. Still, DJ wondered how her grandmother would react to this interesting twist. Or perhaps she was aware. Perhaps it had more to do with money and need.

  Before long, an equally petite woman joined them, introducing herself as Mrs. Nahid, Kriti’s mother. She was well dressed, and her jewelry looked expensive.

  “We came by taxi from the city,” she told DJ with a thick accent. “I do not want to let the driver leave yet. But his meter is running. I had wished to speak to Mrs. Carter before I depart.”

  DJ wasn’t sure what to do now. “Uh, my grandmother is having her afternoon nap. I could wake her if you—”

  “No, no, do not disturb her.” Mrs. Nahid frowned. “Excuse me while I call my husband, please.” Then she stepped out the door and made a call on her cell phone. Speaking rapidly in a foreign language (probably Hindi), she sounded very angry at whoever was on the other end.

  “I am sorry,” said Kriti, holding up her hands in a helpless way. “My parents are very protective of me.”

  DJ frowned. “And they let you come here?”

  “We live in the city.” Kriti frowned. “There is much crime. My parents worried for my welfare.”

  “Oh…”

  “We have only been in America for seven years. My father’s business is growing, but he needs to live nearby, in the city. They heard about the Carter House from friends. They felt I would be safer here.”

  “Right.” DJ nodded. “That makes sense.”

  “I am sorry,” said Mrs. Nahid now. “I just did not know what to do. The taxi was very expensive. It is a long way to the city. My husband said that it is acceptable to leave Kriti here now.”

  Mrs. Nahid had tears in her eyes. She reached over and grabbed Kriti by both arms, pulled her close, and hugged her tightly as she said something in Hindi to her. Kriti just nodded as her mother stroked her silky hair, but there were tears in her eyes too. Suddenly, DJ felt like an intruder. This was a private moment…a moment that DJ would give anything to have with her own mother again. She turned and looked away, but it seemed rude to just leave without excusing herself.

  Final
ly, their tearful good-bye ended, and Mrs. Nahid apologized again. “I do not usually get this emotional.”

  “It’s okay,” said DJ. “I understand.”

  “I have met Mrs. Carter,” continued Mrs. Nahid. “She seems a very responsible woman, and I know Kriti will be in good hands.”

  “Of course.” DJ forced a smile as she wondered whether or not she should tell this unsuspecting woman the truth—or perhaps it was simply DJ’s version of the truth. But in her opinion, her grandmother was not exactly the “responsible” woman that Mrs. Nahid seemed to assume that she was. And as far as “good hands,” well, it probably depended on how one interpreted that.

  “Can you have Mrs. Carter call me when she is awake?” asked Mrs. Nahid. She handed DJ a business card. “She can call on my cell phone or at my home. Either is acceptable.”

  “Yes,” said DJ. “Absolutely.”

  Mrs. Nahid said something else in Hindi to her daughter.

  Kriti nodded, glancing at DJ. “Yes, Mother,” she answered in English, probably for DJ’s benefit. “I am absolutely fine. Please, just go ahead and leave. You better get going before you owe the taxi driver a thousand dollars.”

  Mrs. Nahid made a stiff smile and then nodded. “Yes. You are right.” Then she thanked DJ and left.

  “I can show you around,” offered DJ as they left her grandmother’s office, watching out the front window as the taxi drove away.

  “Where should I put her things?” asked Inez as she came in the door with what must’ve been the last suitcase. She set it with the others, all mismatched and beat up and pretty unimpressive. For a moment DJ imagined Taylor’s shocked reaction if these shabby looking bags were to end up in her room. It might be good for a laugh.

  “I don’t know,” she told Inez. “Maybe just put them upstairs on the landing for now. Grandmother can tell you which room later.”

  DJ briefly considered offering to share her own room with Kriti. She knew that she would probably get stuck with a roommate eventually, and Kriti didn’t seem too bad. Still, it was hard letting go of her privacy. And, as far as she knew, Grandmother’s plan involved two girls per room, for a total of six girls. And she hadn’t filled all the beds yet. Maybe she wouldn’t.

  Kriti remained pretty quiet during the tour. DJ hoped it wasn’t because she was feeling bummed about this whole thing. DJ knew that it wasn’t easy living away from your parents, but you get used to it, eventually. Finally they were finished and back in the foyer again. DJ wasn’t sure what to do now. She wished her grandmother would come downstairs and take over. It was nearly four now. Usually Grandmother was done with her nap by now. Suddenly DJ felt irritated, like she was stuck babysitting this new girl. She didn’t like it a bit. Was this how it was going to be? Did Grandmother assume that DJ was her slave girl?

  “I can wait for Mrs. Carter in the library,” offered Kriti, as if she sensed DJ’s dilemma of having to entertain her.

  “Do you like to read?” asked DJ as she led her back to the library.

  “Oh, yes. I am a good reader.”

  “The books in here are kind of old, but there are some good ones too.”

  “I like old books,” said Kriti. “I learned to read when I was three, and I have read literally thousands of books since then. My reading level has always been much higher than my age.”

  DJ nodded. This was Kriti’s way of saying she was an “academic,” and most likely she was proud of it. Probably a straight-A student too. Well, that was fine with DJ. Not that she cared too much about grades. And, really, it was preferable to being an elite snob who put everyone else down. Although DJ was well aware that some academics could be just as mean and superior as girls like Taylor. Whatever.

  3

  “SO THIS IS KrITI,” said Grandmother, finally joining the two girls in the library. Her eyebrows lifted slightly when she took in the petite girl’s stature. “Inez told me that you arrived during my nap. I am Mrs. Carter.” She extended her hand.

  Kriti shook her hand and smiled. “I’m pleased to meet you.”

  Grandmother nodded. “I see you’ve met my granddaughter, Desiree.”

  Kriti glanced at DJ curiously, probably wondering about her name, and then said, “Yes, she was very kind to show me around.”

  “And your mother has left?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m sorry I missed her. I hope she wasn’t inconvenienced.”

  “She asked that you call her,” said DJ, digging the slightly rumpled business card from her jeans pocket.

  “Thank you.”

  “We didn’t know which room Kriti was going to be in. Her things are—”

  “Yes, I saw her things on the landing.” Grandmother cleared her throat. “I will tell Inez to take them to the rose room.”

  DJ frowned. Grandmother was putting Kriti in with Eliza? That seemed a little odd, considering the way she had treated Eliza like royalty, simply because her family was so rich. But DJ said nothing. Mostly she was relieved that she was not being asked to share her room yet.

  “Has Kriti met the other girls yet?”

  DJ shook her head. “I think they’re still in their rooms.”

  “I see,” said Mrs. Carter.

  DJ wanted to be in her room too. She was tired of playing handmaid to Grandmother. Let her deal with Kriti now. “I’m going upstairs to—”

  “Oh, good,” said Grandmother. “Since you’re going upstairs, please take Kriti and introduce her to Eliza.” She smiled at Kriti now. “You are a lucky girl to room with Eliza Wilton. She is a delightful young lady, and I’m sure you will find her to be a most congenial roommate.”

  Kriti nodded. “Thank you, Mrs. Carter. I look forward to meeting her.”

  So, knowing she was still stuck, DJ led Kriti up the stairs and then knocked on Eliza’s door.

  Eliza opened it with a cheerful, “Yes?”

  DJ performed the introduction, trying to do it properly, politely. Probably more for Kriti’s sake than for her grandmother. She suddenly felt a tiny bit sorry for Kriti. How would she feel about sharing a room with Miss Perfect?

  Eliza smiled, but DJ thought it looked a little forced. “I’m pleased to meet you…, was it Christy?”

  “Kriti,” said DJ.

  “Yes, well, I’m pleased to meet you, Kriti. That’s an unusual name.”

  “It’s Hindu.”

  Eliza nodded. “I see.”

  “Does your name have a meaning?” asked DJ, hoping to help Kriti feel a little more at ease.

  “Yes, it means ‘work of art.’” She looked down at her feet as if this embarrassed her.

  “Isn’t that lovely,” said Eliza in a tone that sounded a bit saccharine to DJ’s ears, even though she was still smiling.

  DJ couldn’t help but notice how completely different these two girls appeared. Kriti, short and dark, looked very insecure and totally out of her comfort zone. Meanwhile, Eliza, tall and blonde, seemed to be in perfect control. It was obvious who would be dominating this room. Already, it looked as if Eliza had made herself at home. Her things were spread everywhere.

  “Hopefully you’ll have room for Kriti in here,” said DJ.

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” said Eliza as she began removing things from one of the beds. “I was unpacking and I got a little carried away.”

  “Bottega Veneta?” asked Kriti as she picked up Eliza’s bag and politely set it on the other bed, which was now heaped high with clothes and things.

  Eliza blinked. “Yes.” Now she seemed to study Kriti’s outfit more carefully. Although DJ couldn’t see that it was anything too spectacular—just a pair of white capri pants, a black T-shirt, and platform sandals. Also, Kriti had a black bag slung over her shoulder. It was trimmed with some big brass rings and things. Eliza pointed to Kriti’s bag. “Dolce & Gabbana?”

  Kriti smiled shyly. “In a way.”

  Now Eliza looked suspicious. “A knockoff?”

  Kriti nodded. “My father runs a knock-off business.”r />
  “No way!” Eliza leaned over and peered curiously at the bag. “It looks like the real thing.”

  “That’s the point.”

  “But isn’t that illegal?”

  “No,” said Kriti. “Not unless a design element is trademarked.” She pointed to one of the buckles on her purse. “For instance if this had the initials here, it could result in a lawsuit. But my father is very careful about these things.”

  “How does he know?” asked DJ.

  “He is very smart. And his brother is an attorney.”

  “So does he sell his knockoffs on the street?” asked Eliza in a slightly snooty tone.

  “No, he is a legitimate businessman. He sells to stores, and they know the items are knockoffs. It’s all in good fun since the customers know they’re fakes. Besides it’s profitable.”

  Eliza shook her head. “But it seems wrong.”

  “Why?” asked Kriti.

  “Because, look at my bag. It’s a real Bottega, and I paid $2,400 for it.”

  “Are you serious?” asked DJ. She stared at the purse and tried to figure out why it should possibly cost that much.

  Eliza nodded. “I’m totally serious. And I’ll bet Kriti’s dad knocks them off for a fraction of that price. That’s just wrong.”

  “Maybe it’s wrong that you paid $2,400 for your bag,” said Kriti. “Especially when you could’ve gotten one almost exactly like it for a tenth of the price.”

  DJ wasn’t brilliant at math, but she knew that was $240. “That’s still a lot of money for a purse,” she said to both of them.

  “Not when you want quality,” said Kriti. “Sure, you can get a knockoff in the city for, say, ten bucks, but it’s a piece of junk that will fall apart in less than a week.”

  “That’s true,” said Eliza. “A friend of mine bought a Prada knockoff when she was on vacation, and it didn’t even last her one day.”

  “In some ways, you get what you pay for,” said Kriti. “Unless you pay too much.”