by Monica James
Just as I’m about to sit down, Polly is back with a white dress and matching shoes. “Here, try this on,” she states, shoving the items into my chest.
As I look down, I’m nearly blinded by its brightness because it’s so…white.
“It’s, um…white,” I stupidly say, stating the obvious.
“Congrats for knowing your colors. Now hurry up.” She pushes me in the direction of the changing rooms, huffing in annoyance.
I decide to humor her, as there’s no way I’m wearing a white dress, but at least it’s longer than the slutty one I’m currently wearing. The shoes make a loud thud as they smash against the wall when I impatiently kick them off, and the balls of my feet sing in celebration as soon as they are bare.
I let out a relieved breath as I remove the skin tight garment from my body, and my lungs thank me because I can finally breathe again. I throw it into the corner, about to rejoice, but then my eyes fall onto the hanger behind the door.
Sighing, I rip it down, and as I’m shimmying into the ridiculously white, shiny dress, I can’t help but think this is an awful idea. I’m not the type of girl who can wear white without getting it dirty. I’m the type of girl who just looks at a white garment and marks it up with invisible dirt. But as I turn to look into the mirror, I almost trip, not recognizing the reflection staring back at me.
“Do the shoes fit?” Polly asks from outside the door.
Oh right, I completely forgot about shoes. The moment I slip them on, my feet thank me for not subjecting them to those other hooker heels, because even though these shoes are high, they’re wedges, making it much easier to stay balanced.
Still gaping at the reflection staring back at me, I can’t believe the mirror image is mine. My legs look lengthy and toned, thanks to the five inch, white diamante wedges, and the dress, which is still short, but modest, sits mid-thigh, giving my legs a longer, suppler look.
The sweetheart neckline is held up by crystal beaded spaghetti straps, which match the dazzling crystal beads on the corset style bodice. The white skirt balloons out like a tutu, but it’s softer and flows naturally, as the hem of the three layer skirt is rimmed with white silk.
The crisp white brings out the bright red in my hair and the blueness of my eyes. I can’t believe I actually look half decent in a color I have steered clear of for the majority of my life.
“Hello? Are you alive in there?” Polly says, impatiently knocking on the door.
Taking a deep breath, I open the door with poise and step out, but I begin to feel extremely self-conscious when Polly and the sales clerk both gasp when they see me.
Maybe I’m utterly blind, and look like a total troll.
Just as I’m about to charge into the dressing room, Polly says, “That’s better. Now you look like a girl.”
I pull at the plunging neckline and Polly slaps my hand away.
“Do not cover up the girls, because they look awesome,” she says with a sassy grin.
Thanks to Tabitha’s lesson in underwear, I now actually have girls, as prior to her teachings, you had to look twice to see if I had any at all.
“We’ll take it,” Polly says to the smiling shop assistant, pointing to my attire.
“Good choice, Polly. Your friend looks amazing,” she innocently says, not realizing that Polly and I aren’t exactly friends.
But I nearly fall flat on my face when Polly replies, “Yeah, she kinda does.”
I give her a small smile and she returns it for the briefest of moments before she produces a plastic card and hands it to the store clerk.
“Oh no, I can pay for it,” I quickly object, waving my hands out in front of me to stop the assistant.
“Don’t worry about it,” Polly replies dismissively, nodding at the poor girl, who is looking between us, confused. “It’s on Mother,” she adds, as if that’s going to make me feel any better.
“Oh, I still don’t feel right about it.” But it’s too late as the beaming sales clerk has taken off for the registers with credit card in hand.
“Honestly, it’s fine,” Polly reaffirms when she sees me chewing my lip.
“Okay. Well, thanks.” I nod, before ducking into the changing room to get undressed, seeing as Polly won’t take no for an answer.
As I drape the dress onto the hanger, I have to do a double take to ensure I’ve seen the correct figure of $800 on the price tag. I’ve never spent that amount on anything before, and feel a tad guilty for allowing Cynthia to pay for a dress I’ll only wear once.
“Polly, this dress is $800!” I whisper as I exit the changing room, waving the hanger in the air.
“And?” she replies, looking up from her phone as if I’ve gone mad.
“That’s a lot of money for a dress,” I utter, a little disappointed that my guilty conscience has decided to kick in.
“Daddy can afford it,” she says, reaching for my shoes and dress as we make our way to the register.
Her comment has me thinking, I don’t actually know what Chandler does. And come to think of it, I know nothing about him.
“What does he do?” I ask, hoping I don’t get my head bitten off.
“He’s a lawyer, but deals with international law. At the moment he’s dealing with some Geneva Convention or something,” she says with a brush of her hand, not too interested that her dad has dealings in some serious shit.
“Oh right,” I reply. “Explains why he’s in Europe.”
“Yeah, I guess so. Also explains why he’s such a shitty dad,” she adds, and I don’t miss the hint of resentment behind her tone.
Her comment has us waiting in silence while my items are bagged up, and as the total of the shoes and dress come close to $2000, I nearly choke. But as a nonchalant Polly signs the receipt, I know she’s done this a million times before, and I can’t help but think money really can’t buy happiness, because it seems we have a lot more in common than just our mother.
***
The house is still in a state of chaos when we get back with our goods in tow. Cynthia is standing in the foyer, looking up at the wall, obviously debating whether the decorations are appropriate enough.
“Oh, hi, girls,” she says when she sees us. “Quinn,” she adds, giving him a small smile.
“Do you think this is too much?” she asks, her eyes focused on a gory, morbid painting of flying limbs and heads.
I have no idea what I’m looking at so I remain mute, because to my untrained eyes, it looks kind of gruesome, and has me wondering if we’re celebrating a public execution instead of Christmas.
“It’s a great replica of Guernica,” Quinn says from beside me. I quickly turn to look at him with my eyebrow raised.
“Oh, you’re a fan of Picasso?” Cynthia asks, looking at Quinn, obviously impressed by his nerdness.
“Yeah, he’s brilliant. This piece is actually one of my favorites,” Quinn says, mesmerized by the picture.
Cynthia nods animatedly, obviously excited to be in the company of a fellow Picasso lover. “You must go visit The National Gallery. There is an original piece on display. Just breathtaking,” she says, hand over her heart.
“Haven’t you had some pieces on display there too, Mom?” Polly casually asks.
Cynthia shyly nods, brushing a piece of midnight hair behind her ear. “Yes.”
“Wow,” Quinn says, the astonishment clear in his tone. “Did you paint this?” he asks, pointing to the painting whose name I cannot pronounce.
“Yes, I did. It’s a very poor duplication, but I had limited time to get organized,” Cynthia replies, sighing when looking back at her artwork, clearly disappointed.
“No way, it’s fucking cool,” Quinn says passionately, and I watch my mother swoon over Quinn’s comment.
But any female would, because witnessing Quinn Berkeley grow passionate about something is a sight that would have any girl drooling with desire. I should know.
“Thank you, Quinn. That is really lovely of you to say,” Cynthia
gushes. I bite my lip because she just referred to Quinn’s profanity as ‘lovely.’
As we stand staring at the painting, I can’t help but think that she’s made a name for herself here too, just like she did when in L.A.I sadly remember the last picture I drew for her, and how my father discarded it like it was nothing.
Feeling my eyes well with tears, I clear my throat, as I will not cry. “Well, I better call Abi,” I announce, and Quinn turns to look at me, giving me a small nod.
“Who’s Abi, dear?” Cynthia asks. I try not flinch at the term of endearment.
“My friend back home,” I reply without thought.
“In L.A.?” she asks.
“No, South Boston, Virginia,” I correct, and am amazed I think of Virginia as my home.
“Oh? That’s where you’re from?” she asks Quinn, who nods in confirmation.
There’s so much she doesn’t know about me, about what I’ve done, and I wonder when she’ll finally open up and ask. But we remain quiet because now is not that time.
Cynthia clears her throat. “Well, feel free to use the phone in the den,” she says with a smile.
I look at Quinn, chewing my lip. What if the diner’s phone is tapped and we lead the police straight to our whereabouts? I know it’s stupid, seeing as we haven’t been masking our phone conversations in the past, but we’ve always called on the run, and not from a direct location. Calling from here makes me nervous, and as paranoid as this makes me, I have to refuse.
“Um, thanks for the offer, but I’ll just use a pay phone.”
Polly scoffs. “You do realize this is the 21st century, right? I don’t even think they exist anymore.”
Cynthia sees me squirm uncomfortably and she gasps with understanding. “Of course,” she says, before she flutters off down the hallway.
Polly cocks an eyebrow, confused, so I decide to be honest, as there’s no point lying to her. I also think we made progress today, so hopefully being honest will continue that progression.
“If I call from here, I’m afraid the police may track me,” I explain.
Polly’s eyes widen. “Oh, well that sucks,” she replies, and I smile.
“It sure does.”
Quinn wraps a hand around my waist, drawing me into his side. I sigh when enveloped into his warm embrace. Polly watches the exchange, and I don’t fail to notice her eyes lower, saddened by our actions. It makes me wonder if she has someone like Quinn in her life. I hope so, because everyone needs a Quinn Berkeley—although he is one in a million. Actually, make that a billon.
“Here, you can use this,” Cynthia says, handing me a black iPhone.
“Um,” I say, stumped, as I’m pretty sure cell phones are still traceable.
“It’s non-traceable,” she explains when she sees my apprehension.
“Oh, right,” I say, wondering why I’ve never heard of this before.
“It’s Chandler’s,” she clarifies, as if that’s meant to explain anything.
I let it go, thanking her instead. “I’ll return it as soon as I make the call.”
“No need. Keep it. Tell your friend to text you on that too if there’s any news,” Cynthia says with a smile.
I don’t know what to say, as having a non-traceable phone is invaluable. “Thank you. I really appreciate this,” I say, holding onto the phone.
“Don’t mention it,” she says, brushing it off.
At that moment, a cake the height of Quinn gets pushed into the room and Polly gasps. “I said white, not off white!” and she dashes off, following the poor pastry chef in hot pursuit.
Cynthia smiles as she follows Polly with her gaze. “I better go save Philippe.” She chuckles, and for a split second she looks as if she wants to reach out and touch me, but at the last minute she changes her mind and gives me a small nod instead.
I let out the small breath I was holding when she races off, and Quinn kisses the top of my head.
“Non-traceable phone? That’s some high tech, Batman shit right there,” he whispers, and I chuckle, thinking the exact same thing.
Chapter 13
Pants Down
“Hello, Bobby Joe’s,” says a familiar voice, a voice I have so missed.
“Tristan?” I say on a gasp, pressing the iPhone against my ear, afraid I imagined the voice on the other end.
Quinn freezes beside me on the bed, and I give his forearm a small squeeze.
“Mia?” Tristan asks when I remain silent.
“Yes—yes, it’s me,” I stammer after clearing my throat.
“Oh fuck, it’s so good to hear your voice,” he says on a rushed breath.
“Yours too,” I reply, feeling a tad uncomfortable as Quinn stiffens up, obviously hearing our exchange.
“How are you? Where are you?” he questions, cupping the phone.
“Canada,” I plainly reply, not giving away my exact location.
“Everything okay?” he asks, and his concern touches me.
“As good as it can be, considering. How are you?” I quickly ask, changing the subject.
“Ah, I’m okay. I’m tough. Abi needs to stop telling you stories about me. She’s ruining my image.”
I chuckle, amused by his lame humor.
“How’s the pain in the ass?” he asks, tongue in cheek.
“He’s still a pain,” I reply. Quinn smirks, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
“He’s right here, hang on, I’ll put him on.” I pass the phone to Quinn, who happily accepts.
“Hey brat,” Quinn says with a smile, and I laugh at their exchange.
I can’t hear too much, but from what I can see, this is the first time in a very long time a genuine smile has spread across Quinn’s face. There is no doubt he loves his brother, and not seeing him is surely taking a toll on the both of them.
I quietly excuse myself because I feel like I’m intruding on a private moment only meant for Quinn and Tristan. Quinn doesn’t stop me.
I can only imagine the pain both siblings feel at being apart, as I know Quinn would do anything for his baby brother. This just affirms the fact we all need this to be over with soon, because I’m not sure how much longer we can all deal with this fucked up situation without one of us snapping or doing something rash. I came close, but I think I’m making progress. Well, I’m trying my best.
I brush my teeth and hair, then flick through a magazine. I think I’ve exhausted my bathroom stay, so I silently re-enter the bedroom and see Quinn pulling at his hair in frustration.
“Tris, just stay there, all right?”
I can faintly hear Tristan on the other end, and it’s fair to say he’s not happy with Quinn’s suggestion.
Quinn’s back is turned, so he hasn’t noticed my return as he openly says, “She doesn’t need you to protect her.”
No guessing who they’re talking about.
I purposely scuff my feet as I walk to draw attention to my presence. Quinn turns guiltily, but I give him a small smile as I take a seat at the dresser.
“Okay, sure thing. Here, tell her yourself.” He holds the phone out in front of him with a sigh.
I bite my lip and gingerly take it, afraid of what I’m about to hear. “Hi.”
“I’m coming to Canada,” Tristan informs.
“No, you’re not,” I scold, and watch as Quinn’s lips twitch.
“Why not? What good am I here? At least I can help protect you over there,” he says with a deep sigh, his feelings of uselessness radiating loud and clear.
“I don’t need you to, Tristan. You’ll protect me by staying safe where you are.”
He huffs, and I feel awful for being so harsh.
“Look, we’re in the home stretch now. Abi said her dad is working hard; it’s only a matter of time. Please, just stay put. Okay?” I reinforce when he remains silent.
“Yeah okay, fine,” he stubbornly replies.
“Thank you.” I sigh. “It’s bad enough I have one brother facing the death penalty.”
>
“Death penalty?” Tristan quickly asks, and I close my eyes, lightly slapping my forehead, totally fucking up and spilling the beans about Quinn’s kidnapping stint.
“What are you talking about?” Tristan presses.
“Nothing. Don’t worry about it,” I say, trying to brush it off.
I look at Quinn and mouth, “Sorry.”
He nods and waves a hand out in front of him, indicating not to worry.
“Hey,” I happily say, hoping to change the subject. “You got a pen?”
“Yeah,” Tristan suspiciously replies.
“Write this down,” and I rattle off the cell number. “You guys can contact me anytime on this number. The phone is untraceable.”
“Jesus. That’s some high tech, Batman shit right there,” Tristan says, parroting his brother’s earlier comment, and I’m thankful as I hear him scribble down the digits.
“Yeah, it sure is,” I reply, glad the derailment worked.
“I’ll talk tomorrow, okay? Oh, can you pass the number onto Abi also?” I ask, realizing Tabitha mustn’t be working today.
“No problem. Hey, Mia…”and Tristan pauses.
“Yeah?”
“I miss you,” he says sincerely.
Biting my lip, I look at Quinn and shyly reply, “I miss you, too.”
Quinn lowers his head, and I feel like I’ve done something wrong, but I shouldn’t. I tell Abi I miss her all the time, so why is this any different? I know the answer why, but I’m too afraid to ’fess up.
“Say goodbye to big bro for me,” Tristan says quickly, filling the silence.
“Will do,” I nod, looking at Quinn, who’s toying with his lip ring.
“Bye, Mia. I’ll see you real soon.” He hangs up before I get a chance to say goodbye.
I leave the phone pressed to my ear, realizing that real soon is not soon enough. I just want this shit to be over with. Tossing the phone onto the bed, it bounces onto the floor, but I leave it where it falls as I remain still, waiting for Quinn to break the uncomfortable silence.
But he doesn’t.
I can’t help but notice how uneasy he gets when I talk to Tristan, which is ridiculous, as we’re just friends. But being on the run and focusing on not dying has really made me blind to the fact that before we ran, Quinn was staying away from me because of Tristan. Tristan had a crush or something on me, but it was purely innocent on both our parts. Tristan never tried anything, as I think he knew I would have freaked out. But his last comment, back in South Boston, rings through my ears, and I know that the entire time, he knew something was going on between Quinn and me.
