Mirrored

by Alex Flinn

  “I’m sure you’re being modest.” Violet’s stopped eating, watching me.

  I sit back down, finish my bite, take another. When I’ve finished the whole gross, goose-torture experiment, I ask to be excused. “I have a lot of homework.”

  Later, when I go to wash my face, the soap feels hot on my cheek. I throw it aside and rinse off the water.

  An ugly red welt spreads across my face. When I go to bed an hour later, it’s even worse. I finally fall asleep with an icepack pressed against my cheek. I put on Jonah’s music to take my mind off it.

  That night, I dream that Jonah and I are trapped in a burning building. He rescues me and takes me away, away from everything.

  The next morning, my face is normal, like nothing happened. Before I catch the bus, I look for Violet. Dad’s already left, and I want to remind her I’m sleeping over Laurel’s. Violet’s room is quiet. Maybe she left too.

  The bedroom is carpeted, so my feet make no sound. A light shines from the bathroom. Violet’s there. I can see her sitting at her vanity. In her hand, she holds a mirror, a big, round, silver one with a long handle. It’s beautiful. There’s a mirror over the sink, of course. Maybe she’s trying to see the back of her hair. But no. As I stand there, staring, she speaks.

  To the mirror.

  “Mirror, mirror, in my hand, who is the fairest in the land?”

  Who’s the most batshit crazy?

  I bolt from the room, but not before I think I hear the mirror say something back.

  Now who’s crazy?

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  5

  We have a read-through after school that day. The second Laurel and I reach the auditorium, Goose runs to meet us.

  “Please, suh, can I have some maw?” he says in a British accent.

  I recognize Oliver’s famous line and smile.

  “Knew you’d be perfect for it,” he says. “I practically discovered you.”

  “And how did you know that?” I try to give him some attitude—I’m a drama geek now.

  “All right, you caught me. I threw you under the bus so I didn’t have to play a little kid. I hate playing kids.”

  I nod. I get it. The same reason I hate playing princesses—typecasting.

  “Anyway,” he says, “enough chitchat. When Connors calls roll, say ‘chop’ instead of ‘here,’ okay? And pass it on.”

  “Why?” Laurel says.

  “Everyone’s going to do it.”

  “That sounds like those bad antidrug videos they make us watch in homeroom.” Laurel puts on a stoner voice. “Hey, man, everyone’s doing it.”

  “I’m sure this isn’t going to end with one of us OD-ing on pot brownies.” I look at Goose. “Right?”

  “Right. So you’re in?” When we nod, he runs off to tell other people.

  When Mrs. Connors calls the first name, the guy playing Fagin answers, “Chop.” Mrs. Connors looks a little uncomfortable but calls the next name, Willow something. The girl playing Nancy answers, “Chop.” Then me, Bill Sikes, Mr. Bumble, all the way down to the chorus.

  As the last name is called, all the older drama students yell, “Timber!” and pretend to fall on the floor like trees. They pull us uninitiated people down too. Mrs. Connors rolls her eyes and looks right at Goose. He grins at her, and she starts laughing too.

  After the read-through (during which my Cockney accent is roundly ridiculed in case I was getting too full of myself), Goose comes up to me again. “How’s J.P.?”

  “Still unaware of my existence,” I say. And my identity as his future bride.

  “I heard one of his songs on the radio last night.”

  “Oh, really?” I hold my breath. Guys just looove to say that Jonah sings like a girl. Obviously, they’re jealous, but it’s still annoying.

  But Goose says, “That song, ‘Beautiful but Deadly,’ it’s pretty scathing social commentary about society’s attitudes about appearance. I wasn’t expecting that.”

  “Yes! Exactly! Most people don’t get that. At least, most guys.” Is he making fun of me?

  “Guys like to hate on rock stars because they get all the girls. Me, I’m more confident in myself.”

  “I can see that.” I smile. “You should go to his concert. Lots of girls to choose from.”

  “I’d probably get trampled by hundreds of screaming women. Not a bad way to go, though.”

  Laurel interrupts. “My mom’s here. You ready?”

  “Sure.” To Goose, I say, “Concert tickets go on sale tomorrow. You’d probably be the only guy there. Big advantage.”

  “Good tip. By the way, if you need help with your accent—not that it’s bad or anything—you could come over after school. My mom likes this British soap called EastEnders, and sometimes, we all speak in Cockney at dinner, just for fun.”

  “That does sound fun.” A lot more fun than watching my parents make out. “I may take you up on that.” Even though he obviously thinks my accent is bad.

  “He’s really nice,” I tell Laurel as we leave.

  “OMG,” Laurel says. “You didn’t actually buy that stuff he said about J.P. Guys do not listen to Jonah Prince. He’s either making fun of you, or he’s a total horndog and using Jonah to flirt. Like he’d be your type.”

  I guess she means because I’m pretty and he’s short. Because, apparently, being beautiful automatically makes a person shallow. Like Violet.

  “I don’t know that I have a type.” I don’t like what Laurel is implying. Plus, it seems like she’s judging Goose by his looks as much as people judge me by mine. I don’t like to think that’s true so I say, “Besides, I think he’s dating Willow.”

  Goose has stopped to wait for her. I go back to him. “Say, Goose, what was your favorite part of the song you listened to?”

  He thinks a second. “There were lots of parts I liked.”

  Laurel’s nodding like, sure.

  “Well, what was one part?” I ask, testing him, hoping Laurel’s not right.

  He thinks another second, then starts to sing:

  If I could see you through your eyes;

  And you could see me through mine;

  The world would change for the better.

  Only then could we feel love divine.

  His voice is strong and mellow. He looks away as he sings, like he’s suddenly shy about it. For a second, it’s like Jonah’s there, singing to me.

  When he finishes, we just stand there, silent. Then he coughs. “I don’t think I remember any more of the words—but I remember I liked it!”

  I laughed. “It’s okay. That’s my favorite part too.”

  Willow/Nancy comes up to us. “I didn’t know you were such a Jonah Prince fan.”

  “I’m full of surprises,” Goose says. “You ready?”

  “I am,” she says. “My mom says it’s fine if I come over on a school night, since I told her it was to watch EastEnders for the play.”

  “Great.” He offers her his hand. “Your chariot awaits.”

  Willow leans in and kisses him. Then they walk off together. I give Laurel a look, like, See? because Goose and Willow are obviously a couple. She’s also tall, at least six inches taller than I am, so they make an interesting one.

  “See you guys Monday,” I say.

  “Have fun buying tickets,” Goose says.

  When I get to Laurel’s mom’s car, I text my dad to remind him I’m staying over. He doesn’t reply. He doesn’t care, of course, since it will give him more time to stay with his beloved, completely insane, Violet.

  UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

  HarperCollins Publishers

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  6

  Our fan club membership, plus incredible persistence on four different devices, gets us floor seats! After that, we get every calendar we can find (wall, cell phone, the agenda books they give us at school—the ones with inspirational quotes like, “If you reach for the moon, even if you miss, you’ll land among the stars”—which isn’t even accurate) and write countdowns on them. We start a series for Tumblr and Instagram too. One hundred thirteen days exactly. We plan to cross off each day together, to share the anticipation.

  We sit at the kitchen table, and while Laurel’s mom makes us eggs, plan the entire day out. “What should we wear?” I ask.

  “We could get T-shirts.”

  “But then we’ll look like everyone else.”

  “I know! I know!” Laurel starts jumping up and down in her seat. She’s so cute. “We could make T-shirts. That would really get his attention.”

  I try not to sigh. My fantasy of meeting my future husband does not involve looking like a screaming fangirl in a shirt that says Waiting for My Handsome Prince in glitter. I read once that Elvis Presley fell in love with his wife because she didn’t think he was that big a deal. Her parents even threatened not to let her see him anymore when she broke curfew. Talk about hard to get. It’s bad enough my only shot at meeting Jonah is at a concert. I have no idea how I’ll get him to notice me, short of a miracle where his eyes meet mine across a crowded basketball arena, and he just knows. Still, I plan on leaving in his private limo. It’s destiny. I believe in destiny, so why not?

  “T-shirts are unflattering,” I tell Laurel. “We should be different, rock some really fabulous outfits. We have months to plan and budget.”

  “Oh, okay.” She looks sort of surprised. I don’t usually show much interest in fashion. “So you’re going to buy clothes that fit and stuff?”

  “Yes. Okay. Hey, we could make signs. You’re great at that artsy stuff.” Signs are part of my master plan to get him to notice me. I had this idea about putting a line from the poem, “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock,” which I read is Jonah’s favorite poem. How cool is it that he has a favorite poem? I thought about putting, “Dare to eat a peach,” which is about taking chances. Or “Dare disturb the universe,” which is about not being afraid to be controversial. No one else would know what it meant, just Jonah. He’d get that I’m more than a fangirl—I’m his soul mate. It would be like secret code. I decided not to tell Laurel that yet in case—you know—she thinks I’m crazy. Maybe I’m a little crazy, but you can’t win if you don’t try.

  Over breakfast, while Mrs. Mendez reads the newspaper, we discuss colors. “Jonah’s favorite color is purple,” Laurel says, “so we should use purple poster board.”

  “Won’t everyone use purple because it’s his favorite color?”

  “Pink and purple?” Laurel amends.

  I guess peach would be a bit much. I’m not even sure if they make peach poster board. Orange isn’t the same. “Dare to eat a peach” is probably too weird anyway.

  We decide to make two signs.

  “What will yours say?” Laurel asks.

  Suddenly embarrassed, I say, “I’m not sure yet. Maybe we shouldn’t make it right away. It might get ruined.”

  Laurel nods. “The glitter will fall off.”

  “Last time I used glitter for a school project, Violet’s lame-o cat, Grimalkin, rubbed against it, then licked herself. She yakked up glitter all over my bed, and all Violet cared about was whether the cat was okay.”

  “Grimalkin?” Laurel’s mom looks up from the paper. “She still has that cat?”

  “As long as I’ve known her, I guess.”

  “She used to talk about that cat in high school,” Laurel’s mom says. “I remember the weird name.”

  I forgot that Laurel’s mom had known Violet in school. But that was a long time ago. I remember Dad had his twenty-year reunion a few years ago. So unless Violet got the cat on the last day of high school, it would be even older than that. “It must be a different cat. Cats don’t live that long, do they?”

  “Probably not. It was a white cat, I remember, solid white. She had a picture of it in her locker. We thought that was so . . .” Her voice trails off.

  “You can say it. So weird.” Violet’s cat, Grimalkin, is white. It doesn’t seem that old at all, though. “Maybe she just gives all her cats the same name, like Lisa on The Simpsons.” Violet is exactly that weird.

  “Let’s make the posters here,” Laurel suggests. “That way, Grimalkin Five won’t eat the glitter.”

  I giggle. I know mine will be purple and gold, colors of royalty. But I’ll wear peach to stand out from the throngs of girls wearing purple.

  Sunday afternoon, Dad shows up at Laurel’s house, unannounced. I gather my belongings . . . slowly and come to the door when Mrs. Mendez calls my name for the third time.

  “Hey,” he says when I’m in the car. “We missed you.”

  “Really? I thought you and Violet liked having alone time. It gives you a chance to make out. Constantly.” Since Violet stopped liking me, it seems like my dad and I never do anything together, so this was one of the few chances I had to talk to him alone.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means no one’s parents do that. It’s super-weird and makes me uncomfortable.”

  “I don’t think that’s true.” His arm sort of flexes, holding the wheel.

  “Did you see how mad she was that I got the lead in the play? She practically burst into flames when I told her. She’s never happy when anything good happens to me.”

  “Hey, wait, what’s bringing this on?”

  “She hates me. She’s jealous. Or I remind her of Mom.”

  “That’s crazy. You look much more like me.”

  His answer is so immediate that I know he thought about it before. I decide to ask him the question I’ve been wondering about.

  “Why didn’t you marry her in the first place? Why did you choose Mom?”

  He brakes to avoid a squirrel that runs in front of our car. I pitch forward. Silence. Or as silent as it can get in our neighborhood with a lawn mower going, a small dog yapping its head off, all the tranquil joys of suburbia.

  Finally, he says, “Believe me, that’s a sore spot for Violet.”

  “I bet it is.” It’s like I thought. She hated my mother for taking Dad. And that’s why she hates me.

  “I’m afraid I wasn’t very nice to her. We were friends, always together, and then, one day, I just . . . stopped. I knew Violet had a crush on me, but she was sort of homely and I just wanted Jennifer. There was never a time when I didn’t like your mother. Jen was so pretty, so much more outgoing and confident than I could ever be. And, since she hated Violet’s guts, I had to choose.”

  Wait. I want to rewind to the part where he said Violet was homely.

  “You’re saying you dumped Violet because she was ugly? Ugly?”

  “Well, not dumped her. We weren’t dating.”

  “But Violet was ugly?”

  He shrugs. “I guess she was a late bloomer.”

  “So she had acne? Or was overweight?”

  “No, not that. A bad nose and stuff. Not much of a chin. I don’t know, she was homely. Everyone made fun of her. Stop asking me about it.”

  I feel a twinge of pity for poor Violet, ugly and with one friend, my dad. Then he ditched her for the pretty cheerleader. I push back the feeling that my mom was a mean girl. But I remember what Violet said about the cat being her best friend when she was a teen, what Laurel’s mom said about her even having pictures of the cat in her locker, probably to get her through the day when everyone picked on her. It was sad.

  But Violet isn’t sad and pathetic anymore.

  “No. What happened? Did she get plastic surgery?” I always knew Violet had wo
rk done.

  Dad looks surprised. “No. I mean, I don’t think so. She was just pretty in high school. It was sort of weird. Like one day I looked at her, and she wasn’t ugly anymore. I don’t know.”

  I shake my head. “You get that Violet is, like, the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen?”

  “I know. Some people are just late bloomers, I guess.”

  “You said that before.”

  We’re in our driveway. Dad says, “Want to go out with us for pizza?”

  I throw open the car door. “Not really. I ate at Laurel’s. And I have homework.” Both are lies. I start toward the house.

  Dad follows me. “Hey, I think we should eat one meal together the whole weekend.”

  I keep walking. Violet intercepts him, kissing him. I start upstairs.

  When I reach the steps, stupid Grimalkin throws herself at my legs, claws out, and rakes them down my calf.

  “Ouch!” Reflexively, I kick at the cat to get her off me.

  “Don’t do that!” Violet shrieks. “She’s old!”

  “She attacked me out of the blue!” I scream back. Like when that monkey went after my mother.

  The cat ran—ran like a kitten—toward Violet and rubbed against her legs.

  After they leave for dinner, I go to Dad’s closet, to a box where he keeps old yearbooks and stuff. I used to love looking at the photos of Mom and Dad, power couple. Mom was so beautiful in her dance team uniform and her homecoming dress. I never looked for pictures of Violet before.

  First, I check the high school ones. Violet’s there, tall and beautiful as expected, star of the school play in a big black-and-white picture, and on the dance team. The pictures could have been taken yesterday. Nothing has changed except her poufy 1980s hairstyle.

  But when I look further back, to eighth grade, the name, Violet Appel, reveals an awkward, hunched girl with a crooked nose, an overbite, and no eyelashes. I only recognize her from the name.

  In a group photo, with the middle school choir, she stands in front, one of the shortest.

  In the high school dance team photos, tenth grade Violet is in the center of the back row, statuesque and beautiful.