“This is…wow,” I said. I turned around. There was another door, in the hallway across from the bathroom. I opened it.
I gaped again. A walk-in closet the size of the bathroom, with a full-length, three-panel adjustable mirror at one end, and multiple dressers, and floor-to-ceiling built-in slanted shelves for shoes. There were more shoes there than I owned. I blinked, looked at the hanging clothes. No, I didn’t recognize a lot of these. Most of these.
I turned to Mrs. Wentworth, who was standing in the doorway, beaming.
“Now Annabelle, I hope you don’t mind, but I took the liberty of picking up a few things for you,” she said. “I thought the colors would suit you, but if they don’t, we can exchange them. And some of your old clothes, well…”
Yeah. I knew what she didn’t say. Some of my clothes had seen better days. My dad had gotten sick a few years ago—cancer, but he’d beaten it, had been solidly in remission—and the medical bills, even with insurance, had been harsh. My parents had put food on the table and done their best, but we hadn’t had money to spare for luxuries, and if I had to wear jeans that had a little wear and tear, so be it.
I didn’t see those jeans hanging up. I saw new jeans, and shirts, and skirts and dresses.
It was too much to take in. Mrs. Wentworth stepped back so I could leave the closet.
“Thank you,” I said lamely. I wasn’t sure I could get any more words out. My throat felt like it was closing up.
“The pleasure is all mine, Annabelle, really,” she said. “You have a bright future ahead of you, and I’m truly glad I can help.”
I nodded, not trusting myself to speak.
“Dinner will be at 6:00 p.m.,” she said. “I’ll let you get settled in.”
I dropped my backpack on the bed and slowly sat down next to it. I thought about trying to take a nap, but I didn’t think I’d be able to sleep.
I felt numb.
Should I feel happy? I wondered. Most kids would kill to live in a place like this. This was an incredible opportunity, an insanely generous one.
The room felt too big, and I felt very small, and very alone. Even though some of my things had been displayed, it still felt like a hotel room to me. A really, really nice hotel room, sure, but certainly not mine. I’d lived in the same bedroom, the same house, for seventeen years.
I upended my backpack on the bed. I put my Kindle—a basic one, just for reading books—on one of the nightstands. Made piles of personal items I’d packed in case my stuff didn’t arrive today: toiletries and makeup, a change of clothes. I hadn’t expected to be gifted with so many things.
I got up, walked around the room. It was pretty, but not too girly. I might love dressing up and makeup and sparkly tiaras, but I wasn’t a fan of pink or frills. I ran my fingertips along the smooth wood of the bedpost, over the lacquered surface of a dressing table, on which a pretty grouping of delicate glass perfume bottles was arranged.
I unrolled one of my posters. Einstein in all his wild-haired glory, with the quote, “The important thing is not to stop questioning. Curiosity has its own reason for existing.”
It snapped back together when I let go to rummage around in the desk drawers. I didn’t find any tape. I wondered if Mrs. Wentworth would be okay with me putting up posters. I wondered what Taryn’s room looked like, if she had posters hung, and if so, what did they have on them? I had no idea what bands she liked…what she liked at all.
I took a deep breath. I’d show Taryn I wasn’t trying to take her mother’s attention away from her, that I wasn’t a threat. I’d be friendly; I’d engage her in conversation and find out what she was into. Surely we had some common ground, something we could talk about.
We might not end up being friends, but I couldn’t bear to think someone didn’t like me.
I’d start at dinner.
I left my other posters alone, grabbed my change of clothes, and went into the closet. I put the jeans, shirt, socks, bra, and panties on the chaise longue (blue with white pinstripes) and opened drawers. One was shallow, with spaces for jewelry. My jewelry box sat on one of the dressers, waiting for me. I touched the necklace at my throat, a small gold pi symbol with a tiny diamond chip at the end of the curve. My sixteenth birthday present from my parents.
Hot on the heels of the memories I couldn’t stop, the tears slammed up against my eyes, my throat. I pushed them back. The counselor, everyone, said crying was normal, natural, healthy. That it was good to let the emotions out, ride them through.
But I was so tired of crying. So tired of feeling.
I turned, looked into the trifold mirror, and put on my best pageant smile.
It looked wrong. I tried again, this time remembering to put the smile in my eyes. There were a ton of articles online about how to smile properly for pageants, and they all talked about the eyes.
There. That was better. I didn’t have the makeup skills to completely cover the half-circles from exhaustion, but oh well. The smiling made me feel a little better. Fake it ’til you make it, as they say.
I opened more drawers, trying to figure out where everything went. There were a few new bras and panties alongside my plain ones. No garish colors or fancy lace, but clearly more expensive, higher quality. I felt a little weird thinking that Mrs. Wentworth had figured out my bra size. Maybe Aunt Pat had checked one of my bras and told her. I put the set I’d brought with me in the drawer and slid it shut. It glided closed almost soundlessly.
I flipped through the clothes on hangers. The new ones still had tags on them, which was a good thing because most of them were a size too small. Although Mrs. Wentworth said she would provide for me, I really didn’t need so many clothes. I didn’t need her to spend so much money building me an entirely new wardrobe, and the idea that she was doing that made me feel a little uncomfortable.
Don’t get me wrong: I was thrilled to have it. My stomach gave little flips at some of the labels, some of the latest styles. I wasn’t even sure you could buy some of this stuff in our town, and wondered if she’d gone to the city or ordered things online or…?
I didn’t quite believe this was all for me. It still felt like someone else’s room, someone else’s clothes, and then I’d slide a hanger and find a familiar shirt, like the lipstick-red chiffon blouse I’d found at the nice consignment shop, the tags still on it, but at a fraction of the new price. I hadn’t even had an excuse to wear it; it was too fancy for school. As I slid it to the side, I caught a whiff of detergent clinging to it, and my throat closed up again, because it was the detergent my mom had used.
I leaned forward, pressed my face against the blouse, not caring if I got makeup on the delicate chiffon, and breathed in.
I don’t know how long I stood there doing that. There were two small damp spots on the chiffon when I pulled away.
Did Taryn have all these clothes, too? I could only remember ever seeing her in baggy jeans, oversized tops, shapeless skirts. Usually in neutral tones. I didn’t remember her wearing gothy all-black, but she wore enough black that I knew it was the wrong color for her: it made her skin look pasty and grey.
It wasn’t like I was judging everyone around me. I just thought people would want to look their best, and sometimes it was hard to figure out what the best colors were for you, or how to get your hair to smooth the right way, or whatever. Taryn just never seemed to bother.
My feet were silent on the carpet as I padded across to the bathroom. I moved the pile of towels to the wide lip around the bathtub, next to another pile (how many towels did one person need?), and sat on the cushioned stool in front of the vanity.
I felt like a kid in a candy store, I really did. I couldn’t stop picking up different brushes from the array—I wasn’t even sure what they were all used for, and I knew a fair amount about makeup—and the different products. All high-end brands, like MAC, Tom Ford, Anastasia Beverly Hills…Stuff I’d never been able to afford to play with.
This was going to be fun. I wasn’t great with
makeup, but I was always learning new techniques. And there was enough space on the counter for me to set my laptop so I could watch makeup tutorials, rather than having to look at them on my phone or run back and forth from my bedroom to the bathroom.
I would’ve started playing right now, but I looked at my phone and saw that it was almost six o’clock. I realized I didn’t know if we would be eating in the formal dining room, or if I should dress for dinner—or even what I should wear if I were to dress for dinner. I bit my lip. I didn’t want to disappoint Mrs. Wentworth.
Then again, she hadn’t said anything about changing. If she expected me to, I’d claim ignorance, apologize, and make sure it never happened again.
Still, I changed my shirt for a nicer one with a mauve floral pattern, brushed my hair, and freshened my lip gloss even though it would rub off when I ate.
When I left my rooms, I saw Taryn’s door was closed. I’d kind of hoped to walk downstairs with her, even if we didn’t talk.
Instead, I found my way by myself.
Four
Dinner was served in the breakfast nook off the kitchen, not the formal dining room, which was a relief. The room was still bigger than our dining room at home, but I was starting to get used to the idea that everything was more spacious here. It had the same color scheme as the kitchen: pale grey walls and white trim. The high-backed wooden chairs were covered in a grey-and-white patterned cloth. Framed art of orchards and fields adorned the walls.
There was a large glass bowl of salad on the table, along with a platter of baked chicken, and roasted asparagus. My stomach rumbled. I hadn’t realized I was hungry until now. Aunt Pat and Mrs. Wentworth and I had gone out for lunch after all the paperwork had been signed, but I’d picked at my food.
At each place was a glass of ice water with a lemon slice floating in each, and a champagne flute of bubbly, pale yellow liquid, which surprised me. My parents had allowed me a few sips of wine on special occasions, but given the way they’d died, alcohol didn’t hold much appeal to me.
“Hello, Annabelle,” Mrs. Wentworth said, putting a bowl of rice on the table. Seeing my glance, she said, “Riced cauliflower.”
Interesting. Sounded tasty enough.
A moment later, Taryn walked in. To my relief, both she and Mrs. Wentworth were in the same clothes they’d been wearing when I arrived. No dress code, then.
Mrs. Wentworth took obvious pride in her appearance, and I wondered why Taryn didn’t follow suit. I wasn’t judging her style…I wasn’t exactly even judging the fact that she didn’t have a style. But as long as I could remember, Taryn Wentworth had been dressing as if she didn’t know clothes could actually fit.
Mrs. Wentworth wore a pair of capri-length white leggings and a sleeveless teal knit shirt that was longer in the back than the front, creating an attractive silhouette. She’d paired that with strappy white sandals, a geometric gold pin and earring set, and a diamond tennis bracelet, plus several gold rings. She looked comfortable and cool and stylish.
I hoped I looked as good as Mrs. Wentworth when I was her age. Her skin was flawless and her hair, brown with slightly lighter highlights, was pulled up into a sleek chignon.
I took the empty place opposite Mrs. Wentworth at the square table.
“First we’ll say grace,” she said.
My parents hadn’t been terribly religious—they’d adopted more of a live-and-let-live attitude with a healthy dose of take-care-of-your-fellow-man-because-it’s-the-right-thing-to-do—but I respectfully bowed my head and murmured “Amen” when she’d finished thanking our Lord for the food we were about to receive from His bountiful hand.
Before we reached for food, she said, “Annabelle, I’d like to officially welcome you to the family.” She picked up her champagne flute.
I wanted to be polite, so I said “Thank you” and raised the glass to my lips, intending to fake a sip. Then I smelled apples and realized it was sparkling cider. Of course. Wow, I really must be tired.
“Cheers,” Taryn said, in the same disinterested tone she’d used to greet me when I arrived.
We served ourselves. Mrs. Wentworth sliced her chicken breast in half and scooted the other half to the edge of her plate. I tasted mine. A little bland, but not bad.
“Are you settling in okay, Annabelle?” Mrs. Wentworth asked after we’d had a few bites.
“Yes, thank you,” I said. “I’m still a bit overwhelmed. The clothes, the laptop…”
She waved a hand, dismissing my words. “It’s fine, really. I’m happy to. As for the laptop, you need something reliable to help you in school. I know you have big plans for college.”
“Fingers crossed,” I said. “Thank you, again.”
“Your future is important,” she said. “In fact…” She glanced at Taryn, who was focused on stabbing salad onto her fork and didn’t notice, and seemed to make a decision. “I wasn’t going to tell you tonight, just because you’ve had such an overwhelming day, but I don’t think I can keep it to myself any longer.” She was beaming, a bright pageant smile, and I saw why she’d gotten so far in the circuit. She was still a stunning woman.
I felt oddly nervous, and a little lightheaded as if my head had been filled with helium. I had no idea what she was going to say, and I almost wished she’d decided to wait, because I was feeling pretty overwhelmed.
“A girl had to drop out of the county pageant,” she said, “and I submitted your name as a replacement. Normally they don’t let someone in with so little notice, but because you’d been registered earlier, and given the circumstances that had caused you to step back, they agreed to let you back in. Isn’t that wonderful?”
I felt like I wasn’t handling life very well right now. I seemed to be in a permanent state of my mouth falling open. So attractive.
Before I could respond, Taryn said, “The question is, how much of a hand did you have in the other girl dropping out?”
In a flash, Mrs. Wentworth’s smile vanished and her head whipped around. “You shut your mouth,” she snarled.
I sat very still. The tension in the room rose, gummy and thick like the shower steam in the boy’s locker room after a football game. Which I know about only because I had the misfortune of being near the locker room door when it opened. Never again.
Taryn shrugged, unconcerned, and ate a forkful of riced cauliflower. A moment later, Mrs. Wentworth turned back to me. The moment had passed, so quickly that I half-wondered if I’d imagined it. I understood that there was a lot more going on here, issues under the surface, things I wasn’t privy to.
Mrs. Wentworth’s smile was back, and I realized she was waiting for me to react to the news.
“That’s…oh my God, that’s amazing,” I said. “Thank you. I’m in shock—I didn’t expect this at all. Thank you so much!”
I was honestly stunned. I had written off the pageant completely, and hoped once I got my footing again, I could enter another one—ideally as many as I could afford. I was counting on the scholarship money.
“Excellent. We’ll start discussing plans tomorrow. I have some ideas, a tentative schedule for what we need to do, but it’ll be better if we start when we’re fresh.”
“Sure, okay, that sounds great,” I said. My mind whirled. I’d forgotten the exact date of the pageant, but she was right, we had a lot to do. I hadn’t bought a dress yet, and that was the big thing. I had to find something I could afford—I wasn’t going to expect Mrs. Wentworth to pay for it. I had some money saved up. It wasn’t a lot, but if I could find something locally that fit, maybe I could find it online for less….
“Wonderful,” she said. “Now, Taryn, didn’t you tell me you and Annabelle had some classes together this year?”
Taryn’s head was bent towards her plate, and she looked up under her shaggy, long bangs with an expression that clearly indicated, I said no such thing. You already knew that, so don’t drag me into it.
“Three,” I said to fill the silence. “US History, AP English, an
d Psychology.”
“And Spanish,” she said, concentrating on stacking asparagus on her fork. She ate steadily, almost methodically. I still had half my meal on my plate.
“Oh, that’s right,” I said. “You sat behind me. That’s why I didn’t remember.”
Her gaze flickered to me this time. She seemed almost surprised.
Taryn and I hadn’t run in the same circles. She was smart, so she was in the AP classes with me, but where I took cheerleading and worked on the yearbook and was president of the Student Council, she…well, I didn’t know what she did, honestly. As near as I could guess, she wasn’t much of a joiner.
“Taryn used to compete in pageants when she was little,” Mrs. Wentworth went on. “I think you two competed in a few against each other.”
“We did?” I said without thinking, and then, “Oh…we did.”
I’d forgotten that, too, but now it fell into my memory out of some back cabinet in my mind. It was a vague remembrance, sure—after all, it would have been at least ten years ago. Something about us playing with dolls together, our hair up in pin-curls, possibly in our underwear while we waited for our dresses to be steamed. We hadn’t been friends, per se, but we’d fallen together the way little kids do when they’re around each other. A mutual interest in making up stories about Barbie’s adventures was all we’d needed.
Why had we stopped? Even after I’d stopped doing pageants, we’d gone to the same school. We must have been in different classrooms. In grade school, if you weren’t in the same classroom as someone else, it was as if you were on different planets.
I wondered when she’d stopped doing pageants. I could see why—and even as I thought that, I felt ungracious. It wasn’t her fault she wasn’t pretty. I mean, she wasn’t ugly, but you had to be a certain type, I guess, and you also had to have poise, and make a serious effort with your looks, and Taryn certainly didn’t have that. She wasn’t ugly. She was…plain.
Beautiful Beast Page 2
