Beautiful Beast

by Dayle A Dermatis

  I certainly wasn’t going to ask her, that was for sure. We’d find something else, some other mutual interest to bond over. We were both teenage girls from the same town—there had to be something.

  I was just too tired to figure out what it was now.

  Dinner ended without dessert, which sort of surprised me only because I’d been used to it. My mom knew I was trying to stay in shape so she’d make mini-cupcakes or small cookies, some treat I could indulge in that wasn’t too much.

  Maybe Mrs. Wentworth or Taryn couldn’t have gluten—although there were gluten-free desserts, weren’t there?

  I helped Taryn carry the dishes to the kitchen.

  “You don’t have to do that tonight, dear,” Mrs. Wentworth said. “It’s okay to take some time to settle in.”

  Taryn shot her a look I couldn’t decipher.

  “No, it’s fine,” I said. “I need to pull my weight around here.” I positioned myself so when Taryn finished scraping the plates, I could take them from her and load the dishwasher. The kitchen was, like the rest of the house, big. The central island of dark grey granite had a prep sink, plus there was a faucet over the stove to fill pots rather than having to carry them from one of the sinks. The appliances were stainless steel and spotless. Copper-bottomed pots that looked as if they’d never been used dangled over a rack above the island, and there was a wine fridge and a separate pantry.

  It would take me a while to learn where everything went. I fully intended to pull my weight when it came to chores. They had to have paid help, but it was clear the dishes were Taryn’s job, and I’d assist with those until I was assigned different tasks.

  “Oh, by the way, Annabelle, could I see your phone?” Mrs. Wentworth asked.

  Puzzled, I wiped my hands clean on a dish towel, pulled my phone out of my back pocket, and handed it over to her.

  Taryn must have seen my expression, because she explained, “Parental tracking software.”

  The words didn’t actually explain much. I looked at her, then Mrs. Wentworth.

  “It’s to keep you safe,” Mrs. Wentworth said. Taryn snorted, but she’d just turned on the water so only I heard it. Her mother continued, “It’s not that I don’t trust you, of course. But there are so many bad things that could happen, and I just want to be able to get a jump on anything before it gets out of hand. Most importantly”—and she put a hand on my shoulder—“a pageant contestant must be absolutely above reproach in every way. We can’t have even the tiniest whiff of scandal, especially as you rise to the state and national level. Believe me, there are people who will try to dig something up, or even attempt to put you in a compromising position they can then capitalize on. One of my jobs is to make sure that doesn’t happen.”

  Holy crap. I had no idea. “Okay,” I said. “I understand.”

  “I’ll be back in a moment.” She swept out.

  For a moment, the only sound was the running water as Taryn rinsed the Pyrex pan the chicken had been cooked in. She set it in the drying rack, and I picked it up, dish towel in hand. She shut off the water.

  “You know that was all a bunch of bullshit, right?”

  Five

  I jumped and nearly dropped the Pyrex pan, I was so surprised Taryn was deigning to talk to me.

  I regripped the pan but didn’t start drying it. “It…was?”

  “Oh, maybe not all of it. You do need to be squeaky clean and perfect,” she said, focused on wiping down the sink instead of looking at me. “But she’s mostly doing it to keep an eye on you. There’s software on your laptop, too, FYI.”

  The idea did rankle me a little. For one thing, my parents had trusted me, and for another, I had my eye on the prize. I wasn’t about to do something stupid and throw everything I’d worked for away. I had a good head on my shoulders. If I had a problem, I’d known I could talk to them about it.

  But Mrs. Wentworth didn’t really know me. She was bringing me into her home, and if the price of that was to let her see that I wasn’t doing anything wrong, that I had nothing to hide, was that really so bad? What harm was there?

  “I’m sure it’s not that bad,” I said.

  Taryn was still facing away from me. One shoulder lifted in a shrug. “Whatever.”

  “But thank you for telling me,” I added, kicking myself for arguing with her. We all complained about our parents, right? We exaggerated, we bitched.

  Brittany Gruen’s parents always compared her to her older sister, never recognizing Brittany was nothing like Holly—and Brittany was quick to relay the story every time it happened. Emilia Lo’s mother kept buying them matching outfits. Madison Garner said her father’s cooking was the worst, insisting he was going to poison her or she was just going to stop eating.

  “Did she put the software on your phone and laptop too?” I asked.

  “What do you think?” she countered.

  “Taryn, I really don’t want to argue with you. I—”

  She turned around then, leaned back against the sink with her hands propped on either side of her. Water had splashed on her T-shirt, leaving darkened patches.

  “Annabelle,” she said. “Look. I don’t care whether you believe me or not. Believe whatever you want, do whatever you want. In fact, you’ll probably have it easier than I did, because you’re…” She waved a hand up and down to indicate something about me. “You’re the pageant daughter she wants.”

  “I’m not trying to get between you and your mother,” I said. “I don’t ever want to do that.”

  “Honestly?” she said. “It’s probably better that you’re here. It’ll take some of the pressure off me.” She pushed away from the sink and walked away. When she got to the kitchen door, however, she turned. “Just leave the pan in the dish rack,” she said. She hesitated, then added, her voice low, “And Annabelle, I’m sorry about your parents. I really am.”

  Then she was gone, leaving me holding the pan and wondering what the hell had just happened, and what I was supposed to do now.

  I made my way slowly back through the house. Lights were on in most of the rooms even though they were empty, but I supposed if you were rich enough to own a house like this, you were rich enough not to worry about the electric bill.

  The contents of the den drew me in. I guess it was supposed to be a less formal version of the formal living room, but compared to what I was used to, it still felt über-formal. White sofas and loveseats flanked three sides of a plain black coffee table, which sat on a burgundy carpet with thin white diamond stripes. The fourth side of the coffee table faced the fireplace, which had a black iron screen with the now-familiar rose design on it. A carved wooden bowl of potpourri sent the scent of roses into the air.

  The drapes were white with burgundy stripes, pulled open. The sun had recently set, so it wasn’t fully dark out yet. I could see the manicured lawn stretching away into the distance.

  What had attracted me to the room, though, was the far wall, which was fitted with floor-to-ceiling lighted white shelves. And those shelves were covered with trophies, tiaras, and framed photos.

  I went closer. Each tiara had a little calligraphed card with the pageant and the year. Local pageants. County pageants. State pageants. The biggest framed photo, in the center, was of Mrs. Wentworth as a runner-up in the Miss America competition, the pinnacle of all pageants, the one you dreamed about as a little girl. At least, I did. Sure, Miss USA got to compete in Miss Universe, but Miss America had the scholarships.

  Along with the photo on that shelf was a bouquet of dried roses preserved in a clear Lucite box. The same roses she was holding in the picture, I saw.

  A few shelves on the left were dedicated to Taryn’s child pageant days. I peered at the photos. Yeah, little Taryn looked vaguely familiar—in fact, that might have been me behind her in one shot. You couldn’t see the girl’s face, but she had blond hair and was wearing a bright blue dress, and I remembered having a bright blue dress.

  In the photos, little Taryn had big brigh
t eyes and a big wide smile. The pageants we’d competed in weren’t as crazy and over-the-top as the ones you see on reality TV. We wore a little bit of makeup, but we didn’t look creepy, like dolls. Our hair was pretty floofy, though. Taryn looked cute, and happy.

  Then, in the final photos—I could tell because she was a little older—her eyes didn’t look as bright, as if her smile were a separate thing, a mask over her real face. She was thinner, which made sense because she was losing her baby fat.

  My parents had told me back then that if I ever didn’t want to do pageants, we’d stop. I knew some parents, especially some moms, invested a lot in their daughter’s beauty careers and pushed them too hard. Was that what had happened to Taryn? But if that were the case, why did she seem so weird about me?

  I shrugged, turned away. In the words of Taryn: whatever.

  I wasn’t sure what else to do, so I headed to my room. Maybe I’d watch TV in our little media room (I wasn’t sure if it was little, actually, since I hadn’t seen it yet, but it had to be smaller than the one down here…right?), or just hang out online. Then I remembered Mrs. Wentworth had my phone, and I felt strangely disconnected from the world.

  But when I got to my room, my phone was on the night table next to my Kindle. I left the door to my suite open, in case Mrs. Wentworth or Taryn wanted to talk to me, then nestled back against the many, many throw pillows and thumbed my phone on.

  It didn’t seem to run differently, although I wasn’t sure what would be different. I hit my favorite tech blogs: TechCrunch and Wired and Before You Need It. I liked to keep up on new developments, because I wanted to go into computers or something related. Then I flipped over to social media to see what was up.

  I tweeted a brief update on how grateful I was to Mrs. Wentworth, then scrolled through Twitter and Snapchat. I thought about posting a picture, but I didn’t want to sound like I was bragging about my room or my stuff.

  I used to post all the time—all my friends and I did—but since my parents died, I’d gone kinda dark. I read, I looked, but I didn’t update. I hadn’t felt much like thinking about my life, much less posting about it.

  Mrs. Wentworth’s words had me thinking. I’d have to be more careful about what I said, what selfies I took. I didn’t think I’d posted anything in the past that could come back to haunt me…. I certainly hoped not. Crowing about getting an A+ on an American History paper or sharing a picture of me scoring a soccer goal wasn’t exactly sex and drugs and rock-n-roll.

  At some point, I must’ve drifted off, because my phone buzzed, startling me awake. My neck hurt from the way I’d been lying on the mess of decorative, nonfunctional pillows.

  It was a text from Aunt Pat, letting me know she made it back to the city okay. I hadn’t realized I’d been worried until I felt the relief. I still didn’t feel entirely comfortable when people I loved were driving at night.

  I kind of wished she’d called rather than texted. It was late, and she probably hadn’t wanted to wake me, but I missed her voice. Low and husky, but comforting like honey. She was pretty much the only person I loved right now.

  I mean, I’d reconnect with Brittany and Emilia and Madison, if not a lot this summer—they were in town and I didn’t have a car—then when senior year started. That seemed like a million years away, though. The summer stretched out before me.

  That reminded me. I sat up, sent a quick reply to Aunt Pat, then looked up when the county pageant was.

  July 4 weekend. Three weeks away.

  Suddenly I was buzzing, as if I’d knocked back three double-shot mochas. I had so much to do. Find a dress, practice my talent, figure out my hair and makeup, practice answering all the sample questions I could find…Thank goodness Mrs. Wentworth was willing to help me. I followed a bunch of blogs and websites about pageants and pageant prep, but there was nothing like solid experience. My half-remembered childhood competitions didn’t count.

  The full impact of the fact that I was even competing hit me like a freight train. I wanted to run around the room screaming—I certainly had room to do it—but I didn’t want to wake anyone. I looked at my phone again. It wasn’t that late, but the house was silent as a tomb. I went to my door, which was still open, and peered out.

  The hallway light was on, but Taryn’s door was closed and I couldn’t see if her lights were on. Ditto Mrs. Wentworth’s wing, across the landing.

  It was so different. In my old house, there’d been enough space for privacy, but unless you were in your own room with the door closed, you were bound to run into each other. You had to keep the TV down or it was audible in the bedrooms. That sort of thing.

  No. I had to stop comparing everything to the way it was before. This was my new normal, my life now, and I just had to get used to it.

  I still hadn’t gone downstairs to see the fitness room and pool. If there was a treadmill, maybe I could burn off some of my energy with a run. My unexpected nap meant I was wide awake now.

  I was halfway down the stairs, the house still silent, when I realized that what I really was, was hungry again. Okay, maybe not hungry, but I definitely had the munchies. So I headed to the kitchen instead.

  The media room door was closed, but I could hear muffled sounds behind the door. Someone was watching something. Probably Mrs. Wentworth, since Taryn and I had our own TV room. I decided not to bother her. I’d just scrounge a snack, head back upstairs—I hoped it was okay to eat in my room—and catch up on my favorite fashion blogs.

  In the kitchen, the draining rack was empty, and a corkscrew sat on the island, the only indications that anyone had been here since we’d finished doing the dishes. I opened all the upper cabinets, but there were only dishes, spices, and other ingredients, and several shelves of various coffees, teas, and sweeteners. The lower cabinets held more pots and pans and cooking paraphernalia than the Williams Sonoma catalogue.

  All the food was in the pantry, then. I grabbed the knob, wondering if the pantry was as big as my closet.

  The knob didn’t turn. I jiggled it. No, it was definitely locked.

  That was…odd. Maybe someone on the unseen staff had a sticky-finger problem. I shrugged, went to the fridge.

  And discovered it was locked, too.

  Six

  I woke up completely disoriented, and stared at the blue canopy above me for a few moments while the world came back into focus.

  My completely turned-upside-down world.

  The emotions that punched through me, one after the other, were like breath-stealing gut punches. Elation over the pageant opportunity. Panic over the pageant opportunity. Grief.

  Grief is a terrible, horrible, sneaky-ass thing, especially first thing in the morning. You wake up from a safe, warm cocoon and slowly drift into consciousness, and at some point you slide from oblivion into memory, and the memory is full of sharp knives and teeth that rip away the cocoon and slash into your flesh. You’re reminded—and you can’t get away, no matter how hard your brain tries to run away—that people you love are no longer in your life, and they will never, ever be in your life again. They are gone.

  Not moved to a remote Pacific Island with no Internet that you still could get to with money and planes and boats and a four-wheel-drive jeep. Not even moved without telling you where, because there’s always the hope that with money and time and private investigators and cameras, you’ll be able to find them, or someday they’ll return.

  Gone. No hope, ever. Never.

  I could never share my joy about the pageant with my parents. I was certainly nowhere near the place where I could fondly think of them looking down on me and smiling at my success.

  The other aspect of grief is that no matter how much it hurts, you have to keep on slogging. The world still demands things of you. Your body still demands things.

  In this case, it demanded I take it to the little toilet room in my bathroom. I spent a few moments opening and closing the door. My suite door was closed. Should I close the bathroom door? The toilet
room door? How many levels of privacy did I want?

  Finally I just gave up and peed.

  The next demand was hunger.

  Was breakfast a family affair? It wasn’t as if I could smell the bacon from this far away, and nobody had banged on my door.

  Then I remembered the locked pantry and fridge.

  What was that all about?

  I showered, using the luxurious high-end shampoo and conditioner and body wash I found in the shower, which had a rain shower head and a handheld nozzle. It was tiled with the same warm reddish-brown granite as the rest of the bathroom, but tiles with muted green ferns were interspersed, giving the space a jungle feel. It was big enough that I could stretch out both arms straight and touch both walls with my palms. Seriously, I could live in there. Although the bathtub, which I hadn’t tried yet, had its own list of positives.

  The whole bathroom was a girl’s paradise. I dried off with a cloud-soft blue towel, smoothed sweet-scented lotion, thick and creamy, on my skin before tugging on a pair of khakis and a white, short-sleeved light sweater. Both were new, and I thought Mrs. Wentworth would appreciate my wearing them. The khakis cut into my waist, but I could always change later.

  Taryn was in the kitchen when I got there, in a pair of baggy jeans and an oversized grey T-shirt with our high school logo on it. She was at the six-burner gas stove, cooking eggs.

  “Morning,” I said.

  She glanced up. “Morning.”

  “Oh, thank God there’s coffee.” The intoxicating aroma came from the coffee bar near the sink. I grabbed a heavy white mug, poured, breathed in the scent. I preferred it with milk, but I couldn’t stop myself from taking a much-needed sip. Smooth, rich. Heavenly.

  She paused. “Want some eggs?”

  As surprised as I was about her offer—and as good as the eggs looked, because she was scrambling them with green onions, spinach, and herbs—I said, “I don’t want to be a bother. Is there cereal?”