Beautiful Beast

by Dayle A Dermatis

  I might not have panicked as much if Mrs. Wentworth hadn’t been there, to find out what my goals and workouts for the week were.

  “I’m on my period,” I blurted. I hated myself for lying, but I couldn’t admit to the junk food without incriminating Taryn.

  “Ah,” Carlos said.

  Mrs. Wentworth made a note on her tablet. If she was tracking my periods, good luck to her. They were erratic, although the gynecologist had assured me nothing was wrong.

  Carlos put me through my paces with an overall body workout. Mostly body weight, like squats and crunches and pushups.

  I caught a whiff of bleach as I stretched out to hold plank position. I fixed my gaze on a seam in the floor mats and kept my breath even, my back straight, my core in. I tried to keep my mind blank, to focus on me, but my thoughts wandered to Taryn, and our kiss, and the tentative friendship that was easing into a relationship.

  I didn’t know where it would go, or how long it would last, but I didn’t care. I wanted to enjoy it right now.

  The memory of our kiss made me start to smile, but also distracted me.

  “Watch your form!” Carlos said, but it was too late. My arms started shaking and I eased myself down to the floor.

  “Hm, a lot shorter than usual,” he said, glancing at his watch. “You need to focus, Annabelle. Focus is key.”

  “Keep my eye on the prize,” I said, and rolled over to do the next set of crunches, imagining myself wearing a tiara and sash to keep myself focused.

  Keep my eye on the prize.

  At lunch, Mrs. Wentworth berated me for announcing I had my period. “It’s not appropriate,” she said. “Better to say ‘It’s my time of the month.”’

  Without thinking, I said, “My mother taught me to use correct words, not euphemisms, when dealing with my body. I suppose I should have said menstruating, but period is in common use.”

  Mrs. Wentworth slammed her hand on the table. Everything jumped, including me. Silverware clanged, and drinks sloshed, although thankfully nothing spilled.

  “Annabelle Moss,” she said. “You are living under my roof now. I appreciate your mother’s opinions and I in no way think ill of her, but when you’re living here, you will comport yourself appropriately, and that includes your language. There may be pageant girls who say ‘period,’ or ‘menstruation,’ but are they the ones at the top? I think not. And I’d like to think better of you.”

  With each word out of her mouth, I felt smaller and smaller. I blinked quickly to forestall tears, not only because of her criticism, but because I’d mentioned my mother and the grief had punched me again.

  “I’m sorry,” I said.

  She nodded, satisfied, even though I hadn’t promised never to do it again. I felt conflicted. I absolutely didn’t agree with her; my mother was right. We needed to show bodily functions were normal, especially where women were concerned. To do that, we had to be open and speak freely about them.

  But I didn’t know where Mrs. Wentworth’s line was. While my parents had allowed me to debate them (and sometimes they changed their stance based on my comments), Mrs. Wentworth clearly brooked no arguments. If I pushed too hard, screwed up too many times, made myself unworthy in her eyes, she would back out of supporting me, and I could kiss my pageant dreams goodbye.

  I couldn’t imagine trying to do this on my own. My parents had left some money for me, and the sale of our house would be added to that bank account, which I would be able to access when I was eighteen. It wasn’t enough for a top university, but while it would go a good way to paying for dresses and shoes and makeup, I didn’t know how long it would last, or what else I would need, like a car.

  And, honestly, I wanted Mrs. Wentworth to be proud of me. She knew what she was doing. She’d achieved the dream I sought. (Okay, she hadn’t won, but she’d placed high enough that I was impressed, even if she would scoff at that.) She was the expert I needed. She saw me as a potential winner, as long as I worked hard enough.

  Which I promised myself I would do.

  Everything would be all right, as long as I kept focus.

  Taryn and I handled the lunch dishes. As we walked upstairs afterwards, the backs of our hands brushed together, and I felt a thrill of happiness.

  For the moment, everything seemed perfect.

  My evenings with Taryn changed. Instead of just watching TV, we were talking more. She was still reticent about talking about herself, but she occasionally mentioned things, and I trusted that would continue, and grow.

  We were very careful about touching, not wanting her mother to suspect anything. We sat closer on the sofa in our TV room, but didn’t hold hands or kiss unless we were in one of our bedrooms.

  (One thing I could say about Mrs. Wentworth, she respected the privacy of our personal spaces. By the same token, we weren’t even allowed in her upstairs wing, not that I could imagine either of us would need to go there.)

  Even then, we were taking it slow. Blanket forts were frequent, but we spent most of the time cuddling and talking, about everything and nothing.

  One night when we were hungry, we went down to the kitchen together for a snack. Fresh blueberries and fat-free Greek yogurt. It actually sounded really good to me. I was forgetting what sugary, sweet things tasted like. Weird.

  The kitchen was as we’d left it when we did the dishes after supper, except for the corkscrew on the counter. We made up our bowls, grabbed Diet Cokes as well, and Taryn turned to leave.

  “Shouldn’t we put that away?” I asked, indicating the corkscrew. Despite the unseen housekeepers, Mrs. Wentworth preferred things in their place in the more public areas of the house.

  She shrugged. “Nah. She’ll probably use it again tonight.”

  I blinked. “She drinks more than one bottle of wine a night?”

  She shrugged again. “Probably. She’s a lush. Wine, champagne, gin gimlets, you name it.”

  We headed past the closed door to the main floor media room. A little light seeped out from the bottom of the door, and I could hear muffled sounds coming from within.

  “When she really gets on a tear, she gets drunk and watches old pageant videos,” Taryn said. “She has every Miss America since they started recording it. She can sing every song they perform.”

  “That…okay. Everyone has their thing, I guess,” I said.

  “If she’s in a good mood, that is,” Taryn added. “If she’s in a bad mood, she starts pointing out every mistake the contestants make. At least she doesn’t make me watch with her anymore.”

  Sounded like how Mrs. Wentworth was with me. But that wasn’t about her moods, but about whether I’d screwed up for not. The better I did, the less she had to correct me.

  “I never would have guessed she was drinking so much,” I said, amazed. “I’ve never seen her drunk, and she never looks hungover.”

  “I imagine she has a magic mirror or some concocted brew to keep her looking young.” Taryn snorted.

  “Ha ha,” I said.

  “Let not talk about her anymore, okay?”

  I agreed. I could think of many more pleasant ways to spend time with Taryn.

  Twenty

  The next time we sat down to watch something, I suggested the movie Clueless. It was another one my mom had really liked, and I thought it was a fun movie, albeit dated. People really used to dress like that?

  I hadn’t really considered what the movie was about. I’d just been thinking about my mom, and missing her. It wasn’t the full-on grief I’d felt just after the accident. Instead, it was a sadness that felt manageable and made me want to do something that made me remember a happy time.

  And to share it with Taryn.

  My therapist had told me the five stages of grief weren’t a straight line from one to the next. I should expect to bounce between them, often in mere minutes. How long before my emotions settled? Different for each person.

  I still hoped how I felt right now meant I’d turned a corner.

  I sa
id all this to Taryn when she made a face after I suggested the movie. She grabbed my hands.

  “I’m sorry. I get it…well, I don’t exactly get it, but I want you to feel close to your mom,” she said. “And maybe I’m wrong about the movie. Don’t people say we should always try new things?”

  “Plus it’s based on Jane Austen’s Emma,” I said. “So it’s kind of a classic.”

  “Is it as good as Pride and Prejudice and Zombies?”

  I considered that. “No, but it’s still good—in a different way.”

  We started making fun of it almost immediately: the enormous cell phones, the slang, the music. Everything was going well, until we hit a certain section and I remembered: it was a movie about makeovers.

  And I knew how Taryn felt about makeovers.

  Our comments on the movie trailed off. We were still holding hands, but our rapport had vanished. I squirmed inside, wishing I could read Taryn’s mind. Did she think I’d chosen Clueless to make a point? Did she think I wanted to radically change her looks for my own happiness? Or was she just not enjoying the movie (I mean, I know it’s not the best movie ever), or, or…

  Or was this an opportunity to get some things out into the open?

  The movie seemed much longer now that I had to sit through it feeling awkward. When it finally ended, I muted the credits and tried to sound casual as I asked, “Well, what did you think?”

  She shrugged, eyes on the scrolling text. “It was okay. I can see why you and your mom liked it. It had some funny parts, and I’ve always liked Paul Rudd.”

  “It’s far from the most brilliant movie ever made,” I agreed. “Like you said, it has some funny parts.” I took a deep breath and mentally crossed my fingers. “One thing I like is that Cher likes to give makeovers because she gets ‘a sense of control in a world full of chaos.’”

  “The world is even more chaotic now,” Taryn said, now looking at me. “I see what she’s trying to say, though. Cher realizes she likes helping people, and that’s a good message. But I don’t see how makeovers are so important.”

  “For her, it’s a way she can help,” I said. “She knows fashion, makeup, and she can share that knowledge the way the Queer Eye guys do.”

  “Okay, fair enough, I guess,” Taryn said.

  We were at a crossroads. I wanted to say something, but I didn't want to offend her. I couldn’t take it if she got angry with me.

  I took a deep breath, blew it out, calming myself like I did before I went out on stage.

  “May I…may I make a suggestion? About…you?”

  Her brown eyes were wary, but she nodded.

  I gently tucked a lock of her soft, over-grown bangs behind her ear. “If you didn’t have your hair in your face, your skin would probably be clearer.” She stiffened, poised to shut me out or run away, but I quickly said, “I know why you wear your hair down. I know you’re hiding. I’m not trying to change you if you don’t want it. I’m just…” I blew out another long, slow breath and shook my head. “If you want.”

  She pressed her lips together. “I can’t change everything.” She gestured at herself, her long torso, her stocky legs. “I am what I am.”

  I leaned back, appraising her, knowing it would trigger that flight instinct even more but now I had to say my peace. “No, you can’t. You can’t force yourself into my body type any more than I can force myself into yours. But we’re built for different things. You’re built for power. Strength. I bet you’re a lot stronger than I am.”

  She snorted. “Hardly. You’ve had to go through losing your parents, and you’ve worked so, so hard for the pageants, and—”

  “I was referring to physical strength,” I said. “But you…you’ve survived your mother.”

  She pulled away, and the bangs flopped back over her forehead, down over her eye. “A makeover is not going to turn me into a beauty queen or make my life suddenly all sunshine and bluebirds.”

  I let my hand drop to my side. “I’m not talking about radically changing anything, including your life or who you are. And you know what? You’re already beautiful. You just hide it.”

  She snorted.

  “No, I mean it,” I persisted. “That pep talk you gave me before the pageant—” My throat tightened, but I pushed the words past it. “It meant a lot to me. So much. You didn’t have to do it. Most of the time you shrug and say ‘Whatever’ and push people away, but in reality you’re kind and thoughtful.” I waved my hand, indicating her hair, her clothes. “All this is something you’re hiding yourself behind. I’m not talking about changing you. If you wouldn’t be happy in fancy floral dresses and heels, you shouldn’t wear them. You shouldn’t wear or do anything you don’t want to, anything that doesn’t feel like you. All I’m saying is, you don’t have to hide the fact that you’re pretty, or caring, or anything. You should be proud of who you are, in all ways.”

  I realized how the movie fit here, too. “Like Cher realizes that she needed to makeover her soul. She was proud of everything else except that. You already have a beautiful soul, and you should never hide it.”

  I finished, breathing hard. I hadn’t expected such a speech to come spewing out.

  Taryn was silent for a long moment, her head tilted down and her hair covering her face so I couldn’t see her expression. She didn’t seem angry, at least.

  But my words still could have destroyed the relationship we were building together.

  When she finally raised her head, I was surprised to see tears in her eyes. She grabbed both my hands and squeezed them.

  “Thank you,” she said. “I mean it. That was…nobody has said anything like that to me in a long, long time. But the thing is, you’re right. I’m hiding.”

  “But…why?”

  I blurted it out before I realized how uncaring it sounded. If she didn’t want to talk about it, she didn’t have to. I opened my mouth to say that, but she beat me to it.

  “It keeps my mother off my back,” she said. “I stopped wanting to do pageants long before I matured into a body that wasn’t made for pageants. But you know my mother—she’s all about beauty. Making myself not beautiful means she finally just gave up on me, and that’s more of a relief than you can imagine.”

  “I think maybe I can imagine,” I said.

  “And then there was my dad,” she said.

  Oh no no no. Her dad hadn’t done something to her. Oh please no.

  “My mother made it sound like the perfect, fairy tale wedding: the beautiful beauty queen and her handsome, dashing prince,” she said. “I don’t know if it’s true, or if she just believes that. I don’t know if they were ever happy, or if they were, when things changed. I was seven when he left.”

  I relaxed a little. Not as bad as I feared. It might still be bad, but it wasn’t that.

  “I loved him, and I know he loved me. He was away on business a lot. I know she didn’t like it, and I didn’t, either, because he always missed my pageants. Turned out he hated the pageants. He thought it was awful to dress little kids up and slather them with makeup to make them look older, and force them to perform. I know, I know, some kids love it, and that’s great, except for the looking older part, which is still creepy. But when I stopped loving it, they started arguing about it. He wanted her to stop making me go, and she obviously didn’t want to.”

  “It’s not your fault they split up,” I said.

  “Oh, I know. They divorced because my father met someone on one of his business trips.”

  “Ohhh. I see.”

  Her mouth twisted. “No, you don’t. He met a man.”

  My eyes widened. “Oh.”

  Her smile was wry. “Exactly. My mother was, and I quote, ‘humiliated beyond belief.’”

  “Plus it goes against her faith.”

  “I think she uses that as an excuse,” Taryn said. “I don’t think our church is homophobic. Pastor Davison doesn’t talk about it directly, but he does preach that everyone is deserving of love and respect and he
lp. I think she’s just hiding behind religion so nobody blames her directly for feeling that way. It’s another way for her to play the victim.”

  “Do you ever hear from him?”

  She teared up again, blinked the tears back. “He tried to take me away early on, but Mom got me back. For a while I thought he would come back and save me, take me away again and let me live with him, but when I got older, I found out my mother had basically blackmailed him so she could keep me. She did it to spite him. I’m not sure she really even wanted me; she just didn’t want him to have me. The only good thing about the deal was that my father said he wouldn’t fight for custody if she agreed to stop making me do pageants.”

  “What a horrible position to put you in,” I breathed.

  “Yeah. If he’d fought for custody and won, I wouldn’t have to do pageants, but he wasn’t likely to win. Even I see that now. But still, my mother used to rant about it until I asked her to stop. She wouldn’t, so I would just leave the room, or put in headphones, and eventually she gave up trying to turn me against him.”

  “Have you tried to contact him?”

  “No. In the beginning he tried to at least talk to me, but if my mother answered the phone, she’d hang up on him, and if I did and she figured it out, same thing. If he’s sent letters, she must have gotten to them first. And she put the tracking software on my computer because she figured out I’d set up an alternate email account.”

  “All the more reason for me to hack your computer,” I said. “Plus, you can see him when you’re eighteen. Your mother can’t stop you then.”

  “Yeah,” she said, effectively cutting off that part of the conversation. She didn’t sound enthusiastic, either, and it was clear she didn’t want to continue talking about it.

  “So then I was left with nobody who loved me. Dad was gone, Linny was gone….”

  “Who’s Linny?” I asked.

  Taryn slouched back into the corner of the couch, hugging a maroon-and-tan woven throw pillow. I didn’t feel she was pulling away from me, but that she needed to protect herself from what she said next. If that makes any sense. I leaned back myself and twined my feet with hers, and waited. She’d talk when she was ready.