Bewitching (25 page)

In the darkness, I swiped at my eyes and hoped I wouldn’t look like a raccoon at intermission.

After the play, Warner said, “Wow. You really liked it. We should go backstage and talk to the cast.”

“Sure.” I realized it was going to look strange to have Lisette recognize me when I hadn’t told Warner about her. I looked around, wondering for the first time where Mother and Daddy were. They must have been coming to Lisette’s play. I didn’t see them.

Backstage was a frenzy of scattered costumes and makeup, Rapunzel hair, wolf ears, and red hoods. First, we interviewed the drama teacher, who gushed about tech stuff we couldn’t use. She took us over to the boy who’d played the baker and the girl who’d played the wife. They were both talkative types and, in a minute, Warner had two pages of notes.

“That’s great,” I said. “You guys were wonderful. I think we have enough for a whole article.”

Warner nodded. I glanced around, not seeing Lisette anywhere. I was going to get out without them meeting! Warner took my hand, and we were halfway to the door when I heard her voice.

“Emma!” She’d changed out of her lacy Cinderella gown, but she had on a white dress, and her hair sparkled with some kind of glittery hairspray. She looked, as always, disgustingly perfect, like Cinderella at the ball. “You came to see me!”

“School paper,” I said, trying to make it seem like no big deal. I gestured at Warner, who’d gone silent at Lisette’s entrance. “Warner, this is Lisette.”

Lisette did a mock curtsey. “I’m Emma’s stepsister.”

“Stepsister?” Warner’s eyebrows rose. “You didn’t tell me she was your stepsister.”

“Emma’s a little strange sometimes.” Lisette turned to me. “Were you ashamed of me, Em, or of him?”

“What? Neither.” The room felt suddenly airless. “Of course not. I just … it never came up. You were never around.”

Lisette laughed. “Kidding, Emma, kidding.” Her tiny white hand brushed Warner’s shoulder. “Who could be ashamed of him?”

She said it like she thought I was, and Warner shook his head. “I’m still working on how she didn’t tell me you were her stepsister.” He looked at me, questioning.

“Sorry.” I knew it was weird.

“Hey.” Again, Lisette’s hand brushed Warner’s arm. “Do you guys want to come to the cast party? I can get you in.”

“No, thanks,” I said at the same time Warner said, “Sure.”

“Great!” Lisette patted Warner’s shoulder.

I had been so close to getting out of there. And now, here she was, touching Warner’s arm, touching my boyfriend. I wanted to—I don’t know—hit her like some girl on a reality show, screaming, “Keep away from my man, skank!” Of course, I couldn’t do that, so instead, I was stuck there with Warner and Lisette, my perfect stepsister, making me look petty and plain next to her. I loved him. She didn’t. But I knew it wouldn’t matter to her. He was mine, so she’d go after him, like she always took everything that was mine. I only hoped that, for once, she wouldn’t get what she wanted, that Warner knew me and loved me like he said he did.

Warner wrote down the address of the cast party. “Got it.”

“See you there, hottie,” Lisette said.

We never made it, though. We were halfway there, Warner casting me hurt looks because, apparently, he actually believed Lisette’s b.s. about me being ashamed of him, when I got a text from Mother. I stared at the phone, barely able to read the words because of the shadows of trees through the window, but when I did read it, I had to read it again and again.

Finally, Warner saw me staring at it and said, “What’s wrong?”

“Hospital,” I choked out. “My father’s had a heart attack.”

9

I never got to talk to him. By the time we reached the hospital, he was gone. It was over, and he never knew I still loved him, that I never stopped loving him. I never knew if he still loved me, but I thought he did. I hoped he knew I loved him.

My father was gone. It was over. Any chance was gone.

Of all the things Lisette did to me, that was the one I’d never forgive her for. She’d stolen my father, and I’d let her.

The weeks after his death passed in a blur of flowers and casseroles and friends we didn’t even know we had. I saw it as in a PowerPoint—me in a black dress, my eyes red as much from allergies to the flowers as from crying. My father, in his coffin, skin an unrecognizable yellow shade. Lisette, looking beautiful and sad in black lace, weeping, somehow still perfect. Warner’s hand closing around my freckled one, his other hand in Lisette’s.

The first concrete memory I had was of my mother, the day after the funeral. I was rereading
Vanity Fair
, like comfort food for my mind. I was on my favorite chapter, the part where Amelia’s family goes bankrupt and Dobbin buys her piano at the bankruptcy auction. I was crying about that, about the book, about my life, which would have been wretched—wretched—if not for Warner. Thank God for Warner. He called and texted me every day and brought me the work I missed at school, and he loved me. I started to dial his number, even though he was at school, just wanting to hear his voicemail. But then I heard a scream from the next room. Lisette!

I ran out into the hallway. It was my mother. She stood in Lisette’s doorway, her arms filled with Lisette’s clothes.

“What are you doing?” But I knew. “How can you do this when Daddy’s barely gone?”

“It’s in the will. Your father and I discussed it. I have to keep her here.”

I gestured toward Lisette, who was sobbing on her bed. “Then keep her here.”

“I will. But I don’t have to pamper her, don’t have to treat her like a spoiled pet, like your father did. That’s all over now. She’s a mean little brat, Emma. You know it. Your father fell for her act, but I didn’t.”

With that, she started downstairs with Lisette’s things. She was moving Lisette back to her old room, where she’d always wanted her. Energized by her hatred, my mother made trip after trip, taking clothes, stuffed animals, books, souvenirs of Lisette’s perfect life, with a vigor she’d never possessed before. All the time, Lisette sobbed on the bed, and I knew it was wrong. Lisette had been my father’s daughter, and now, both her parents were dead. He’d never have wanted this. I should have said something more to Mother, should have stopped her. I did nothing. I felt mean, mean enough to let this happen, mean enough to let it be payback for all Lisette had done to me.

Still, I shut the door to my room and pretended to read, holding my fist against the hole in my heart, listening to my mother’s footsteps, Lisette’s sobs, on and on. It was after midnight when it finally went silent. I heard it all.

The next day, I opened the bathroom door into what had been Lisette’s room. It was empty. Lisette was gone too. I had done nothing to stop it. Did that make me mean like my mother? Or did it just make me less stupid and naïve than the girl who’d wanted so much to be Lisette’s friend?

For my birthday, the next week, Mother gave me Lisette’s car. I explained to her that I didn’t need it, that I went everywhere with Warner. She said she didn’t care. She also said she wasn’t paying for any more voice or dance lessons for Lisette, wasn’t paying for anything that wasn’t legally required. Lisette didn’t even have a cell phone anymore. If she wanted those things, Mother said, she’d have to get a job.

“How can I get a job when I don’t have a car?” Lisette asked. “Will you drive me?”

Mother shrugged. “Take the bus. That’s what poor people do.”

It wasn’t that I didn’t understand why Mother hated Lisette so much. I did, better than anyone. But the idea of acting on my hatred was just foreign to me. I held it in.

She also gave Lisette a ton of chores, cleaning, laundry, straightening up after us. She fired the cleaning lady now that she had Lisette. I felt so bad for her that I started doing extra stuff, my own laundry, and once, I left twenty dollars on her dresser.

She slipped it back under the door. She wanted nothing from me.

Weeks passed. Sometimes, at school or when I was doing my homework, I’d think about Daddy, think maybe I’d talk to him when he got home, try to make things right. Then I’d remember I couldn’t, not ever. The feeling made a hollow in my stomach, like a cavity in a tooth. It was over, all over. I could never have it back the way it was.

I couldn’t even concentrate in school. All I wanted was to be with Warner. And yet, something was different between us. I felt like I couldn’t talk to him either. I felt distant from everyone, like they couldn’t hear me, even if I was screaming.

Then, one night, Mother and I were finishing dinner. We’d started eating in the dining room, the better for Lisette to serve us. I hated it. Lisette was clearing our dishes. That was when the phone rang.

“I’ll get it!” Lisette said.

I’d walked toward the kitchen to get some water. I heard Lisette whispering into the phone. I stopped. “Have you told her?” she said. “Well, you have to.”

A pause. Then she said, “Okay, I’ll see you later. But, if you haven’t said something by tomorrow, I will.” She hung up.

After she left, I checked the caller ID, but I already knew. It had been Warner. When I tried his cell phone, he didn’t answer.

I went and sat in my tree house, sinking deep, deep down, remembering how it had been when Daddy first built that house, when I was a little girl. It was May, and the wind whipped around me, turning my hair into hundreds of pins that stung my face.

Soon a car turned the corner, then waited in the street, hidden by tall trees. A slim, white figure emerged from our house and darted toward the car. Before she could get inside, a male figure came around, opened the door for her. It was a silver Civic. The boy and girl embraced. They kissed.

I turned away, pressing my face against the tree house floor, like I had the day Lisette arrived. As then, I thought if I could just stay in the tree house, maybe nothing would change.

I sat there for hours. What else was there for me to do?

10

The next day, Warner came to pick me up for school as usual. Except I knew it wasn’t usual at all. It was pouring, the kind of driving Miami rain that hits you like a bus. A wet bus. I ran to Warner’s car before he could get out. I started talking.

“Hey, some weather, huh? It was pounding on the roof all night and keeping me awake. There was a lot of lightning too. Finally, I just got up and read.” I was babbling, trying to prevent the inevitable. “It even woke Mother up, and usually she sleeps like the dead. She’s worried the pool will overflow and the house will get flooded. She doesn’t know how to drain it. Daddy always did that.”

I stopped, remembering. Then I forced myself to go on.

“But I think it will stop raining before that, don’t you?”

Even though I’d asked a question, I didn’t stop talking long enough for Warner to answer. I felt like, if I just kept talking until we got to school, he wouldn’t tell me about Lisette. He wouldn’t break up with me.

“So,” I continued. “I really like that book we’re reading in language arts,
The Book Thief
. I read ahead, it’s so good. I really love how the narrator is Death. It sort of gives a new perspective, I think. I mean…”

I was out of breath, and I had to stop talking, just for a second. In that instant that I stopped, Warner said, “Emma, I have to talk to you.”

No. No, please. I can’t lose this too
. “We are talking. We’re talking about
The Book Thief
. What do you think about it?”

He shook his head. “I haven’t started it, okay?”

“You haven’t? But what if there’s a quiz? I could tell you—”

“No! Emma, stop. We can’t. I need to talk to you about something else. About us. Emma, we need to, it’s not working out. We have to break up.”

“What?” I tried to look surprised. I was surprised even though I’d known before. It was surprising, wasn’t it? Lisette wanted him, but only to spite me. Yet I’d thought Warner was different.

“You’re not the person I thought you were, Emma, the sweet girl I thought I was in love with.”

“What? I know you’ve been seeing Lisette behind my back. Now you’re making this about me? Like it’s something I did?”