Dark Companion (18 page)

Was I letting paranoia affect my reasoning? The light here was so faint that she could have been at someone else’s locker or even at her own locker. She might have been freaked out when I surprised her and yelled.

But if she was trying to get in my locker to snoop or steal something of mine, then she might have been snooping around my cottage and broken (on purpose or by accident) the flowerpot.

But this wasn’t Hellsdale. After all, a store manager might watch you without thinking that you were a shoplifter.

I left the building and glanced back. The only lighted room was the chemistry lab. Mr. Mason was still silhouetted against the front window.

*   *   *

I was eating my dinner of scrambled eggs when Mary Violet called. “What are you wearing tomorrow for the soiree? Don’t answer that because I already inspected your closet and you don’t have any dresses.”

“I don’t know. I guess I’ll wear my cargos and a tee.”

“No,
all
the girls wear dresses. Did you know that my mother has a room like a museum where she keeps all our evening and special occasion wear? We should have a directory like in department stores, you know, Women’s Intimates, Third Floor.”

“Your clothes wouldn’t fit me, MV.”

“State the obvious, please! You’re about the same size as Agnes and she’s got dozens of dresses that she won’t wear.”

“Really?”

“
Really
. My
grand-mère
and all the aunties keep buying them hoping she’ll be more feminine, which is like, ugh, why do they need
her
to be feminine when they’ve got me?”

“Good point.”

“Come over tomorrow after school. We can get ready for the party together and then you can stay overnight. My parents don’t care what time we get home so long as no possums are killed between here and the country club. Constance is coming, but Hattie’s going out to dinner with Jack first. He’ll probably take her to that depressing old-people restaurant in town.”

“Are you sure? You keep giving me things, MV.”

“I know—isn’t it fabulous? Aren’t
I
fabulous? The answer is yes! Until tomorrow, darling!”

*   *   *

I awoke early and gathered all the things I needed for tonight. I didn’t have any heels, so I put the black flats and the ratty plastic sandals in a bag with my overnight things. Classes seemed interminable, and I bolted from my desk the moment the bell rang and hurried to meet Mary Violet and Constance by the front entrance.

MV skipped over to me. “JW, you will
not
believe the ensembles I’ve put together for you to try on. I will transform you into a mini-diva.”

“MV, repeat after me:
Jane is not a Barbie doll
. I’m not even a Bratz.”

“Jane is not blah, blah, blah. My mother told me I can’t dress like a courtesan. Courtesan is French for high-society ho. They could discuss politics and art and also knew techniques to make men insane with desire and lust.” Mary Violet widened her big blue eyes and puffed out her pink cheeks. “Can you imagine! Maybe I can discover their secrets.”

Constance moved a garment bag to her other hand. “MV, you should restrict your fantasies to entries in your Hello Kitty diary.”

“You are so unambitious. If you had been in charge of the space program, we never would have put a man on the sun.”

“We haven’t…” Constance began, and then smiled.

We rounded the drive and my friends waved and called out to all the other girls going home. It wasn’t until we were on the Holidays’ street that Mary Violet said, “Constance thinks that Lucky won’t ever fall dementedly in love with me. She thinks I’m too ugly and stupid.”

“I did
not
say that!” Constance narrowed her almond eyes. “I said you’re too girly-sissy.”

“That’s the same thing.”

“It is not,” Constance answered. “Jane, tell her it’s not the same thing.”

“It’s not the same thing.” I kept my tone nonchalant. “It’s okay that you’re a sissy. You’re really good at it. Exceptional even.”

Constance said, “Even if Lucky finally notices that you’re…”

“Fabulous and fascinating and sexy.” Mary Violet fluffed her hair.

“Sure, why not? Why would you even want to date the headmistress’s son? It would totally complicate everything at school for you.”

“Hattie dates the headmistress’s son, and you don’t give her grief.”

“That’s different. Hattie’s a Tyler. They’ve been here as long as the Radcliffes and the Belvederes. Mrs. Radcliffe couldn’t object even if she didn’t like Hattie.” Constance frowned. “Why do you care about Lucian Radcliffe anyway? He’s kind of…”

“He’s spectacular!” Mary Violet cried. “Jane, tell Constance he’s spectacular.”

“Lucky’s spectacular,” I said as if I didn’t care, but my heart was pounding. “Constance, he’s kind of what?”

“A little
too
perfect. He’s all polished surface, like a mirror reflecting what you want to see, and I seriously doubt if there’s anything below the bright shiny.”

“Con, you’re crazy!” Mary Violet said. “His manners are divine. Don’t you remember in sixth grade when the boys came to Miss Harlot’s School of Croquet? Jack put on his blazer backwards because he thought it was funny—”

“It
was
hilarious,” Constance said. “You laughed so hard you peed your tutu.”

Mary Violet’s cheeks turned bright pink. “We do not need to bring that up
ever
again. Lucky was the only one who bowed after a waltz. He was the best at the two-step.”

This was finally my chance to ask questions. “Has Lucky ever gone out with anyone at Birch Grove?”

“Frosh year he was a total womanizer,” Constance said.

“A cougarizer,” Mary Violet said. “He was going through all the juniors. Mrs. Radcliffe heard about it, though, and Lucky got sneakier about whatever he does. I always thought he’d date Hattie.”

Constance waved her narrow fingers like she was shooing away a fly. “MV, I don’t know why you find it impossible to believe that Hattie would choose an interesting personality over a pretty face, although I think Jack’s way hotter than Lucky.”

“It’s just that I’ve never sensed a real spark with Hattie and Jack. Where’s the chemistry?”

“Not everyone wants to have dramatic fireworks,” Constance said. “Jane, you must think we’re pitiful. We have so few guys here that we get worked up over the headmistress’s sons.”

We arrived at the Holidays’ house and went through the back entrance. Mrs. Holiday was in the kitchen swirling chocolate frosting on cupcakes. We all said hello and MV stuck her finger in the bowl of frosting to swipe a taste before saying, “Mother, dearest, we’ll be in the Wardrobe Museum.”

Mrs. Holiday gave her daughter a stern look. “You are not allowed to borrow any of my gowns. Nothing with a low neckline.”

“I know, I know, no displays of my décolletage.” MV winked at me. “That’s French for bodacious tatas.”

As soon as we were away from the kitchen, Constance said, “Mary Violet is still in trouble for wearing a halter dress to the Spring Frolic that was too scanty.”

“It was only a little side-boobage. Meanwhile, my mother does scandalous things like making pink cupcakes with Hershey’s strawberry kisses in the center of each one.”

“They tasted good,” Constance said.

“I had to close my eyes to eat them. We had an intervention and begged her never to make cupcakes that resemble her paintings.”

“No, you didn’t!”

“We did, and I recited my poem ‘Ode to an Artistic Mother.’” Mary Violet dropped her bag, and threw out her arms.

“Your cupcakes are tender and taste quite delightful

But please don’t decorate in ways most unsightful.

You zealously guard us from X-rated crudeness

Extend this policy to baked dessert lewdness

We celebrate all your creative expressions

But lady-parts cupcakes will cause insurrection.”

Constance and I doubled over with laughter, and Mary Violet huffed. “And she has the nerve to tell me not to dress skanky.”

“Please don’t ever change, MV,” I said.

“Only my clothes.” She opened a door to a room that was so astonishing that I stopped and stared. Clothes, shoes, and accessories filled shelves, racks, and stands like a boutique. There were full-length mirrors, and chairs and benches with pale blue velvet cushions. MV waved to a rolling rack with several dresses. “
Voilà!
That’s French for
Ta-da!
Agnes won’t wear these even though I tried to convince her that jocks glam up occasionally.”

“MV, this is amazing!”

“I know, although my mom locks away her couture in her bedroom.” Mary Violet fluffed the skirt of a sleeveless sky-blue dress. “What about this one?”

Constance liked a scoop neck with a peach-and-white geometric pattern. “This is cute. Try it on.”

When I stripped down, I made sure to let my hair fall over my shoulder and the scar, and I was self-conscious of my friends looking at my body.

Mary Violet said, “What an interesting tattoo! What’s the
H
for?”

“A friend of mine named Hosea, who got sick and died.”

“I’m sorry, Jane. Did you do the tattoo yourself?”

“MV, how could she do it herself on that place? She’s not a contortionist.”

“My friend Wilde did it for me. I lay down on the bed and she drew it in first and then used a homemade tat kit.”

Mary Violet made me describe the process. “How very crafty! Maybe we should all make a pact and—”

“No way, MV,” Constance said. “I will not ever get a tattoo of your face for any reason.”

I tried on a dozen dresses, wondering which one Lucky would like best. There was a blue print that was the same color as his eyes, and a dress that matched the teal shirt he’d been wearing when we met. Maybe he liked really sexy girls, and I pulled out a slinky black spaghetti-strap mini.

Mary Violet said, “An aunt gave that to Agnes for her last birthday. I thought my mother would have a heart attack, but it would be hot on you.”

“It’s not quite my style.” I eventually decided on a sleeveless emerald-green dress with a narrow cut and empire waist that made me appear taller.

My friends approved and Mary Violet said, “You can totally work the Audrey Hepburn–elfin-waif thing.”

“I never know what you’re talking about, MV.” I gazed at the shelves of beautiful shoes, all too big for me, and I was about to put on my flats when Constance said, “Wait!” She went to her garment bag and brought out a lumpy cloth sack tied at the top with a big red ribbon. “This is from us to you.”

I untied the ribbon to find a pair of sleek black open-toe heels. “How did you…” I began, touching the smooth leather. “They’re my size.”

“Well, duh,” Mary Violet said. “I told you I inspected your closet. We all pitched in.”

“Thank you.” My eyes welled up.

My friends put their arms around me and said, “Group hug!”

They helped me pick out a copper velvet evening bag and a copper cashmere shawl that was so soft I couldn’t stop stroking it.

Mary Violet’s younger sister, Agnes, poked her head in the wardrobe museum. She nodded at me. “That fits you just right. Keep it. I hate dresses.”

In a few minutes, I’d put on my makeup and fixed my hair. When I stepped into the high heels, I was suddenly four inches taller. Jack wouldn’t be able to call me any stupid pee-wee names tonight and I hoped Hattie would keep him from interfering with me and Lucky.

I practiced walking in the heels while Constance got ready in a turquoise-and-white-print dress and clipped up her braids with silver combs that matched her dangling silver earrings.

Mary Violet changed into a dozen pink dresses that all blurred into sameness after a while. Constance used her phone to snap pics of Mary Violet’s outfits and send them to Hattie. She was texting and grinning. “Hattie says you look like a Teletubby cousin, Pookie Pinkie.”

Mary Violet said, “That’s so hilarious,
not
! I look
fabulous
.”

Constance set down her phone and told me, “We can take pics at the party, but nothing incriminating or all of our TSGs will get taken away.”

“It’s draconian the way Birch Grove treats us.” MV twirled around. “How’s this?”

I squinted at the pink dress. “MV, isn’t that the
first
thing you tried on?”

“Maybe.” MV spent ages messing with her blond curls before letting her hair down as it had been when we left campus. When she was finished, she inspected me and snapped her fingers. “Jewelry.”

She wanted me to wear big hoop earrings. “Even Constance is wearing earrings and a bracelet and she’s practically a Puritan.”

“Jane, tell her I’m not a Puritan.”

“Constance isn’t a Puritan, and I can’t wear the hoop earrings because I don’t have pierced ears, and don’t offer to pierce them with a needle and a potato.”

“You can pierce ears with a potato?
Interesting
.” Mary Violet fastened gold bracelets on my wrists. “Okay, baby steps. Are we ready?”

We leaned our heads together so Constance could take a picture. I could ask for a copy of it later and keep it as a memento of a night that I would remember forever.

I looked, and had an acute pleasure in looking—a precious yet poignant pleasure; pure gold, with a steely point of agony: a pleasure like what the thirst-perishing man might feel who knows the well to which he has crept is poisoned, yet stoops and drinks divine draughts nevertheless.

Charlotte Brontë,
Jane Eyre
(1847)