Mirrored (7 page)

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

..................................................................

1989

Over the next few years, I changed everything about myself. Everything I could, at least. My hair. The color of my eyes. My height. By seventeen, I was beautiful, tall with the body of a
Sports Illustrated
swimsuit model, strawberry blond hair that never got messy, and eyes the color of lavender dish soap—or, well, violets. I hadn’t had a zit in four years, and even little details like the amount of space between my eye and my eyebrow (ideally the size of another eye) or my philtrum (the area between lips and nose—ideally about fifteen millimeters) didn’t escape my notice. I was Pygmalion to my own Galatea, every part sculpted perfectly.

No one cared.

Or noticed.

I also developed talents, as Kendra had suggested. I could sing
like Celine Dion, dance like Janet Jackson. I used these abilities in school musicals and on the Cougarettes dance team. I was so talented they couldn’t reject me even if they hated me.

Which they did.

It wasn’t as overt now. I wasn’t ridiculed, not usually. But even though strange men, and even women, approached me on the street to beg me to visit their modeling agency and new boys at school asked me on dates, I had no one to love me, no one I wanted. And, at the end of Cougarettes practice, when the popular girls got into their cars to go to the mall together, have dinner together, do homework together, I was the only one stuffing my pom-poms into my backpack alone. And watching Jennifer leave with Greg.

Yes, after all this time, they were still together. It was the one high school relationship that lasted longer than a rock star’s marriage. They were voted Cutest Couple in middle school, and they’d be in this year’s yearbook too. Greg was the star wide receiver, recruited by colleges. Jennifer was on dance team, at his side after every game. They belonged together.

And, of course, Jennifer got everyone else to hate me, just like she always had. Maybe now that I was beautiful, she saw me as a threat. Greg didn’t care what a bitch she was. He didn’t even know I was alive.

And yet, I still wanted to change Greg’s mind, engineering ways to run into him without her. I tried different routes to my classes at school until I found ways to cross his path, just so I could say hello or look at him. I should have moved on, but moving on wasn’t a thing with me.

Once, I passed him walking home from school. Greg had no car, but Jennifer had one, so she drove him most days, after her dance team practice and his football. But Wednesdays, she had Student Council (yes, I’d memorized their schedules), so Greg walked.

I had a car, a little, blue Mazda Miata convertible I’d gotten for my sixteenth birthday. My mother was generous now that she was proud of me. Every Wednesday, I drove slowly from school, stalking Greg, fantasizing about offering him a ride. But, usually, someone else gave him one. After all, he was popular.

But that day, it happened.

As a bonus, it was raining, a sun shower that promised to get harder. Leaving the school parking lot, I saw Greg jogging toward home.

I pulled alongside him, onto the grass. “Want a ride?”

He wore black athletic shorts and a green tank top that showed every wet muscle. I longed to run my hands over him, to touch the hardness of his perfect body, the softness of that crow-black hair I’d loved since I was ten.

At first, he didn’t seem to recognize me. He approached the car, squinting in the sparkly sun-rain. I smiled, showing my kissably puffed lips and that philtrum. I shook my hair a little. “Hey.”

He backed away. “Oh . . . Violet. It’s you. I probably shouldn’t.”

I feigned confusion. “Why not? It’s awfully wet out.”

“Yeah, I know.” He was getting soaked.

“It’s dry in here.”

He was thinking about it. His hand approached the door handle. I wished I could control his mind.

“Why don’t you sit in the car while you’re working out the deep, philosophical problem of whether to accept a one-mile ride from an old friend.”

He pulled his hand back a little. Way to go, Violet. But he looked at me, stared at me, actually, like he was seeing me for the first time. I parted my lips, knowing I finally had a tool, a tool more powerful than magic I could use on him. I stared back at him, lowering my eyelids. “We used to be such good friends, Greg.” Showing my straight,
white teeth. I was harmless. Beauty was always trustworthy. “Don’t you remember?”

“Oh, yeah.” A gush of air. He opened the door, letting the rain in, and himself. “I remember. You’re right. It’s stupid.”

I tried not to grin. “You’re getting the seat wet. Let me . . .”

I pulled a towel from my dance bag and began wiping at the seat, just the seat at first. “Let me get the other side too.” I leaned across him, trying to touch him but make it look accidental. Like me, he’d become more beautiful each day. His arms were sculpted bronze ropes, and after I dried the visible expanse of seat, I began using the towel to stroke each muscle. “Sorry. My mom will kill me if anything happens to the leather.”

“It’s a great car.” His voice sounded strained, as if he was struggling to keep it even. “You’re really lucky.”

“Yeah, my mom and I have been getting along better. Let me get behind you.” I got real close to his ear.

“What?”

“Your back.” I caressed it, moving him forward. “Let me dry it.”

“Sorry.” He obliged, and I dried behind him. We were close, closer than I’d been in so long. I felt a little breathless, but I tried not to let him know that my pulse was racing. I could have kissed him if I’d wanted. But I knew I shouldn’t. Get him to trust me first. I dried the seat and his back, leaning close enough that my long hair brushed his chest as I did. I didn’t dare touch his chest, his legs, on purpose. I wasn’t that confident. But I dried his shoulders, his neck. He didn’t try to take the towel from me. Was it because he trusted me or because, as I hoped, he didn’t mind my touching him. My arm brushed his, and I felt his muscles stiffen.

“Guess that’s good enough.” I handed him the towel. “Let’s go.”

I pulled out. The car was tiny, and it had a manual transmission, which meant every time I used the stick, my hand was practically in
Greg’s lap. His legs were long, so there was barely room to move.

“That was a great kickoff return touchdown you made the other day against Bradford,” I said.

“Oh, you saw that?” But he looked pleased.

“Well, of course. I was there on the dance team. Remember?”

“Yeah. It doesn’t always seem like those girls are watching the game.”

He meant Jennifer. I grinned. “I watch you all the time, Greg. Of course I do. You’re, like, the whole team.” We approached a stop sign, and I downshifted, my hand brushing his leg as I did. “It’s beautiful to watch you play, the way you got around those guys. It was . . . poetry.”

“Wow. Thanks. That’s really flattering.”

“Doesn’t Jennifer watch you?” Was I pushing my luck?

But he said, “Yeah. I mean, of course she does. She’s my girlfriend. She just doesn’t always seem to understand it. I guess football’s complicated.”

Which was why thousands of drunks could understand it. “Well, it’s nice that she tries.”

“Sure.” He actually looked a little unsure.

What do you even like about her?
But I didn’t ask. “Well, I thought you were wonderful, a hero. And I heard there was a scout at the game.”

He looked down, embarrassed. “Well, yeah, it’s not really big colleges. Division Two.”

“Are you kidding? Do you know how many guys would kill to be scouted by anyone? Your dad must be so proud.” I patted his arm, loving the warmth of him under my hand.

He grinned. “Yeah. Yeah, he is.”

We approached his house now. The ride was ending soon. I searched for something else to say. “How is your dad? Remember
when I used to go to your house after school?”

“Yeah. We were just kids then.”

“I know. But we had so much fun, didn’t we? Like when we built the birdhouses?”

“Sure.”

“And then, the wrens came.”

He nodded. “I remember.”

I wanted to ask him if he ever did anything like that with Jennifer, but I realized I might not want to know the answer.

He squirmed in his seat. “Look, Violet, I . . .”

“You once told me we couldn’t be friends because I was too weird.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You did. I remember it like the answers to last week’s vocabulary quiz. And, since then, I have worked really hard not to be weird, to be worthy of you. I mean, worthy of your friendship.”

“Violet, I didn’t ask you to do that.”

“I know you didn’t. I wanted to. I wanted to . . . be friends again. I missed you . . . that so much.” We were dangerously close to his house. I was driving slowly. I couldn’t drive any slower, but I couldn’t let him out of the car without some kind of affirmation that we’d at least talk again.

“Friends?” He looked doubtful.

“Sure. Friends. Friends like we used to be.” I wanted so much more, but there was time.

“I guess we can be friends,” he said finally.

“That’s so great!” I had to stop myself from doing a little seat dance. “So maybe I could drive you home every Wednesday.”

He looked like he’d sat on a half-eaten Slurpee. He drew away.

“I don’t think Jennifer would like that.”

And, of course, you’re not allowed to have independent thought. Does she really need to know?

“Well, then, maybe I could call you after school sometimes.”

“I guess. Maybe. Well, maybe I should call you.” We were right by his house, and he had his hand on the door handle like he might want to jump and run. “Look, I should go. Could you just—?”

“Sure.” I pulled into his driveway, and he got out. I’d blown it.

“Thanks, Violet. We’ll talk soon.”

Then he got out and sprinted into the house.

I sat there a long time, staring at the closing door, then the seat which still, despite my towel drying, retained the damp imprint of his body. I curled over and lay against it until the seat got cold, and I couldn’t feel him anymore.

I knew he’d never call me.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

..................................................................

I got to see Jennifer three afternoons a week at Cougarettes practice. We wore cougar ears and drawn-on whiskers (okay, it may have been slightly—just slightly—dumb). We danced at football games and in competition. The juniors and seniors took turns choreographing, and this year was my first turn. I loved dance and didn’t just rely on magic for my talents. It wouldn’t be as satisfying. I spent hours working on my extensions and practicing jetés in the long hallway between the bedroom and kitchen of our house, trying not to kick my mother or the cat. I could leap higher than anyone. I’d also spent a long time on the routine, forgoing homework to make up the choreography. Kendra and I had gone to an Indian movie at the local art cinema, and I loved the dance routines. I wanted to do something like that. It would be different. Special! Like nothing
any dance team had ever done before!

Which would probably mean people would think it was weird.

Still, I had to try. If worrying about people thinking I was weird stopped me, I’d never leave the house. It wasn’t like the girls in my grade were going to like anything I did. But there were eight new girls on the squad, three freshmen, five sophomores, none of whom knew I was weird. They weren’t in any of my classes, so they didn’t think I was a loser. I could impress them with my completely special routine.

That day, a Friday, I stepped in front of the group, trying to be proud, trying to at least
look
confident. I was, after all, six inches taller than I’d been in middle school with perfect 34 Cs and thighs like a Barbie doll’s, that never squooshed together. Genetics didn’t make bodies like mine, no matter what the magazines tried to tell us. But still, I stood before the group of fifteen girls in the otherwise empty gym, unsure how to start. I wondered if orchestra conductors felt like this, not completely confident that the violinists, oboists, or the guy playing the rainstick would obey his commands. Probably not. Probably everyone felt confident but me. Witchcraft didn’t change the nature of a thing, so witchcraft couldn’t make me confident.

But I tried to change my own nature. As I took my place before the group, I straightened my shoulders, shook my perfect ponytail, smiled, and tried to channel the other girls who’d stood in my spot before—the Nicoles and Julies and Merediths who’d stood confidently on the foul line with
Cougars
painted in green, and said:

“Okay, this is going to be awesome!” I clapped my hands, astounded by the awesomeness of it all. “I thought we’d do something different, a Bollywood-style routine!”

A few of the new girls nodded, like they knew what that meant, and one of them even said, “Like those Indian movies? That sounds so cool.”

Encouraged, I went on. “So, for the first eight beats, this is what we’ll do. Start with one arm out to the side, like this, in front of your chest.” I demonstrated, picturing myself as the exotic Indian actress in the movie I’d seen. “Then, shoulders up-down, up-down.” Most of the girls copied me, but not all. I decided to keep going.

“Now, switch your arms the other way, and shoulders up-down, up-down.”

Jennifer, who hadn’t been following me, cleared her throat. Or, rather, she had a coughing fit, and most of the returning girls stopped dancing. They put their arms down.

“Come on, guys.” I tried to act like everything was normal. “I don’t want to go on until we have the first eight. Up-down, up-down, then switch.”

I was screaming, but my voice got lost in the big gym.

Now, none of the returning girls were following me, but the new girls were, and the routine was pretty easy. So I decided to pretend nothing was wrong. “Freshmen, you’re doing great! Show those seniors. Okay, one more time, then we’ll move on. Up-down, up-down, then switch.” Some of the new girls had dropped out too.

“Come on, guys!” My voice cracked a little. I looked at the fluorescent lights to keep from tearing up.

Suddenly Jennifer sat on the floor. Her cohorts, Gennifer and Meighan, followed. Then, the other junior girls, and the seniors.

Jennifer spoke. “What is this from, some kids’ show? It’s dumb even for you, Violet.”

One of the new girls, the one who’d said it was fun, started to open her mouth. Then, she shut it.

“It’s Bollywood-style, like movies from India. The Indian film industry—”

“Does anyone care about this?” Jennifer’s hands were on her hips. “We’re gonna look stupid. Why don’t you think of something
else, and we’ll try next week.”

I looked around. The advisor, Miss Levin, was supposed to be, um, advising, but she’d retreated into her office to call her boyfriend. And really, what was I going to do? Run to her and cry? Jennifer was the cocaptain. “Fine,” I said.

“Great.” Jennifer stood up. “I’m sure you’ll be able to come up with something better if you . . . think about it more.”

I stared at the light. I knew I couldn’t come up with something better. What I’d done was perfect. Besides, even if I did, they’d hate it. I couldn’t get a break with Jennifer. She had Greg, had everything I’d ever wanted. Why did she have to be such a bitch?

“Meighan, show us your routine,” she said.

“Gladly.” Meighan smiled and walked up front. For the next twenty minutes, she taught a routine based upon Madonna’s “Papa Don’t Preach,” which was 1) borderline obscene; 2) copied from the music video; and 3) such an old song that all the teams had already done it. Everyone followed her like she was an innovator. Un. Freaking. Real.

I thought about how freeing it would be to throw caution to the winds and announce that I was, in fact, the Wicked Witch of the West and make all their heads explode. The news coverage: “High School Dance Team’s Heads Explode.” The T-shirts: “Guns don’t kill people: Pissed-off witches kill people.” There’d be protests by religious groups, complaining that taking prayer out of schools had caused my breakdown. It would be worth being ostracized, though. I was already ostracized. I didn’t think they burned anyone at the stake anymore. And I’d be safe because I did it openly. That was the stupid rule, right?

But, of course, I was too nice. Scratch that—too much of a wimp—to do it.

When practice finally ended, I headed for the locker room, ahead
of the others. It stunk of the sweat of thousands of freshmen. I got my gym bag, which I’d left on a bench. I wanted to change quick and get out.

Something was sticky.

Something was crawling on my clothes! Then, up my arms. Ants. Hundreds of ants.

From the doorway, Jennifer giggled. “Look!” She was pointing at me.

She’d covered my clothes in something. Syrup? No, honey. Jennifer had poured honey into my bag! On my clothes!

“Something wrong, Violet?” She came to where I was standing. A few other girls lagged behind her like the followers they were.

I stared down, remembering all those days in grade school when I’d eaten alone, all those times they’d made fun of me—
she’d
made fun of me. I felt the skin on my forehead tighten.

Don’t stinking cry. Calm down.
This was easy. It was a few ants. I could control higher orders of animal than ants.

I drew my clothes out of the bag. The honey, the ants, were all gone. I tried to keep my voice even. “Wrong? What could be wrong, Jennifer?”

She gasped, and her mouth quivered like Grimalkin’s when she watched birds through the front window, knowing he could never get them, but longing. Sort of like I did with Greg.

I fixed her with a stare under the long lashes of my lovely violet eyes. “I know you would never do anything to my backpack, would you? You’re so sweet and nice, and everyone loves you, and besides . . .” I fluffed my T-shirt in the air to show her how not covered in ants it was. “It’s a bad idea to mess with me.”

She laughed. “And why’s that?”

I had a headache, and my eyes felt hot. Only crying would relieve it.

But I wouldn’t cry. I’d rather have a headache forever. “It just
wouldn’t. You can figure it out.”

I took off my leotard and stood there in bra and panties, not even trying to be modest, letting her and the others see every inch of my perfect body, more perfect than hers, more perfect than anything nature could make. My brain, I had no confidence in, but my body was excellent. I clenched my back teeth to keep from sobbing, but I smiled. “I know it would be too much to ask you to be . . . decent. So I’m just telling you to leave me alone.”

She laughed. “Decent? Omigod, you are so crazy.”

I pulled my T-shirt over my head, slowly, aware most of the girls were watching. I shrugged. “Who knows how crazy I am?”

I slid my perfect, tanned legs into my little white shorts, then slipped on my sandals, admiring the pedicure that never chipped. Jennifer had stopped laughing. Maybe she’d realized nothing was funny. Maybe she was scared.

They all remained silent as I left the room.

I stood outside, contemplating the blue and white afternoon. I lifted my head and squinted at the sun. A warm breeze set a nearby wind chime in motion. Across the street, a dog barked.

I allowed my face to break for a moment, feeling the hot tears running down my cheeks, the blessed relief of the dam breaking against the tension in my head.

I looked at the dog.

I had seen the dog before, a Doberman, wiry as a welterweight boxer and miserable about being fenced in. It saw me too and began to bark and fling itself against the chain link. I felt her pain. I was fenced like that dog, fenced by people’s expectations.

I lowered my eyes to meet the dog’s. It was across the street, but it saw me. It calmed. It lowered its rump to the ground, sat, then curled into a ball. I held eye contact.
Good girl.

So I couldn’t do anything to Jennifer without bringing the same
on myself. But could I have the dog do something to Jennifer?

I had nothing to lose by trying. Whatever I messed up, I could easily fix.

The dog was still staring at me. Its slender, black tail bounced up and down, as if it’d heard me.

“Good girl,” I said aloud.

I examined the fence that contained her. Chain link already bowed down from previous escape attempts. It was almost low enough for her to scale in a single jump. Almost.

I visualized a weight, like an anvil in a cartoon, crushing down the fence. A wind whipped through the parking lot and across the street. The fence bowed. The dog sat, obedient, wagging its tail. This time, I pictured a steamroller, crushing it. The wind whistled through the trees. The fence bowed further, tapping the resting dog on the buttocks. It started, then woke.

“Stay,” I whispered.

It stayed, but on the alert now, ready to spring.

The fence lay low on the ground, no protection at all.

Behind me, I heard laughter coming closer, then a voice from inside. “. . . so funny! Did you see her face when no one would do it?”

“Her routine wasn’t that bad,” another voice said.

“Oh, of course it was.” I recognized Jennifer’s high-pitched whine. “Anything she does is total poop.”

“
She’s
total poop,” Meighan agreed.

“I can’t believe she’s even on the team,” Jennifer said. “Where are the standards?”

The voices grew closer. I stared at the dog.
Good doggie. Stay one moment longer.

“She’s so ugly,” Jennifer just kept going. “Disgusting, really.” I heard the thunk-squeak of someone pushing the bar that opened the door. I moved to the side, out of the way, focusing on the dog,
communicating,
Good doggie. Nice doggie. I’m your friend. And you’re going to hurt the mean girl who hurts me—one bitch to another.

Could I do this?

Suddenly my life started flashing before my eyes, but it was all Jennifer, like a collage of all the mean things she and her friends had done, said to me, the turned backs and mocking faces, Jennifer’s voice in my ear, always, saying, “These seats are saved” or “Omigod, what happened to your hair? Did you brush it with a spaghetti server?” The pick-pick-picking on my skin, my hair, my nails, my body. “Are those new shoes, Violet? Where’d you get them—the orthopedic store? Can you believe what a suck-up she is, getting an A on the test when everyone else failed? Suck-up, asking questions in class. If I had that nose, I’d hide my face. If I had that hair . . . those eyelashes . . . that body . . . little bitch.”

And then, the dog was up on its haunches, backing up, then clambering, springing over the fence. The rage and hatred in its eyes matched my heart. The dog accelerated, dodging a passing car, intent on its target. Too late, Jennifer saw it charging toward her. “Oh, no!” she screamed. Her friends, true to form, ditched her, edging back into the building. Jennifer, poor, sweet Jennifer, was left all alone as the black beast’s savage jaws came closer, closer.

And then, the dog was atop her, teeth ripping at her clothes, her arms. She was screaming, but her shrieks were drowned out by my own cries. “Bad dog! Bad dog! Not her arm!”

The dog sunk its teeth into Jennifer’s cheek and pulled.

It was enough. The dog had done its damage. Jennifer’s cries were still in my ears. I came from my hiding place. Jennifer’s friends were in the door, cowering. It was just me, the dog, Jennifer, her face bloodied, with the teeth marks. I ran for the dog, breathless, as if I’d been running the whole time. I laid hands on the dog. “Stop!” I felt a jolt of electricity running from my body to the dog’s. I pulled the dog
off Jennifer. It stopped, motionless, as if Tased. I stroked the soft fur. It was, after all, a good girl. It backed away, then trotted to its own yard. I went with it, as if I were taking it there, but partway back, I let it break away.

“Hide,” I whispered.

I glanced at the fence. It sprung back into place.

I ran and knelt over Jennifer. Her face was bloody, flesh torn, and she was sobbing, holding her hand to her cheek. “Are you okay?” She whimpered in response. I pulled a damp towel from my dance bag and ripped it in half. I handed it to her. “Here. Apply pressure.” I helped her do it. I was so nice.