The Dollhouse Asylum (13 page)

“Breakfast,” the platinum blonde says, pointing to a basket on the ground. Plucking it up, I invite her in, and while we walk to the kitchen I peek inside. Muffins. Cranberry orange—my favorite. Digging beneath a red cloth, I find something else—lime yogurt. Again, my favorite.

“I brought your invitation,” Doublemint girl says, waving what looks like a roll of aged paper in her hand, and I’m completely lost as to where she’d find something like that. “You forgot to check your mail, but then I remembered how last night it looked like you were zoning out.”

I hold out my hand—she was watching me? I’ll need to be careful not to let Teo see me blocking him out.

She hands over the scroll and I notice the wax seal, like the invitation comes from royalty. “Whoever hosts the party sends out invitations,” she says. “I don’t think you were paying attention when Teo asked Romeo and Juliet to host the next soirée.”

Okay, I really need to start paying better attention when Teo speaks. Even if the words coming out of his mouth are worse than cockroaches—fire ants, maybe.

Staring at the aged scroll in my hands, I slip my finger under the wax and break the seal. Opening up the parchment roll, I find an invitation written in calligraphy.

“Wow,” I muse. It looks like Romeo and Juliet are off to a good start, with the flourishing writing and perfectly phrased prose.

The girl—I’m still not sure which Doublemint twin she is, so I stare at her for a moment to see if anything pops.
Big eyes
. Yes! This girl definitely has large, green eyes. The bug-eyed girl is Izzy, I’m pretty sure.

Smiling confidently with a piece of gum sticking out between the side of her teeth, she points out the time. “Seven o’clock. Teo’s particular about no one being late.”

“Thank you,” I say, wondering slightly why she’s helping me. I haven’t a clue, but maybe I can return the favor. “Is there anything I can do for you?”

Izzy pats my hand, her green eyes bulging. “I just wanted to chat,” she says, prancing into the living room. Her green dress skims the floor behind her as she runs, and I haven’t the slightest idea why she’s running farther into my house. I just want to eat my muffin.

“That’s so unfair.” Izzy frowns at the two benches that form an L in the great room. “Where’s a girl to lie down?” She glares at the benches like they’re made of old socks, then flippantly turns away from them, causing her ponytail to slap her in the face.

“So… Izzy, right?” I ask, wondering why she’s staying now.

She nods, petting the chocolate-colored hardwood floor, and I’m wondering if she’s lonely or something.

“You know,” I say, because I don’t have anything else, “if I were you, I’d go by Isolde.”
Tristan and Isolde
—one of my favorite tragedies of all time. The way Isolde tended to Tristan’s wounds, so far away from everybody…

Izzy smacks her gum. “You
so
did not call me that.”

“I’m sorry?” What could be her problem with the name? I’ve always loved it. I like the spelling, too.

“Is. Old.” Izzy folds her arms across her chest, chewing her gum loudly. “I’m only seventeen.”

This is what I call missing the point of the story completely. One of the great things about the old tales is how they let you forget your own worries and put yourself in the characters’ heads. “Isolde,” or “Iseult,” is an Irish name. Much cooler than Persephone.

Izzy stretches across the hardwood to touch her toes. It’s a common enough stretch, but she does it with such ease, such enthusiasm, I have to ask, “Cheerleader?”

A large smile spreads across Izzy’s face. “How did you know?” Even her green eyes are popping now.

“Just a random guess.” I plaster a winning smile across my face. But just because Izzy’s a cheerleader doesn’t mean we can’t be friends. Maybe if I show her something about the stories, she can embrace her name and we can get off to a better start.

Reaching for the book I was studying before, I thumb through, find a picture of Isolde, and hand it to her. “Just so you know, there’s a reason two men fought over the original Isolde.”

Izzy leans over, her platinum ponytail staying perfectly intact. She scrunches her forehead up in thought, then looks to me, green eyes shining. “She’s
way
cuter than me.” Okay, not exactly the
let’s bond over Tristan and Izzy
moment I was looking for, but her vulnerability is almost something. Better than Cleo, at least.

I lean over and pat her hand. “Izzy, you’re gorgeous,” I say. “You have nothing to worry about.” I mean it. Marc’s school was quite the opposite from mine; the math team at my school, Khabela, didn’t know about breath mints or tweezers, but Marc’s school, Griffin, must have drafted supermodels.

Dabbing at her mascara, Izzy hands me back the hefty book, and I set it next to me on the floor. “I’m sorry,” she sniffs. “I can’t tell you how difficult it is living in this place. I mean, there isn’t even a gym!”

“You’re kidding.” And now we’re back to square one.

“I’ve been on the squad since fifth grade,” Izzy says, mauling the gum in her mouth, “and I
need
my exercise.”

Because the rest of us don’t?

Izzy leans forward, eyes wide. “Don’t you think Tristan’s smokin’ hot?” I’m pretty sure Tristan’s the one with the pink and green hair—I think I’d spend too much time worrying about it rubbing off on me. So, no, I don’t really think he’s “smokin’ hot,” but I smile encouragingly anyway.

“And for the life of me,” Izzy flips her ponytail, “I keep thinking I should call him Kyle, since that’s his
real
name, but I gotta tell ya, I like ‘Tristan’ better. His mom lives in Florida, and he flies out there every summer. He teaches
surfing
and snorkeling and even swam with sharks. Not to mention his break dancing…”

I tune out Izzy. Snorkeling and sharks. If Ramus and Bee were killed by a lion, what does that mean for the rest of us? Teo, no doubt, has hidden deadly animals or weapons relating to all of our tales all around the property.

Taking in a breath, Izzy leans in, not realizing my mind is somewhere else. “And you wouldn’t believe what he says he shaved.”

Whoa. I feel my eyes widen. “Hey, Izzy,” I say, thinking fast, “what do you think about this place?”

“We’re alive,” she says, blowing a bubble and letting it pop. “Give me a gym and I’d be great.”

“But…” Isn’t she scared by what happened last night? Or maybe working out was her coping mechanism. Like if she ran a couple of miles, she could take Teo down. But I’m not sure anyone can take Teo down. Not when he has someone like Jonas around.

Izzy leans toward me, shooting me that bug-eyed, conspiratorial look again. “Look,” she whispers, “I know what you’re asking. Teo fr-
reaks
me out, but I can’t show that face. If the others hear about it, they might tattle. Remember what he said? We’re to report anyone who doesn’t live by his rules. We
all
wanted to leave. Trust me. But nobody’s willing to try anything now after what happened with that lion.”

I shiver, thinking of Bee. Izzy’s right. The others might turn us in if they catch wind of any type of revolt. Maybe if I understood more about who they are, I could learn what it’d take for them to go from protecting themselves to protecting each other.

Leaning back again, Izzy examines her nails. “Pity your manicure didn’t hold up as well as mine.”

“Just tell me,” I keep my voice low, praying there aren’t hidden cameras, “who likes this place? And who doesn’t?”

Izzy wiggles her manicured fingers on her lap. “A few of the guys tend to waffle back and forth, but Cleo, Ana, and I wanna get out. Ever since Bee…” Her smile falters, but she quickly picks it up. “I have to keep up a good front—especially if I’m ever gonna snag Tristan. Can’t you just
see
us making out?”

But I’m back where she listed the girls who object to Teo’s world. “That means the others like it?”

“Unless they’re faking,” Izzy says, inspecting a hangnail on her thumb, “but who knows if they’re acting? From the beginning, Teo has been pretty good at shutting us up.”

I wait for her to explain, and Izzy doesn’t bat an eye. “You weren’t here,” she whispers. “You didn’t see how he lit Gwen’s dress on fire for crossing to the men’s side of the street.”

“He—
what?
” My stomach roils. Why didn’t anyone tell me about that?

“The dress was fire retardant,” Izzy says, shaking her head. She swallows. “But Teo lit her up to prove a point. ‘Never disobey me,’ he said. Needless to say, we shut up pretty fast after that.”

I’m reminded of how Bee seemed so somber at Cleo’s party when she told me about getting here. No doubt she was sparing me these details. Oh, Bee. You should have told me.

“But enough of that.” Izzy pats my hand. “Let’s get back to that acting part. It was pretty clear last night, after what happened to Ramus and Bee, that you don’t quite feel the same way you used to about Teo.”

She can say that again.

“If you wanna live, Persephone, you’d better put up a good act. I’ve decided to be the cheerleader!” She pops her gum again as she stands. “Now you need to decide what part you’ll play.”

I blink.
Oh
. So how much of this conversation was an act? Izzy seems like she is naturally energetic. Maybe she isn’t typically so enthused. I slouch. She said I can’t act.
I
know I can’t act, but I couldn’t have been that bad. “Was I really that obvious?”

Izzy nods gravely as she stands above me, her eyes never looking so huge. “Afraid so. But there
is
a secret to covering up your real feelings when around a less than desirable guy.”

I don’t ask, pretty sure I don’t really want to know.

Popping her gum, Izzy tells me anyway as she walks to the front door. “Kissing. Lots and lots of kissing.”

“Welcome to Verona!” Juliet beams, filling my wine goblet with sparkling apple cider. I study the wide smile plastered on Juliet’s face and realize it’s a nutcracker’s smile: enormous and, much like everything here, completely fake. One real fact is that I can breathe a little better—Teo and Jonas decided to hang back by the front door before entering the room. They may be plotting which weapons to use with whose murders, but at least for the time being I can enjoy standing by these wrought-iron stairs without him.

A sheen of sweat shines above Juliet’s chest and trickles across her tired face. Even her long black curls are matted down, wet. I’d like to tell her not to worry, that she will earn the vaccine. But in truth, I don’t know if she will; I don’t know if any of us will. I’m not even sure how impressed Teo will be with this soirée. The invitation said it would be a ball, but the only indication of that so far is the Renaissance-style music playing over the speakers hanging on the walls—some slow ballad with a lute, and what I’m pretty sure is a harp. This song doesn’t sound very dance-worthy; we need a beat.

“You doing okay?” I ask Juliet, noting the vines wrapped around the wrought-iron staircase and spiraling down the twisted columns throughout the room. The floor plan is identical to all the homes in Elysian Fields, only the décor fits the stage for Romeo and Juliet. Rose petals dot the chocolate hardwood floor, and one or two fake birds peek out from the ivy on the stairs.

“Just peachy!” Juliet says, pulling up the front of her lilac scoop-necked dress.

I try a few reassuring phrases in my head—
just be yourself; flatter Teo, he likes that best
—but by the time I’ve settled on something promising, Juliet’s already across the room by the windows, filling Sal’s and Ana’s glasses; they remain mute, like I have. Ana’s absently munching on another piece of celery, lost in thought.

I look around for Marcus, only to find him sitting on the red chaise lounge pushed up against the east wall. Naturally, Cleo’s sprawled across his lap, decked out in a paper-thin gold wrap, “reading” his palm. Tristan and Izzy hover over the chaise lounge, and Izzy keeps glancing at it like she wishes Cleo would move away so she and Tristan could cozy up. But Tristan’s rubbing his finger over what looks like a surfboard keychain, and I’m reminded of Izzy’s comment that he loves to surf. Without the ocean close by, he must be feeling especially caged in Elysian Fields.

Seconds later, Juliet crosses back toward me by the stairs. Not wanting to lose her again, I grab her arm. “Own your couple’s story,” I say as fast as I can. When it comes down to it, that’s what Teo wants. For us to show him we can be who he needs us to be. Most of us don’t like who we have become, but if it means obtaining the vaccine, we must do everything we can to convince him we love this place. No one wants to be killed, or fired up like Izzy said happened to Gwen.

Juliet shifts the bottle of sparkling cider to her other hand. “How are you doing?” she asks, narrowing her eyes.

I blink, startled that she could be worrying about me.
She’s
the one hosting the soirée. She’s the one who needs to breathe.

“Teo’s kind of a control freak, isn’t he?” Juliet talks

through her teeth.

I stammer for a second, unsure what to say. The last thing I need is for Teo to suddenly show up in the room.

Locking her charcoal eyes on mine, Juliet says, “If you need anything, any time, you only need to ask. Let’s just say, I understand.” She glances at Romeo, who’s managed to pry Marc and Cleo apart. Whatever he and Marcus are talking about doesn’t look pleasant. Marcus keeps shaking his head, sending his black hair into his eyes, and Romeo’s gritting his teeth; I thought the two of them were friends.

“You mean Romeo?” I try to picture the cowboy treating Juliet wrong. But he seems like a likeable guy—even if he and Marcus are disagreeing about something now.

Juliet laughs, softly. “Ha, hardly. My boyfriend from before. The jerk controlled everything I did.” She then laughs heartily, as if we’ve just shared some secret joke. I join in, impressed by her act. But she goes further—holds her side, as if it’s the funniest thing she’s heard in her life. She braces a hand on the wrought-iron rails, gestures wildly, ever the perfect host. “I love this house,” she nearly shouts. Then she walks away from me to tend to everyone else. Poor Juliet. I wonder if she, too, thinks Teo won’t be impressed with her soirée—hopefully she’ll do something impressive, like some Renaissance-era dancing, soon.