Beastly: Lindy's Diary (3 page)

He said he was the tutor. He’s blind.

I said, “My father has the crazy idea there’s a monster here.” I glanced over at him, and he looked down.

“No monster, miss,” Will said, “My employer is a young man of, I am told, unfortunate appearance. He

doesn’t go outside because of it. That’s all.”

Man, he really was a freak.

I asked him if that meant I was free to leave if I changed my mind. Will nodded, but said, “Yes, but my

employer struck a deal with your father, I believe—your presence here in exchange for his cooperation in

not reporting certain criminal acts which were caught on tape. Which reminds me . . .” He reached into his pocket and took out a bag I knew all too well. “Your drugs, sir?” WHAT??? I glared at my father. The

liar. LIAR! He’d lied about everything. There was no danger, at least, no danger to me. He just wanted me to come here to keep his butt out of jail. LIAR.

Why was I surprised? Everything my father did was a lie.

“He caught me on tape,” my father admitted. “Breaking and entering.”

Of course.

“The drugs would result in a serious sentence, I believe,” Will said.

My father nodded. “Minimum mandatory—fifteen years to life.”

Un-freaking-real. “And you agree to this?” I demanded of Will. “My imprisonment?”

He said, “My employer will treat you well —better, probably, than . . .”

I laughed. It was blackmail, that’s what it was. And he was saying the blackmailer would treat me better?

And yet, he might be right. I got it. Wolf-boy had seen my father. He knew he was a total scum. He was

lonely and thought I’d be safer here than with him. He was probably right—even if he was a blackmailing

scumbag. I should have left. But, in some little codependent place in my heart, I didn’t want my father to go to jail. I had to do this. I wanted my father to go to rehab.

A new servitude. I have to make the best of this. After all, what’s the worst that can happen? You can’t be held captive in the middle of New York City. If it got too bad, I could always scream and someone would

come.

I hoped.

I gave my father a look that said he owed me, and he was gone. Gone without even saying good-bye. I

wanted to cry, but I found I couldn’t.

Will, seeming to sense how deflated I felt, changed the subject.

“I can tell you’ve had a hard day, even though it’s only ten o’clock. Come. I’ll show you to your rooms.”

“Rooms? With an s?”

“Yes, miss. They’re beautiful rooms. Master Adrian—the young man I work for—wants you to be happy

here.” I laughed. Happy. Sure thing.

I noticed he locked the door with a key. The sound had a terrible finality. What had I done?

Still, I followed him upstairs. I thought I saw a shadow on the staircase, but it might have been my

imagination. I didn’t want to see Will ’s “employer,” the wolf-boy, my captor. Just because I was staying didn’t mean we were going to be friends.

He did, indeed, mean rooms.

When we reached my suite, the first thing I noticed were the words Lindy’s Room painted in gold on the

door.

Stalkerish much? The second, once I opened it, was the scent of roses that greeted my nose.

Roses. I thought of Kyle. Poor, stupid Kyle. But, of course, he wasn’t there. That night seems so long ago.

I have to admit, I gasped when I entered the room. I found that the scent came from a hundred roses,

maybe more, all in vases on every surface.

Will must have sensed my confusion. “My employer grows roses,” he said.

“He grew these?”

“He thought you might like them.”

I nodded and entered.

I’ve never been a materialistic person. But then, I’ve never had much to be materialistic about. Is it wrong that I felt better about the place once I saw that my “rooms” were a whole floor of the house, that they had walls freshly painted a creamy yellow, my favorite color, and wooden floors and crown moldings? A

madman wouldn’t create such a palace for someone he intended to rape and murder, would he?

But maybe this was his game, like this play I once saw, where this elderly couple kept inviting young girls back to their home using a ruse, when really, they intended to kill them.

But, even if that wasn’t it, did he think we were going to have some kind of ROMANCE, like he created

this romantic hideaway for me, and I was going to fall in love with him when he’d basically kidnapped

me?

What have I gotten myself into? I could always leave, if I don’t mind my father being thrown in jail. I

shouldn’t mind, but sad to say, I do.

Will reassured me that Adrian meant me no harm, that he was just lonely. “Perhaps if you give it a chance, you won’t find it so terrible living here.” I checked out the closets, looking for torture devices, handcuffs, ropes.

Instead, I found clothes, lots of them, what looked like the entire juniors department of Bloomingdale’s, all my size, too. How had he known my size? That sounded really stalkerish. And where was I going to

wear this stuff? To entertain him? For this romantic fantasy he was having?

But in the next room, I found a surprise I did like. Books!

Books from floor to ceiling, and not just any musty old books, but books by my favorite authors—by Kurt

Vonnegut, Hunter S. Thompson, and Jane Austen. The complete Shakespeare and the complete M. T.

Anderson. Even some cool nonfiction titles. There were ladders to reach all the way to the top.

I was a prisoner, but the prison library was excellent.

On one table in the corner, I found an e-reader with a note that said, “In case I forgot anything.” I don’t like to think I can be bought, but if I could, this guy definitely knew the currency. Roses and books—I

could survive in these rooms forever.

I said, “When I was a kid, I used to like to go to the library, because it was safe there. That’s how I got to love reading so much.”

Will said, “You’re safe here.”

I laughed. “Safe?”

Will said, “Yes, safe. That story, whatever your father told you, is a lie, but you will be safe here. I

wouldn’t go along with it if that wasn’t the case. Adrian only wants a companion. Live here a year. I’ll

tutor you, and you can take the state tests, like the home-schooled kids do. At the end of the year, you’ll be alive, safe, and a year closer to graduation. Can you say the same if you stay with your father?”

I thought about it and said, “I think I need to be alone now.”

Will nodded and left. I walked around a bit more, examining, then I collapsed onto the bed and started to cry—not because I’m trapped here. I came here of my own accord. No, I was crying because I realized

Will was probably right. I probably was better off here, here where I am warmer, cleaner, safer than

anyplace I’ve ever been before. Here, there’s no risk of being evicted, no risk of evil men pounding my

door at night. Some people never have to worry about those things, but I’m not so lucky.

After I finished crying, I spent the next two hours reading a book of Shakespeare’s sonnets, comfort food for my uncomfortable mind. At noon, there was a knock. I ignored it.

“Excuse me, miss. I have lunch.”

It was a woman’s voice, a maid, maybe. Not wanting to be rude, I opened the door.

She had been in the act of leaving a tray. Now, she held it out. “hello, you must be Linda. I am Magda.”

out. “hello, you must be Linda. I am Magda.”

“You work here?” I asked.

She told me she did, and that if I told her what I liked for lunch, she’d buy it.

Like Will before her, she assured me I was safe.

I told her thank you, but I wasn’t hungry.

An hour later, I found a note under my door. It said:
Dear Lindy,Welcome! Do not be afraid. I hope you
will
be comfortable in your new home. Whatever you want,
you only have to ask. I will see that you get
it
immediately.I am looking forward to meeting you at
dinner tonight. I want you to like me.
Sincerely,
Adrian King

He did think we were going to have some romance! He thought he could trap me, kidnap me, whatever

you called it, buy me, and I’d just go along with it. Well, that was definitely not going to happen. I wrote,

“NO!” on the note in big letters and slipped it back under the door.

I went back to sonnets.

An hour later, he was there in person, begging me to come out, talking about the favor (!) he was doing,

getting me away from my dad. And again, an hour after that, all apologetic. “I hope we can be friends

someday,” he said. “I understand if you’re . . .” He didn’t finish the sentence. I didn’t ask him to.

Still, I wondered what he looked like, what had happened to him. Clearly, Will couldn’t tell me, and I

hadn’t believed my father.

Where were Adrian’s parents? Now that I knew Dad’s story was a lie, I wondered if any of it was true.

I wondered where my father was too, if he was safe.

Much as I hated what he did sometimes, he was still my father.

July 22

The past three days, I haven’t left my room at all. I’ll admit I’ve been sulking, a luxury I don’t get at home.

I’ve talked to no one except Magda, and her only because I don’t want to be rude when she brings my

meals. Each time, she brings a different rose, a different color, and each time, she points it out to me, saying something like, “If you cut a rose in early morning, it lasts longer,” or, “A coral rose symbolizes admiration and friendship.” Each time, I thank her and go back to reading. In two days, I’ve read all of

Shakespeare’s sonnets and four plays. I’m halfway through a book, The Woman in White, which is over

seven hundred pages long. I’m starting to lose touch with reality, but reality sort of sucks.

Since I’ve always lived in apartments, I’m used to hearing other people’s sounds that have nothing to do

with me.

I’ve long known that our neighbor, Mr. Estevez, farts every morning at 5:30 and that when the Wolfs (or is it Wolves?) have a fight about money, she threatens to move in with her sister. I know that Angela Lester, who lives downstairs and isn’t much older than I am, has two kids, a boy and a girl. When I can hear from her voice that she’s had it, I offer to watch them.

This house is a little different, though. I live with these people, but I don’t know them. I guess that Will and Magda live in the bedrooms above mine. Sometimes, I hear Spanish-language radio from the left side

or NPR

from the right. I wouldn’t mind discussing NPR with Will.

The kitchen and common areas are below me, and I smell cooking smells and hear vacuuming or Magda

singing during the day. She has a beautiful voice and loves opera.

Since the first day, Adrian has made no attempt to speak to me. I assume his rooms are either on the top

floor of the house or in the basement, not connected with mine.

Only late at night do I hear someone pacing the halls below me, someone surfing channels, watching old

movies on TV, someone who can’t sleep. I’m sure it’s him. Adrian.

I suppose I should be happy he’s not up here, attacking me in the night, and I AM. Believe me, I am.

But the weird thing is, I’m starting to feel lonely. Yes, I’m getting a lot of reading done, which is great, but I sort of wish Adrian would ask me to come out again. Or Will would offer to tutor me. I might say yes

this time. I miss talking to people.

Adrian is downstairs right now. I can hear the television go on and the channels being changed. He settles on a movie, Forrest Gump. I hear Robin Wright yelling, “Run, Forrest!”

He obviously has decent taste in movies. I mean, most guys my age, unsupervised, would be watching

porn or, at least, something with lots of explosions.

Maybe I’ll watch it too. Up here in my room.

Good-night for now.

July 23

I had the strangest dream.

I fell asleep early and woke to hear a clock striking midnight. Funny, I’d heard no clock before. I couldn’t get back to sleep, so I went to find my book.

That’s when I saw the bird. I’m pretty sure it was a crow, but it sat on the top of my doorframe, like the raven in Edgar All an Poe’s poem “The Raven,” and like that raven, it was tap-tap-tapping.

“What?” I said.

Then, the crow transformed into a woman, and she began singing in a strange, almost unearthly way,

operatic, yet without words or maybe with strange, garbled words, and in a tune that was equally

mangled.

She sounded almost like a theremin, this weird instrument they use in old horror movies.

The weird thing was, I recognized her. It was Kendra, from my school, that girl who’d been talking to

Kyle the last day I saw him.

She was dressed all in white, a flowing dress that surrounded her like a Greek goddess’s robes. She

raised her hand, beckoning to me to follow her.

I did. She left the room. I don’t remember the door opening, but I followed, as if by magic, out of the room and down a staircase to the second floor. This, I knew, was the floor I’d seen when I came in, the living area of the house. I hadn’t looked around much. Now I did.

The room was beautiful, with shiny wooden floors and high ceilings, but it barely looked lived in. No

mess, for sure, but nothing personal, either—no photographs, no books, magazines, or art, even on the

walls, as if it had been put together hastily, more like a decorator’s model than a real home.

Kendra beckoned to me from the window, where she had gone seemingly without walking. I obeyed and

stood by it, wanting to drink in the full moon. When I was little, I always imagined the moon following me down the street.

Now, in someplace so lonely and different, it comforted me to see it still.

When I reached the window, I stepped back.

I had been wrong to believe no one was awake.