Vicious Little Darlings (13 page)

16

A
t eight o'clock I wake up to Lou Reed's “A Perfect Day.” Not a bad song to wake up to—a little depressing, but depressing in a good, contemplative way. I let the song play until the end and then turn off my clock radio. Nothing can get me down today. It's Friday, I have no classes, and I'm going to see Reed in an hour.

I tiptoe into the bathroom and quietly shower, making sure to shave my legs and moisturize thoroughly. Back in my room, I put on a skirt, which I rarely do, and study my reflection in the mirror. The skirt looks decent, but I feel awkward in it, like a preteen wearing high heels for the first time. Next to the dark denim, my legs look impossibly white and cadaverous. After years of perpetual concealment, I almost forgot how weirdly shaped they are: big and flabby from the knees up, straight and skinny from the knees down. Like a couple of corndogs. Not the look I was going for. I tear off the skirt and slide into my favorite pair of Levi's, a vintage Doors T-shirt, and my brown corduroy jacket. I apply black mascara and clear lip gloss, then tiptoe downstairs.

The scent of Agnes's morning blend fills the air. I find her sitting at the dining table in her Burberry pajamas, reading the paper. She looks at me and asks, “What are you doing up so early?”

“I have a meeting with my psych professor,” I lie. The last thing I need is for Maddy to know I went to see Reed.

“This early?”

“I couldn't make it to his regular office hours, so I made an appointment. I'm so behind in his class.”

Agnes's face remains expressionless. “Want some coffee?”

“No, thanks. I'm late.”

“Do you want to take the car?”

“No,” I say. “I need the exercise. And cold weather burns more calories.”

“But it's raining.”

I look out the window.
Shit
. I was so busy obsessing over my outfit that I didn't even bother to look outside. “It's all right,” I say. “I'll bring an umbrella.”

“Suit yourself.” She goes back to her paper.

The walk is dreadful. It's useless carrying an umbrella when the rain is coming down sideways. I'm getting blasted, my hair is attaching itself to my lip gloss, and my feet feel soggy. By the time I arrive at the student mail center, I feel about as sexy as a wet poodle. And then I catch my reflection in the window: I look like a stalker. Why didn't I think to wear
waterproof
mascara? It's a good thing Reed already likes me.

I take a seat in the middle of the barren room, pull my hair back into a ponytail, and do the best that I can to wipe off my lip gloss and smeared mascara. Then I smooth on some vanilla-scented lip balm. Lip gloss isn't very kissable, anyway—too sticky. I glance at my watch: nine o'clock. He must be running late. I get up to check my mailbox. I open the little metal door and a bundle of letters leaps onto the floor. Bills, bills, bills, junk, and …
Holy shit!
A letter from Nana. I tear it open:

Dear Sarah,

I hope you are enjoying your time at Wetherly. I suspect that you are keeping up with your studies and, more important, learning how to be a lady. I look forward to witnessing your transformation in the summer. Until then, you should probably stay on the East Coast. I'm sure you've made many new friends, so perhaps you'd like to spend the holidays with them rather than flying back to California. Thanksgiving is too short, and I won't be here during Christmas. I'm going to Australia with Howie, a man I met at church. Howie has a beautiful home in Brentwood, and we've been spending a lot of time there. I haven't been this happy since your grandfather was alive. I suppose this is my reward for taking care of you all of these years.

I am enclosing a check for $1,500, which should cover your expenses until summer. If not, I suggest you look for a job. You are an adult now and need to learn how to support yourself. I do hope you've been attending church regularly. As I recall, there's a lovely chapel not far from Haven House.

God bless you,

Nana

I can't believe it. A boyfriend at her age? And ditching me for a guy named Howie? I wasn't planning on going home for the holidays, but I never anticipated not having the option. And what about my birthday? Did she forget? It's kind of impossible—I've got the same birthday as Jesus, for Christ's sake! Plus, it's my eighteenth. Shouldn't I at least get a cake?

The good news is that Nana's not dead, which actually crossed my mind a few times. I pictured her lying on the floor, injured, hearing the phone ring when I called, but not being able to answer it. But Nana's fine. She's just been busy playing house with Howie, not thinking about me at all. If she had called me even once she would've learned that I'm no longer living at Haven House. Whoever's living in my old room would have told her that. But obviously she doesn't care.

Yet I'm relieved to have the money. My credit card balance has been growing exponentially, and I was just beginning to understand why a college student would consider stripping her way through school, especially now that I have a monthly iPhone bill to deal with. But how is $1,500 going to last me till summer when it's only mid-October? Nana is obviously not all there. Does she know it's not the fifties anymore? When she was a student at Wetherly, girls were taught how to become good wives. Now we're being taught how to become our own husbands. Why did Nana even send me to such an expensive school just to make me worry about money, when I could have gone to UCLA and saved her a bundle? Is she demented or cruel? Maybe both.

When I see Reed's ancient, rusty Nissan Sentra pull up, I stuff Nana's letter into my backpack and walk into the pouring rain. This is not the time to be upset. It's all about Reed now.

We go to his apartment and sit on his black couch for a while. We look at each other and smile and hold hands. It feels strangely natural not talking, like we don't need words. I'm tempted to tell him about Maddy's reading, but decide not to kill the mood.

I let go of Reed's hand and run my fingers over his knee and, in no time at all, we end up in his bed. The sex is intense. At the same time, I feel safe with him. This is where I want to be, feeling everything, savoring each detail.

Afterward, he spoons me and we listen to the rain.

“Sarah, Sarah, Sarah,” he says. “I'm going to tell you something, and I don't want you to freak out, okay?”

I freeze. Is this where he tells me his dark secret?
Shit
. Without turning around, I mumble, “Okay.”

He kisses my shoulder. “I love you.”

“
What?
”

“I love you.”

My heart literally does a dance. No one has ever said those words to me before. Ever. I'm so stunned, so happy, I don't know what to do. So I turn around and look at him. God, he's adorable and so sweet. And he's mine. Is this what Agnes was talking about? This feeling that nothing else in the world matters except this person and the way I feel about him?

He pulls me closer. “You don't have to say it back to me right now. Say it when it's true for you.”

I can't stop grinning.

“Wait. Don't move,” he says, getting out of bed. He leaves the room and comes back with a pen and a sketchbook. He sits on the edge of the bed and peels back the sheets. I'm naked underneath. He starts drawing.

“Don't!” I grab for the sheets.

“Come on.” He takes my hand, holding it for a moment before bringing it to his lips. “You're radiant.”

Radiant?
I feel myself relax a bit. Reed draws and I don't stop him. His hands quickly scrape out lines and tones and soon I see a serious-looking girl with moody eyes staring back at me. She's lying on her side with one arm not-so-casually positioned in front of her stomach. She doesn't have any limbs missing and she has tiny hips. He made them smaller than they are in real life; he must really love me.

He puts down his sketchbook, and we have sex again. It's even better this time, more relaxed, more meaningful. His touch is tender and loving, and the way he looks at me—like I'm the only girl in the world—is intoxicating. He
loves
me. And I … I …

“Reed,” I say suddenly.

“Yeah?” He opens his eyes.

“I love you too.”

His eyes light up.

It's the first time I've said those three words to anyone, much less to a guy I actually love. I feel buoyant and hopeful, not sick to my stomach like I thought I would. People
can
change, I feel like telling Nana and the rest of the world. History does not have to repeat itself.

At four o'clock reality hits: I've been gone for an entire day! My phone's been ringing nonstop, and I have a ton of new messages from Maddy and Agnes—none of which I've listened to yet. As much as I want to stay and snuggle with Reed, I ask him to drive me home.

In the car, I start to feel anxious. I think about Maddy's predictions. What if Reed breaks my heart? It'd be possible now; I'm completely vulnerable. He could hurt me more than anyone. And what if he does have a dark secret?

“Hey,” Reed says. “What are you thinking about?”

I smile weakly. “Nothing.”

We don't speak until we get to Wetherly. Then I ask Reed to drop me off a block away from the house, explaining that my roommates are nosy.

“I'll call you,” I say, leaning over to kiss him.

“What are you doing this weekend?” he asks.

“I'm not sure yet.”

“Let's do something. We could go to Boston, spend the night there. Or whatever. I just want to see you.” He's already getting clingy. What happened to that strong, independent guy I was so intrigued by? Is this the insecurity that Maddy was talking about?

When I don't answer, Reed asks, “What's wrong?”

“Nothing. I'm just thinking.” But what I'm really doing is obsessing. Will he end up hurting me? Will he make me miserable? I don't want any more pain. My life so far already feels like one giant heartbreak. So I avert my eyes and lie to Reed. “I'll check with my roommates,” I say. “I think they wanted to do something this weekend.”

“Okay,” he says, patting my knee. “Well, let me know.” He sounds a little hurt, and now it's awkward.

Why do I have to ruin everything? I'm such a bitch. “I'll call you,” I say, forcing a smile. Then I step out of the car and sprint down the street.

The house is dark when I enter, quiet except for the sound of the dripping faucet. I flip on the hall lights and walk toward the kitchen, toward the drips.

“Maddy? Agnes? Anybody home?”

I place my backpack on the floor next to the dining table. A sliver of light shines from under the basement door. Agnes is home.

Pressing my ear to the door, I hear her talking on the phone. I can't tell who she's talking to, but her voice is strained. I knock on the door. After all this time, I've never gone down to the basement. Agnes hasn't exactly invited me, and she keeps the door locked when she's not at home. What, I wonder, is she hiding down there? I've imagined all kinds of sick things: slabs of dissected animals, shrunken heads in Mason jars, a closet full of S and M gear. A dead body.

Knocking one more time, I call out, “Agnes? It's Sarah. Everything okay?”

I hear a soft shuffling and then a barely audible “Come in.”

Bracing myself, I open the door and go down the dark, creaky stairs. Agnes is sitting at her desk with her back to me. A naked bulb lights the room. The air smells of lemongrass candles on top of Raid. Boxes clutter the floor—surprising, since clutter is not in Agnes's vernacular. Even I find it stifling and my OCD is nowhere near as bad as hers. I scan the room, and what I discover is not at all what I expected.

It's much, much worse.

Dolls. Hundreds of them, like some little-girl fantasy gone wrong. Two huge walnut cabinets with glass doors hold the bulk of them. The dolls in the first cabinet are made of porcelain or wood and they all have similar faces: round, cherubic, powdery white, with big bulgy eyes and pouty lips. The second cabinet holds Barbies swathed in shimmering, lollipop-colored gossamers. My eyes land on one that's dressed as Marie Antoinette. She looks slightly different from the other Barbies, her face smaller, slimmer, more delicate. She's wearing a pale blue, corseted ball gown trimmed with gold lace, and a hat with real feathers. As much as I hate dolls, I have to admit this one is pretty exquisite. She's not as wholesome-looking as the other Barbies, but she's regal, with albino skin and a slightly wicked smile. The more I look at her, the more sinister she appears, and then I realize who she reminds me of: Maddy. She has the same disturbingly immaculate beauty and vacant eyes.

Agnes swivels around in her chair, her eyes bloodshot, tired.

“What's going on?” I ask her.

“My mother called. She's trying to set me up with the son of one of my father's business associates. A Harvard brat. She wants me engaged by the end of the year.” Agnes sighs. “As if that's ever going to happen.”

“
Engaged?
”

“She can't wait to plan my wedding. I told her I have midterms coming up, but she could care less.” Agnes rolls her neck, then starts cracking her knuckles.

“So, she doesn't know?” I ask.

“Know what?”

“That you're … you know …
gay
?”

“I'm not gay,” she snaps.

“Oh,” I say, feeling stupid.

She gives me a weird look, like it's my fault I don't understand that she's asexual, hates men, desperately loves Maddy, but is
not
a lesbian. When did sexual identity get so complicated? I guess that's a dumb question.

I decide to change the subject. “So, what are you going to do about the guy?”