Novel Square
12
Sitting up, I cast a glance around my new apartment. All the furniture, including the bed, was purchased via the scholarship fund, and while I’m sure it’s a far cry from what my fellow students have in their rooms, it looks like luxury to me.
My headboard’s almost as tall as the ceiling, this lavishly tufted white velvet arch with crystal sconces on either side. It sets the tone for the whole room, this effortless elegance in creams and grays, draped across the ancient stone floors and walls with an expert’s touch.
“Okay, Dad, let’s see how much trouble you’ve managed to get yourself into during the week.” Powering my phone on, I do a brief check of my email, texts, and social media, but there’s not much to see. A few goodbyes, and greetings from casual acquaintances, but nothing substantial. I haven’t had any real friends since …
No. Banish that thought. I’m not interested in entertaining shadows of the past, not when I have a fairly grim present to deal with.
I dial up my voicemail and wait, smiling when my dad’s voice comes over the line.
“Hey Marnye, it’s Dad”-as if I didn’t know-“I just wanted to see how things were going at your new sFhool.” He pauses, and I tense up, wondering if his voice sounds warbled, wondering if he’s drunk again. “I bet you’re making all sorts of friends. I just hope you don’t have a boyfriend yet, though I’m sure you’ve already gotten offers.” He chuckles, but I frown. Offers? Not so much. Being called a Working Girl and offered money for sex? Yeah, there’s that. “I’m already looking forward to Parents’ Weekend. Until then, keep me in your thoughts. Love you, bye.”
I’m feeling pretty good about leaving Dad alone until I realize that’s the only message he’s left me. Just one voicemail, no texts, no social media tags. My mouth purses into a thin line as I dial our home number and wait. Nothing.Property of Nô)(velDr(a)ma.Org.
If he’s fallen back into old habits, Dad’ll be at the bar on Chambers. But that’s worst-case scenario. I shoot a text over to our old neighbor, Mrs. Fleming, to see if his car’s in the driveway. She’s practically deaf, so she’s the only ninety-seven year old I know of that exclusively uses text messages for communication. She’s also an incorrigible gossip, a Supernatural superfan, and the head of the local neighborhood watch.
When she doesn’t text back right away, I figure she’s probably on one of her Sam and Dean binge sessions, and head over to my new wardrobe in the corner, this towering antique piece with fleur-de-lis designs carved into the decorative arch on the top. Opening it, I get a sharp stab from the blade of reality.
During school hours, everyone wears their uniforms.
At a weekend party, nobody will be wearing them, and my twenty dollar Target dress will stand out like a sore thumb. That is, if Miranda even finds a way to get me an invite.
As I’m thumbing through my meager collection of thrift store, Walmart, and garage sale finds, there’s a knock at the door. With no small amount of caution, I move over to open it. If it’s anyone but Miranda, I’m leaving it bolted.
But when I peek through the peephole, I find Miranda grinning and waving, holding a dress in one arm and a shoebox in the other. I open it, and she bounces in, grinning from ear to ear.
“I got them to agree,” she says, breathless from sprinting over here from her shared apartment with Creed. They have a two bedroom with a balcony that Miranda promises I can see someday, but which I don’t think I ever will seeing as her brother hates my guts. “Well, I got Creed to agree, and that’s all we need.”
“Wow,” I say as she tosses the dress on the bed, and I see that it’s an expensive, tight-fitting little black number that I wouldn’t be caught dead in. I’m sure Miranda will have no trouble pulling it off though. “Your brother really does have a soft spot for you, doesn’t he?”
“He’ll have a soft spot for you, too, when he sees you in this dress,” she says, smirking and popping out a hip. For a moment, the expression reminds
me of her twin, and I get goose bumps. “And these shoes.” Miranda points a long, shiny fingernail at the box.
I can’t miss the label printed on the top.
“Manolo Blahnik?” I choke out, and then my eyes flick to the dress again. “And I don’t care what designer made that dress; I won’t fit into it.”
Miranda rolls her eyes like I’m a crazy person, and then slides a bottle of champagne out from under the dress that I didn’t see before. “You’re being too hard on yourself. Let me dress you up while we pre-drink, and we’ll have an epic party. This is the first weekend of our freshmen year; we have to live this up.” She pops the champagne, and the cork flies up and hits the ceiling, making us both laugh. Me, with nervousness. Her, with her usual good cheer.
“So is Creed like the Yang to your Yin?” I ask as Miranda opens the clear plastic of the garment bag, revealing two little black dresses instead of one. And I’d thought there was little fabric to be had to begin with. Now there’s even less.
“He’s … complicated,” she starts as she moves into the kitchenette, opening the frosted glass cabinet door and pulling out two crystal cups. There aren’t any champagne flutes, but that’s not particularly surprising considering we’re several years off from being able to legally drink. “You can’t let him get to you. He’s just … he’s so concerned at being ‘new money’ that he overcompensates.” Miranda pours a generous glass of champagne for each of us, handing one over to me.
If I get caught drinking, I could be kicked out of the academy- permanently.
At the same time, I don’t want to spit on Miranda’s goodwill. I wait for her to move into the bathroom and flick on the lights before I quickly empty my glass into the sink.
“They redid this whole place, huh?” she asks as I step in behind her, taking in the deep tub, the stand-up shower, and the windows overlooking the park-like courtyard behind the church. They each have a set of handy wooden blinds that block out all the light, but they’re open now, showing off the dusky evening sky.
“This is basically a palace to me,” I say with a smile, a flitter of nervous energy taking over my belly when I see the amount of makeup that Miranda’s stuffed into her purse. She unloads it onto the burnished gold
stone of the countertop, and then turns to look at me with a critical eye. “What?” I ask, suddenly wary, and Miranda grins at me.
“How do you feel about curls?” she asks, reaching out to play with my hair. I look past her and into the mirror, locked into my own brown-eyed gaze. My lips are too thin, my chin too pointed, my nose too big. At least those judgements are my own. The things they used to say to me back home rarely had anything to do with my appearance. Mostly, they attacked my character.
“Curls are great,” I say, trying to force a smile. On the inside, I’m wondering if there’s anything I could wear or do that would make a difference tonight. I imagine not. Because on the inside, I’ll still be poor.