Roxy's Story

  I saw the look of hope in Sheena’s face, hope that she would finally have a girlfriend, someone who wasn’t afraid to tell her intimate things and hear intimate things. Maybe I was flattering myself too much, but I suddenly saw myself as the sister she never had. I wasn’t going to hurt her any more than she had been in her life. If Mrs. Brittany couldn’t see that, then good riddance to her and this whole idea.

  “Mr. Bob is the one who brought me to your grandmother. He’s a kind of agent, like an actors’ agent who discovers new talent.”

  “How did he discover you?”

  Now we were really getting to the nitty-gritty, I thought.

  “A short while ago, my father threw me out of our house, and Mr. Bob found me when I was about to give up on myself.”

  “Really? Your father threw you out?” she asked, now looking shocked. Maybe this would end the attempt at any friendship. Maybe this was for the best. I’d tell her everything, and that would drive her away. “I can’t imagine a father throwing out his own daughter.”

  “Yes. I was thrown out. I’ve been in trouble all the time. He simply gave up trying to change me, and he was worried about my influencing my younger sister.”

  “Oh. How old is she?”

  “She’s about nine years younger.”

  “Did you, I mean, do you have a good relationship with her, anyway?”

  “We hardly know each other,” I said.

  She looked more shocked. “Why?”

  “Our age difference, for one reason, and for another, my father has done his best to scare her away from me. I can count on the fingers of one hand how many times I’ve gone somewhere with her without either my mother or my father tagging along. The last thing I did that you might call sisterly was give her a charm bracelet that had been given to me.”

  “What about your mother? Is your mother still alive?”

  “She’s still alive, but she . . . she’s given up on me, too. I told you I was no angel. I’ve been in one pot of hot water after another. I guess I exhausted them, and they’re terrified I’ll spoil my sister. She’s perfect in their eyes, whereas I’m all that’s bad.”

  She thought a moment and then surprised me with a smile. “Well, I’ve never been in trouble. I can’t wait to hear what you did to cause your own parents to think you were all bad.”

  “I don’t know if I should get into all that with you, Sheena.”

  “I do. You should. I won’t go blabbering to my grandmother, if that’s what you’re afraid of,” she said, “or anyone else. You can trust me with any secret you have. I want to trust you, too.”

  “I’m not talking about just being a bad student, breaking school rules, or staying out too late and going places my parents forbade me to go to, Sheena.”

  “Good. There’s nothing extraordinary about that. All that sounds like simple immaturity or being spoiled. Boring stuff,” she sang.

  Was there anything I could say that would keep her from wanting to befriend me?

  More important, perhaps, did I want to do that?

  “I want to hear about your love life.”

  “I haven’t had a love life, except with myself,” I said.

  She laughed. “Okay, your sex life, then. As I told you, I’ve read about anything and everything you’ve done, probably. I just want to hear about it from someone who’s actually done it. Maybe what I’ve read isn’t so accurate. Maybe it’s too made up or too . . . hopeful. All right?”

  “Okay. We’ll see,” I said.

  “Yes, we will, but I’m not being fair.” She turned back to the books and papers. “It’s getting late, and I haven’t give you any pointers yet. I’m sure you’re tired. C’mon,” she urged. “Let’s go over some of this.” She laughed as she opened the fat art textbook. “I’m sure it will help you fall asleep.”

  She was right. After nearly an hour, my eyes began to close, and we decided it was enough, but she did home in on the information I would need to impress Professor Marx the next day. Before she left, she told me she was going to ask her grandmother if I could have dinner with her and spend time with her in her suite studying afterward.

  “She has to agree to give you a day off, doesn’t she?”

  “I don’t think she believes in the concept.”

  “Oh, she does. I’ll work on her.”

  “Don’t work on her too hard, or she’ll just ship me off,” I warned.

  “I know how to handle my grandmother,” she whispered at the door. “I got her to let you see me, didn’t I? Don’t worry about it. I have all kinds of things I want to show you, including some clothes I want you to try on. We’re almost the same size in everything, I bet. Okay?”

  I saw the desperation in her face. On this great estate with almost anything anyone could want at her beck and call, Sheena was hungering for the simplest thing of all, some real companionship.

  Maybe I was, too.

  Maybe escaping loneliness was the reason we did everything we did in this life.

  Maybe my father was lonelier than I had ever imagined. Maybe my mother was, too.

  Now Emmie would be.

  And despite what my father hoped for now, no one would be happier because of what had happened.

  “Okay,” I said.

  Sheena leaned forward to kiss me on the cheek. “Sweet dreams,” she said.

  I don’t know why, but as she walked away, limping, I felt like bursting into tears.

  Only I didn’t know if I would be crying for her or for myself.

  I closed all the books and crawled into bed.

  In the morning, the phone woke me just as Mrs. Pratt had promised. I felt like throwing it against the wall, but I sat up quickly, lifted the receiver, and put it back as she had instructed. Groaning and moaning from the charley horses Lance had predicted with such glee, I got myself into a hot shower and then shifted to icy-cold water to wake up every cell in my body.

  This time, when I arrived at the breakfast nook, there was no one there. Randy informed me that Portia had already left.

  “She had to fly to Los Angeles,” he revealed, and then pretended to zip up his lips.

  I ate my healthy breakfast and then reluctantly rose and went to the gym.

  “Stretching,” Lance called the moment I entered. “You know the routine.”

  Yes, I knew it.

  They’ll kill me before I have a chance to be approved for anything, I thought, but the workout wasn’t as bad as I’d feared. Lance did know what he was doing, just how much to push me and when to give me rest. We returned to the pool afterward, and according to him, I swam better. I didn’t get a massage this time but was told to go to the library to see Professor Brenner, the man who was going to work on my elocution.

  Unlike Professor Marx, he was jovial from the start and seemed genuinely amused at the way I pronounced some of my words. He wore a western-style tie and jacket, jeans, and boots and had a well-trimmed rust-red mustache. I didn’t think he was more than fifty years old and wondered why he was a retired professor.

  He pounced on my slurring of consonants and what he called my lazy tongue.

  “You’ve got that New York thing, saying ‘mounain’ instead of ‘mountain,’ ” he said. “Also, just like most people your age today, Roxy, you speak too fast. Do you know what a caesural pause is?”

  I remembered Mr. Wheeler talking about it and said, “Sort of a pregnant pause?”

  Professor Brenner laughed. “Exactly. You capture your listener’s attention with it and elevate the importance of what you’re saying next. Think about that, and it will help you slow down. You’ll sound more . . .”

  “Educated?”

  “Yes, but I was thinking more mature,” he said.

  He gave me lessons to practice with a recorder, and then I went on to lunch with Nigel Whitehouse. Later that afternoon, I impressed Professor Marx with what I had mastered, thanks to Sheena. By the end of the afternoon, I felt more confident. Mrs. Pratt informed me that I was to have a priva
te dinner with Mrs. Brittany. Again, clothes were brought in for me.

  “It’s all right for you to spend an hour or so with Mrs. Brittany’s granddaughter,” she added. I could see in her face and hear in her voice that she wasn’t happy about it. She told me exactly where to go in the east wing of the mansion.

  I set out as soon as she left and followed the corridor past the stairway. There was something about this wing of the mansion that seemed more homey. The colors were far more subtle, the paintings smaller, with depictions of rural scenes, lakes, and beautiful valleys. There was one portrait of significant size. It was of a handsome man in what looked like garb worn by royalty, with epaulets on his shoulders and some medals under his breast pocket. He wore three jeweled rings and was captured with a soft smile. Has to be Mrs. Brittany’s husband, I thought, and turned the corner to knock on the first door on my right.

  Sheena opened it instantly.

  “Oh, it’s you. I was hoping it was you. Guess what? My grandmother said I could go horseback riding with you tomorrow when you take your first lesson. Come in. Come in,” she said, stepping back.

  Her room wasn’t quite as large as mine, but it was far cozier. She had posters of her favorite movie stars and singers on the walls, and dolls on a shelf and one on the bed. As I gazed around, I thought it was more like the room of a young teenage girl. Her four-poster light maple bed was smaller than my bed and wasn’t as high. I saw a pile of CDs and a large pile of DVDs on a dresser, books on another, and many magazines. There was a built-in large-screen television on the wall across from her bed and what looked like a stack of audio equipment in a glass-framed closet beside it. In short, it had the look of a room for someone who was mainly a shut-in. I plopped onto the oversize chair to my right.

  “You’re exhausted,” she declared with a wide smile.

  “Yes. This is the first minute I’ve had to myself. Thanks for your help with the homework. Professor Marx was pleased.”

  “Oh, we’ll do more tonight. After you have dinner with my grandmother, I mean. Yes, I know your schedule. I wanted to be there, too, but she says it’s part of your training. But,” she added, clapping her hands together, “we can have dinner tomorrow night without anyone else. She said we could even go out. Of course, she would choose the restaurant, but we’d go in her limousine. If I count our horseback ride together, it would be like spending the whole day with each other. Well, not really, I know. You’ll be busy until you go for your lesson, but still, it’s more time than I’ve spent with anyone this year. Or last year,” she added with a laugh. “Maybe this coming weekend, she’ll let us go to a movie. I don’t know what we should go see, but just going would be fun, wouldn’t it? And afterward, maybe we could go for pizza or something. Whatever you think is fine with me. My grandmother said she would let me accompany you and her when she takes you shopping next week. Of course, she’ll buy me things, too.”

  It seemed she would talk incessantly, behaving like someone who was afraid of a moment of silence or any sort of disappointment.

  “That all sounds great to me, and it’s news. I didn’t know I was to go shopping next week.”

  “Oh, it doesn’t matter. It’s not a top government secret or anything. You’ve got to see this dress she bought me last week in London. I wasn’t there, but she brought it back. Don’t move.”

  She stepped into her walk-in closet. I laughed to myself, thinking of how I was with the girls in my school when they started talking about all the things they had and all that their parents did for them. If they were looking to impress someone or make someone envious, they were always disappointed in me. On the contrary, I would invariably mock them or criticize what they were given and make them feel small and stupid. Most girls didn’t mention such things to me after a while.

  However, I wasn’t being friendly and pleasant with Sheena simply because she was Mrs. Brittany’s granddaughter. I had never met someone Sheena’s age who seemed so innocent and pure, so vulnerable and delicate. There was a part of me that wished I were just like her. For sure, I would have gotten along much better with my father and my mother. Girls like Sheena needed a grandmother like Mrs. Brittany or a friend like me to watch over them. They wouldn’t recognize evil, envy, or just plain meanness when they confronted it.

  After a few moments, she stepped out in her dress. I nearly gasped with surprise. Mrs. Brittany bought her this? It was a backless silver glitter dress with long fitted sleeves and strong shoulders, in a stretch fabric that hugged every curve. It was a good six inches above the knee, too. Where would she wear such a dress? I would have thought she would have found her a dress that was at least ankle-length for obvious reasons.

  “Don’t you like it?” Sheena asked.

  “I’m overwhelmed. You’re stunning in it,” I said. For the most part, she was, but the prosthetic leg added an incongruous element, making her look a little bizarre. I mean, she was sexy yet odd.

  Why did Mrs. Brittany buy this for her? Was she trying to get her to forget about her leg?

  “I haven’t worn it anywhere yet. Do you think I should wear it when we go out to dinner?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “You can borrow it anytime,” she said.

  “Thanks.”

  She turned in a circle and then laughed. “I wouldn’t put it on until now. I knew it would be all right to show it to you.”

  “You could show it to anyone. Don’t worry about that.”

  “Silly,” she said. “Of course, I would worry.” She looked down at her prosthetic leg.

  “Anyone looking at you will be looking at the rest of you more. Believe me,” I said. “You have a better figure than I do.”

  She widened her smile. “I have other dresses I never dared to wear. I’ll show them all to you, but not now,” she added. “That’s too boring.” She sat on her bed and faced me.

  “It’s not boring.”

  “No, no. I don’t want to waste precious time. I know you have to get ready for dinner with my grandmother, and I know how nervous you’ll be about it.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I know. I’ve watched other girls when she didn’t know I was watching. I could see how nervous they were. I’m a little bit of a Peeping Tom—or Thomasina.” She laughed and then lost her smile. “I know you think that’s sick or something.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “It is,” she insisted. “I’m always looking through something to see what’s really happening, looking through windows or through television and movie screens or just peering at life through words in a book. But not now, not with you here. You’re a living person my age, who’s been places I dreamed of.”

  “No, I haven’t.”

  “Yes, you have.”

  She sprawled on her side and propped up her face with her left hand.

  “Tell me what it was like. Don’t leave out a detail, and don’t worry about how I might react or anything.”

  I leaned forward, smiling at her. “What what was like? Where do you think I’ve been?”

  “You’ve been there,” she said, nodding. “Or you wouldn’t be here.”

  I sat back. “Sheena?”

  “Tell me about the first time. Start from the very beginning, especially when you realized you were going to do it. Then tell me exactly what it felt like. I don’t believe what I read in my novels, and I don’t get anything out of the textbooks.

  “Oh, and tell me what he was like,” she added, “and if you ever saw him again or if that mattered.”

  I started to shake my head, saw the disappointment creeping into her face, and stopped. “I was only fourteen,” I began, “and it wasn’t long after I had my first period.”

  “Menarche,” she said, nodding. “I was only twelve, and my mother was furious because I didn’t tell her. She didn’t know it until she saw my panties and what I had stuffed in them. Did you tell your mother right away?”

  I thought for a moment. That should have been something
a mother and daughter shared. It should have been a remarkable moment.

  “No,” I said softly. “I was prepared. I’ve always been prepared.”

  And then something hit me like a snowball in my face.

  “I’ve never really been a little girl,” I said.

  We were both silent. I saw how fearful that made her, so I quickly smiled.

  “He was a pimply-faced sixteen-year-old,” I said, “but he had been around the block.”

  She perked up, and I got so involved in my story and how grateful she was to hear about it that I nearly forgot to get ready for my dinner with Mrs. Brittany.

  And that was surely at the top of the list for fatal mistakes.

  11

  Having dinner with Mrs. Brittany was intimidating enough, but just the two of us in that grand dining room made me feel I was on a larger stage and in a brighter spotlight. The room seemed cavernous without any other people present. As I walked over the tile portion of the floor, the echo of my footsteps in the new high heels sounded like spikes being driven into it. I tried to step more lightly.

  She sat at the head of the table and watched me approach, her eyes like X-rays examining every turn and twist in my hips as I walked. I don’t think anyone could make me more self-conscious of my every move, my every breath. As soon as I had entered the grand room, I corrected my posture and kept my head up. She seemed to grow larger and more intimidating as I approached, while everything around her seemed to diminish.

  “Did you look at yourself before you left your bedroom?” she asked the moment I reached the table.

  “Yes.”

  “You put your lipstick on too thickly. It’s off your lips on the right side, in fact.”

  “Oh.” I reached up to wipe it clear. “I guess I was in too much of a rush.”

  “Don’t do that. You’ll only smear it more.”

  She opened the purse she had hanging off her chair and handed me an ivory case that opened to a small mirror. I saw what she meant, and using a tissue she handed to me, I wiped away the excess lipstick. I thought she must have microscopes for eyes to have picked up on this so quickly. I looked at the case when I closed it.