Authors: Emily Franklin
I sit on one and take a breath. The lights in this room cast a pink hue, and I feel calm (and probably closer to my inner organs). Calm enough that I stand up and go to find Arabella to tell her I have giant crush on her brother.
When I finally get to Arabella’s enormous room, she’s changed into a skintight crewneck sweater that clings to her enough to make anyone envious and a pair of Hadley Hall sweatpants.
“You look cozy,” I say.
“Much better, yeah. Where were you?”
“Oh, you know, wandering around, taking the tour of all the guest rooms.”
“Did you find the trap door?”
“No — where’s that?”
“The purple room,” she says. “You have to sort of bonk the bookshelf with your hip like this…” She demonstrates. “And then the wall spins.”
“I definitely want to check that out. But listen, can I tell you something?”
Arabella sits cross-legged in a leather chair. “Sure. But then we should go downstairs. Monti gets cross is you miss the ritual.” When I look confused she adds, “It’s nothing big — just hot cocoa before bed.”
“Yum.”
“So what did you want to say? You’re not upset are you? Everything’s all right here? God — I didn’t even ask about your phone call home — is Mable okay?”
“Yeah, yeah, it’s fine. What I wanted to just say was that — in terms of your family and everything,…obviously, thank you for having me and I am having a great time so far…”
“Piss off I said!” Arabella shouts and makes me jump. “Not you, Love.”
I turn around and see Clive the Dickhead leaning on the doorframe, listening to our conversation. Arabella leaps up from her chair and slams the double-door in his face.
“Sorry,” she says. “He’ll leave for an extra-long holiday soon and we’ll be free of fraternal fuck-ups.”
“Speaking of fraternal, about Asher…”
Arabella takes a tube of lip gloss from the mantel and puts it on without looking in the mirror. “Don’t even get me started or we’ll never make it to the kitchen. Clive’s annoying as hell but with him you know what you’re getting. Asher’s a different story altogether.”
“Really? How so?”
“Look, Love, Asher and I share the same genes but he’s not like me.” She faces me and sighs, puts my hair behind my ear. “He’s moody. All he cares about is his camera and making sure his gallery doesn’t fold.”
“Maybe he’s shy,” I offer. Except with a certain girl in a certain garden. “He has a gallery? That sounds cool.”
“Why are you defending him when you haven’t even met him?” she asks but doesn’t give me time to answer. “He’s this struggling photojournalist-slash-heartbreaker-slash-photographer-slash-hook-up artist who thinks he’s entitled to whatever — or whomever — he wants.”
Suddenly, I have different image of Asher. Not the rugged gardener, but the hot womanizer at a party. Somehow, I can’t merge the two images. “So you’re saying you guys aren’t close?”
“Spot on.” Note to self: add this to the list of phrases. “Asher is interested only in himself, he wants nothing to do with me or my friends, and he’s come very close to telling my parents about me and Tobias, which he knows would be a huge scandal.”
“But he hasn’t, right? Told them, I mean?”
“Well, no,” Arabella says, considering. She leads me to the doorway. “But basically, Asher is to be left alone. It’s what he wants, and you’d do well to just ignore him which shouldn’t be difficult since he’s hardly ever here.”
We’re on the grand front stairwell when Arabella thinks of something and spins around to me. “Yeah,” she says. “I’ll introduce you to Asher — and then just forget him.”
In the kitchen, Asher is nowhere in sight. Our mouth-to-mouth contact this afternoon is feeling further away — possibly I dreamed it? Angus and Monti serve hot cocoa in cylindrical glass mugs and pass around a bowl of fresh whipped cream.
“All right,” Angus bellows. “Who wants to go first?”
Since I have no idea what he’s talking about, I say nothing. I keep waiting for someone to clue me in on the Piece family rituals but they don’t — it’s as if I’m just expected to figure things out as I go, which is fine, but a rule or guide book (which includes
don’t hook up with Arabella’s brother
) would be nice.
Monti sips her drink and says, “As you know, I have the cover of
Celebrity Life
coming up. And although I am the first to admit this is a silly, superficial wish, I just hope it goes well.”
“That’s not superficial, Mum,” Arabella says. “It’s your career — you should be proud. It’s totally respectable to want it to go well.” Arabella licks her spoon clean of whipped cream. “I want to be honest.”
Massive pause as we all wait for Arabella to continue, but she doesn’t.
“Care to elaborate?” Clive asks. He snickers until Angus nudges him and then says, “Come on, Bels, tell us more.”
Angus shakes his head. “No, no — this is free flowing release here, not a forced outpouring. Now, Love — what do you wish for?”
Oh, right, that’s what we’re doing. “Um, you mean longterm? Or now, for tomorrow?”
Monti flips her blonde mane back and winks at Angus, “Oh, interesting!”
“Oh, no,” I groan. “What have I revealed about myself? I wasn’t sure about the rules of this.”
“Oh — very interesting…” Angus lets out a big belch and I swear I will wake up from this weird dream and be back at Hadley Hall, late for class. I dig my thumb nail in to my thigh to check — nope — this is real.
“What Angus is trying to say,” Arabella explains, “Is that you’re supposed to just say what you want.”
“And
do
what you want,” Clive says and makes it sound like what I want to do is jump into bed with him, the thought of which is enough to inspire bile at the back of my throat. “Why do you limit yourself?”
“But all I was asking was what the rules are,” I say, defenses up. “I mean, this…” I gesture to the table, the hot chochie, the whole room, the whole thing. “…this is bizarre! I don’t know what I’m doing here. So for me to say what I wish for, or what I want to happen — I just can’t…” Before I can unravel further, I clamp my mouth closed.
Clive the spotty slimmer, Arabella the English rose, Monti the model, and Angus the playwright stare at me like I’m a freak of nature.
Monti pats my hand and when I don’t look her in the eye, she leans down so I can see her. Her lids are lined in white, her green eyes vivid. “Maybe you will. Let’s hope you will.”
Will what? I think and then, in case I wanted to pseudo-séance to be even freakier, it’s like they’ve read my mind and Arabella says, “She means you will know what to do. You will know what to wish for, or how to act if you just stop thinking about it.”
I have visions of the evening ending with hand-holding and aura-reading, but instead it’s surprisingly normal. Arabella washes the glasses in sudsy water, Clive sponges the table clean, goodnights are said and we all go to our respective rooms.
I’m tucked under the cushy fluff of the down duvet when I feel a crunch. I’m lying on the packet of information from LADAM, which, once I slide it out from under me, I feel the need to read. The Hadley Hall exchange program is through St. Paul’s which is a fancy private all-girls school (private is called public in England, pubic is called state, it’s all confusing) and LADAM is a sort-of offshoot of St. Paul’s. Arabella is fully on the LADAM side of things, but you can take classes in either — with St. Paul’s being more traditional academics and LADAM being exclusively dramatics and music with classes that range from Acting for the Screen to one just called Posture — seriously). In order to have enough credits that transfer back to Hadley, I have to take two classes at St. Paul’s, which sound interesting. One is a Shakespeare lecture, and one is Expository writing and Modern British Literature — AKA Brit Lit — which Arabella recommended since it’s taught by Poppy Massa-Tonclair (AKA PMT, the anglo version of PMS). PMT is the British equivalent of Toni Morrison — except not African-American — rather Indian-English, very respected, major awards, and so on.
All of my classes are outlined in the packet, along with the honor code, which I have to sign. All the tests are take home ones, exams, too, but you have to swear (swear=sign your name) that you won’t cheat. By signing your name, you’re also confirming that if you do cheat — say, use your textbook or go on line to search for a forgotten fact — that you will turn yourself in. I fall asleep with the bright moonlight (I couldn’t bring myself to close the heavy inside shutters on my windows) casting shadows across the papers and schedules, the map of the London underground, the date and time I’m expected at the dorms, and a picture of said housing — which looks, to be honest — like a motel circa 1960 — boxy rooms with brown crocheted bedcovers, dusty vinyl-coated curtains, and a desk. I can’t quite imagine myself there; singing, studying Brit Lit, working on my posture, but it’s looming — the holidays will be over soon, and I’ll have to leave Bracker’s Common, with all its rituals and intrigues, and head to London.
Of course, when I wake up to a tray of strawberry crepes, fresh croissant, coffee with steamed milk waiting for me outside my door, the student housing and London life seem very far away. I nibble at my food and run the bath. Sitting in the warm bubbles, I have a clear view out the windows to the Bracker’s grounds. I can literally control my pulse by thinking of — or ignoring — the kiss with Asher. What do I wish right now? That he’d walk in here, and join me in the bath.
But no such luck. Plus, if he did, I’d freak out I think, never having been that naked with anyone before, and also worrying that Arabella would find us together and make me go home. And I don’t want to go back to home — or to Hadley — or any of the glut of gossip I left behind — the mess with Jacob and bitchy Lindsay Parrish, the constant fear of Mable taking a turn for the worse, my dad delving into my affairs (or lack thereof, but still), the everydayness of life back there. With a shudder and a smile, I remember that I don’t have to go back — not yet. For right now, I’m here (here=bathtub in palace minus hot English boy, but here nonetheless).
The day is spent stringing flowers onto ribbons and slinging the ribbons from the ceilings, adding bows and holly, until the effect is that of a Shakespearean set. I studied enough of the Bard to know that a lot of his plays have magic in them, either a forest with fairies in which all guards are down, or a swapping of identities that causes havoc, and when the dinner gong sounds, I realize I’ve got a starring role.
The “theme for the evening” as stated by Monti as she tried on vintage outfits for her magazine shoot is “purity.” Over lunch, it was agreed upon that we’d all dress in white for Christmas dinner and “arrive with pure thoughts.” I’m guessing since Monti was dressed in a leopard g-string and haltertop and drinking champagne, that she didn’t mean pure as in no nookie, more like pure as in open to new thoughts, honest, which is a good thing, since I must confess that my thoughts have been less than pure when it comes to dreams involving Asher.
“Are you ready?” Arabella arrives at my room wearing a white tank top, white boa, skintight white suede flares, and white heels.
“You look like a slutty angel,” I say.
“I feel like one, too,” she smiles. “I got a phone call from Toby just now. He just got back from drinks with William.”
“As in Prince?”
“As in, yes.”
“Right,” I say. “Sounds ordinary.”
We laugh and when I hold up a white loose-knit sweater to compare it with the white Oxford shirt I’ve got on, Arabella shakes her head. “Just borrow something from Mum.”
She leads me into a room I’ve yet to see, which turns out to be one devoted entirely to clothing and accessories not currently being worn by Monti. The room is bigger than my living room at home and organized by color, so we head right to the white section.
“Tops are on the bottom and bottoms are on the top,” Arabella explains. “and no, not just to be quirky —”
“I know,” I say. “It’s so the bottoms of the dresses and pants don’t hit the floor, right?”
“Ah, you learn fast, Grasshopper,” Arabella says in a faux-wise voice. “Just rummage around and I’ll see you downstairs. But don’t be shy. You’ve got an amazing body — if only you’d show it.”
When she’s gone, I slide into clothes I’d never think to try on in a store — not that I’ve been to many stores that carry couture. In Jimmy Choos and an Armani sheath, I’m ready for the white party in the Hamptons. In a cropped white fur coat and hip-hugging pants I’m ready for my Sundance close-up. Then I find a low-slung, but not too-low cut — skirt and a white turtleneck body suit which, when paired, look very good. I complete the enemble with white knee-length boots and before I give in to the urge to try on clothes from the other color sections, I turn off the lights and head downstairs.
I pause in the middle of the staircase, the Christmas lights twinkle below, fragrant smells come from the dining room, music wafts up, and it feels good. It’s one of those rare moments where everything feels in synch, and I feel pretty and calm.
Calm until, that is, I see Asher staring at me from the arch of the front door.
We lock eyes and I go down the steps hoping not to trip on the boots which are a half-size too big. I make it safely to the bottom and Asher is right in front of me. The cold air from outside is still on him, on his clothes, his cheeks. This is it: he will grab me and kiss me right in front of everyone, his hands cold on my neck, on my body…
“Oh, look what the night dragged in,” Arabella sighs and takes my hand. “Love, this is Asher, Asher, this is…”
“Love,” Asher reaches his hand out and shakes mine. I don’t want him to let go.
“Asher,” I manage to croak out.
“Now you’ve met him, now forget him,” Arabella says and leads me away. I turn back, my heart beating way too fast, my hand still cold from his touch.
Christmas Eve dinner extends from night into the following early morning, with food, festivities, and gifts, followed by more food and — let me be very clear — a startling amount of alcohol. Bottles assemble like a small glass army on top of the sideboard. With the table skirted in white linen, the pillars of white candles, and white food, the room is a vision of tranquility, except of course for Asher, who has chosen to wear an entirely black outfit.