Sweet Nothing

Mia Henry

Elle,

I miss you already. Deep down, she does too. Just so you know: I’m not mad. I understand why you had to leave. It sucks here without you, though. The same photographers are camped outside for the millionth day in a row. Every time I leave the apartment, they’re in my face, snapping my picture, asking ridiculous questions. I feel like the worst kind of celebrity. How’s this for a tabloid caption:
Shamed Celebutantes: They’re Just Like Us!
(Too soon?)

Love you for infinity,

A

I’ve crossed nine state lines before I admit the truth: I will never be able to escape. Not really. I can trade my concrete jungle for white sandy beaches; can swap honking cabs for crashing waves. I can cut and dye my hair. Change my name. But the memories are the part of me that I will never be able to shed. And the part I most want to.

Guilt writhes at my core as I read Aria’s Email on my cell one last time, then tuck the phone into the Camry’s cup holder, next to my 4
^th
Starbucks cup in a few hours. The rest of the car is stuffed with silky scraps of the life I left behind: Stella McCartney, Alice & Olivia, Theory. And then there are the real things: the last paperback my father slipped under my pillow. My running shoes. The silver monogrammed money clip my mother gave me. A framed picture of Aria and me, goofing around on the steps of the Met when we were kids. I’m giving her bunny ears.

The car shudders in protest, reminding me to focus on the road. I’m shocked that the Craigslist wheels I bought just a few days ago for less than a grand, cash, have gotten me this far.
Just a few more miles,
I plead silently. I press my bare foot into the accelerator. Fueled mostly by my desperation, the car surges onto the causeway, crossing Biscayne Bay.

The bay is the fake kind of turquoise you see in movies. The sun sets in my rearview, syrupy splashes of pink and red and orange dripping into the water. It’s beautiful here, a different kind of beauty than the gritty, glistening façade of Manhattan. I don’t deserve this kind of beauty. Not after what I’ve done.

From behind new tortoiseshell glasses, I blink back tears. Rake my fingers through the auburn layers that have replaced my signature blonde waves. I didn’t have a choice, did I? I told the truth! I told the truth, and now my family is ruined. My father trapped behind bars. My sister a prisoner in our home, at least until she leaves for college. My mother so depressed she can hardly get out of bed. So furious, she hasn’t spoken to me since the trial.

“Get it together, Elliot.” I shake my head, hoping to clear the clutter in my brain. No luck.

On the other side of the bay, I veer north, winding through Miami Beach. Too soon, I’m approaching the bridge to La Gorce Island, one of Miami’s most exclusive communities. Caffeine and adrenaline surge through me, and I have the sudden, frantic urge to throw the car into reverse. What was I thinking, accepting a job 1300 miles away from the only home I’ve ever known? What if I can’t do this?

I reach the small bridge that stretches across the water to the island and stop at the guard station on the other side.

“Name?” The female guard’s voice is muffled outside my window. I fumble around for the power window switch and find a manual handle instead. It takes about twenty seconds and some serious bicep to lower the window an inch. Warm, salty air floods the car.

“Um, Sloane?” I shout, tilting my lips toward the crack. “Sorry, I can’t—Elle Sloane?” My voice lilts in a question, as if I don’t even know who I am. It’s not far from the truth.

The woman’s gaze slides dubiously across the dirty, dented car. I don’t blame her.

“I’m here to see Dr. Goodwin.” My cheeks grow hot. “For the Allford Academy reception?”

She narrows her eyes and consults the clipboard in her hand. “Sloane, Elle. Here you are.” She doesn’t hide her disdain. “Straight ahead, miss. Take the first exit after the roundabout. Dr. Goodwin is at the end of the street.”

“Thanks.” I don’t bother trying to roll up the window. The car bucks forward onto a narrow lane that’s lined with palm trees. The homes here are set far from the road, shielded by ornate wrought iron gates and endless emerald lawns. The lawns are edged with floppy green leaves and punch-colored flowers. Hibiscus, I think. The homes are stucco mansions with red tile roofs; modern, pristine glass rectangles; imposing stone castles. Money looks different here than it did in New York.

At the end of the street, symmetrical bunches of palm trees flank a long private driveway that is lined with flickering luminaries. I crane my neck. Dr. Goodwin’s home is one of the Spanish-style castles: creamy stucco, tile roof. Lighted fountain in the center of a circular drive. Shiny black luxury cars inch in a distinguished parade around the fountain.

My nerves jangle again. I check my watch. The reception started fifteen minutes ago, and I’m still wearing jeans and the stained navy WHARTON t-shirt I won’t need anymore. It was a gift from Aria.

“Hold on,” she’d said excitedly after I had torn into my acceptance letter and read it out loud. She’d sprinted up the stairs and returned seconds later with the shirt. “Here! Try it on!”

“How’d you do that so fast?” I giggled, squeezing her tight. She smelled like vanilla.

“Please. I knew you’d get in.” She squeezed me back. “Hello? Nobody else I know has a big sister who graduated from Columbia in three years! You’re like the smartest chick I know. And in two years, you’ll be the smartest chick I know WITH AN MBA FROM THE UNIVERSITY OF PENNSYLVANIA!”

We squealed and squeezed each other tighter.

That was only seven months ago, but it felt like a lifetime ago. It
was
a lifetime ago. When I was the kind of me I’d never be again.

I park the car just out of sight of the driveway, then duck into the back seat, pawing through the piles of clothes. There’s an emerald BCBG cocktail number toward the bottom of the stack. Boatneck, with long sleeves and black jeweled cuffs. Mini, but not in a slutty way. And less wrinkled than the others. I rip off the tags, crouch behind the driver’s seat, shimmy out of my t-shirt, and unbutton my jeans. Where did I stash my silver snakeskin—

“Ma’am?” An older man’s voice leaks through the window.
Rap rap rap.
“Excuse me?”

I scream and hit the deck, tugging six months’ worth of dry cleaning over my head. This is what I get for not changing in the bathroom at the Shell station, like a civilized fugitive. I screw my eyes shut and consider not moving until the intruder loses interest or enough years pass that the word
ma’am
doesn’t seem quite so insulting. Whichever comes first.

Again: “Ma’am?”
Rap rap rap.
“Can I… help you?”

“Okay, okay,” I groan. “Give me a second.” I wrap a black maxi dress around me like a towel and push myself to a crouching position. Then I reach for the door handle, which I don’t actually expect to be functional.

Wrong.

I spill out of the Camry’s backseat, the glistening dark pavement coming up fast.

“Woah! Easy!”

Suddenly, my face is buried in a crisp white dress shirt that smells like fresh grass

and cologne—the same kind my father used to wear. Shaky arms pull me to standing, and I’m standing nose-to-black tie.

“Oh, God.” Face burning, I blow my hair away from my face and look up.

The man still holding me looks to be older than my father, with wispy gray hair and forgiving brown eyes.

“I can explain, I swear.” My body surges with heat. Whether it’s from sheer humiliation or the thick Miami humidity crashing over me like a wave, I don’t know.

“Let’s start with your name.” The voice is amused but kind.

Words tumble recklessly from my lips. “I’m Elle Sloane. The new Econ teacher at Allford? And I drove here all the way from New York and I didn’t have anywhere to change, and if you could please not tell Dr. Goodwin you found me half-naked out here so I don’t get fired before my first day, that would be—”

“Your secret’s safe with me.” The man smiles and mimes locking his lips and throwing away the key. “I’m Gregory. I run the house for Dr. Goodwin. One of the valets saw you on the security cameras and—”

I gasp. The mortified screech in my head sounds like a dying hyena.

“Not
you
, exactly,” he laughs. “We saw the
car
parked out here and thought maybe… someone was lost.” It’s his polite way of telling me that my dilapidated ride doesn’t exactly belong with the Audis and Mercedes he’s been parking so far tonight. The snob in me wants to blurt that my car before this one was a BMW M6 convertible.

Stop it, Elliot. That life isn’t yours anymore. It never was.

“Young lady,” Gregory pats me on the shoulder and an image of my father flashes through my mind. I blink it away. “I think we can find you a better place to change. It’s not every day you make a first impression with the Allford Academy community.”

Five minutes later, Gregory has parked my car out of sight and I’m standing in one of the bathrooms in Dr. Goodwin’s guesthouse. The house, Gregory informed me, is a replica of the main house and is unoccupied.

The creamy, marbled travertine tile floors feel cool beneath my bare feet. Dark mahogany cabinets with modern brushed silver pulls line the walls. Warm recessed lighting pours over the single white orchids in silver bowls on the shiny countertops. My black strappy heels sit in a pile at my feet.

I slip the dress over my head and unzip my makeup bag. Swish with mouthwash, dust a shimmery peach blush on the apples of my cheeks, add an extra layer of mascara beneath my new lenses, and slick my lips with nude gloss. Then I tousle my hair with my fingers and spritz the ends with the shine serum I find in the top drawer. I lean over the sink and blink at my reflection.

Your name is Elle Sloane. You are an economics teacher. You just graduated from NYU. You’re an only child. Your parents are married. In love. Your life so far has been normal. Bland. Average. You are happy.

I tilt my head back and blink away the tears I know will come if I let them. This was not supposed to be my life. I tug on my heels, practice a wide smile in the mirror and head for the door, the words echoing in my mind.

You are happy. You are happy. You are happy.

For a second, I almost believe them.

Elle,

By the time you check your Email, you’ll be back from your reception. Remember: you always knew how to be the life of the party without trying. If all else fails, show them how you can tie a cherry stem in a bow using only your tongue. Guaranteed to get you serious admiration. Or a date, at least.