Chapter 8
Callie
Oh dear god, what fresh hell is this? I’m trapped in a makeup chair at Bloomingdale's with a way too excited employee boasting the virtues of whatever she’s slathering on my face.
After picking up supplies for my Jewelry 1 class and a set of pretty, blue curtains so I’m not blinded every morning, I casually mentioned to my aunt that I don’t own nor have I ever worn makeup. Mildred, the generous woman she apparently is, offered to take me over to get the basics.
We were minding our own business, wandering the displays of brightly colored cosmetics, when the over enthusiastic sales person pounced, asking if there was anything she could help with. Mildred admitted that being from London, she wasn’t familiar with several of the brands available and inquired what the woman recommended for me, a teenage girl that knows squat about makeup. She worded it nicer.
It was like commission dollar signs overtook the woman’s eyes a la Looney Toons, and I was quickly shuffled into this ridiculously uncomfortable chair, and I’m pretty sure the sales person has barely stopped talking long enough to breathe.
“Your niece has such amazing skin!” she exclaims. The pin on her shirt states her name is Sharon. “Oh to be young again, right?”
If my skin is so amazing, why are you covering it in goo?
“Mmm, yes,” my aunt replies politely, one arm folded over her chest and one hand curled against her mouth. Her brown eyes definitely look like she’s laughing at me.
“Oh my god,” Sharon gushes while rapidly sponging my face, “your accent is amazing! British people always sound so sophisticated. I wish I had an accent. You know, I had a cousin that spent a summer in England and she came back with an accent.”
So she’s pretentious?
My aunt nods and hums a noncommittal noise. She raises a single blonde brow, and I know I’m not alone in my thoughts.
“Anyway, this CC cream is really popular with girls your niece’s age, because it’s great at evening out any blotches or redness, but isn’t heavy enough to cause breakouts,” Sharon continues her spiel. “And it also includes a built in moisturizer and a SPF 35 sunblock. Can’t start too early when it comes to skin care.”
I don’t have blotches, redness, or acne, and I’ve literally had my skin burned off and grow back. Why am I wearing this?
I shoot a help me face at Mildred when the sales person turns to grab some other thing to slather on my face, but she pretends to not understand. So mean!
After the CC cream, there’s concealer under my eyes, finishing powder, contouring my “amazing” cheekbones, then blush. Now, I’m at the base not looking like I’m wearing makeup phase. Huh?
“She has such a unique eye color, I think a dramatic look would be really fun,” Sharon proclaims to my aunt while penciling my eyebrows in, like I can’t hear her and might have an opinion. “I mean, definitely get a palette of neutral tones too, but this is the time to experiment, right? Have some fun and express yourself.”
I expressly wish this would end. All I wanted was some eyeliner, mascara, and maybe a tube of lipstick.
She doesn’t wait for an answer, more thinking out loud apparently, than wanting some kind of permission. “Now a nice charcoal and a light silver around the eye with a deep plum feathered from the crease is going to look amazing! Follow that with a dramatic wing, and wow, boys will be tripping over each other to get to this little model.”
She did not just say-- wasn’t she just talking about expressing myself?
Sharon continues to talk about the cosmetics and the company that makes it. Cruelty free, that’s nice. For the most part she sounds like the teacher from Peanuts. There’s talk of needing to get a set of brushes and sponges. Something about getting a lipstick palette will be better than individual tubes to have variety to experiment with, and I guess, a lot of these kits also come with small tutorial books. Well, that’ll be useful.
As Sharon works, there’s a growing stack of cosmetics on the counter that an oh-so-helpful second sales person is gathering. Every time she suggests or mentions something, out pops a fresh box added to the pile. By the time we’re done, I have a Mt Everest size collection of cosmetics and a giant red tote that’s apparently free because of the outrageous amount of money we’re about to drop on the makeup mountain.
“I don’t really need all this stuff,” I whisper to my aunt while the saleswomen gleefully ring everything up.
“It’s fine,” she murmurs back, running a hand along my hair with a smile. I don’t flinch, which I consider a victory. “I like getting you these things, and who knows, you might want all this in the future.”
She has a point, I suppose. I don’t have any interest now, but I’m still trying to figure out who I am. Maybe future Callie will like all this stuff.
Once we’re out of earshot of the manic makeup people, I pull out my phone and use the selfie feature to look at my face.
“I look like a drag queen,” I grumble, taking a picture and group texting it to the guys, because I feel this horror needs to be shared with others.
Mildred laughs. “You don’t look like a drag queen.”
I stare up at her and point at my face. “Do you see these eyebrows and all the crap on my eyes? Drag queen.”
“You look like a teenage girl with a little too much makeup on,” she reasons, shifting the large Bloomingdale's bag from one hand to the other.
“A little?” I reply sardonically. “I think my head is literally harder to hold up under the additional weight.” My aunt’s makeup is subtle with soft beiges for eyeshadow, just enough eyeliner to accent her eyes, and a nude lipstick. I beseech her, “Your makeup looks nice. Can you teach me how to do it like that?”
Her smile turns soft and she nods. “I’d be happy to, darling.”
My phone starts to buzz with replies.
Donovan: What the hell did you do to your face?
A charmer that one.
Nolan: You look lovely no matter what you do, but I prefer your everyday look.
Uh huh. Very diplomatic of you.
Nolan: Felix wants me to tell you that pretty girl doesn’t need makeup.
That’s good, since I have no idea how to put this stuff on. Less is going to have to be more for a while.
Connor: Look better w/o it
Even his texts are brief and to the point.
Kaleb: With your features and the natural glow of your complexion, I find the cosmetics detract more than they enhance, but it doesn’t really matter what we think. If it makes you happy, that’s all that’s important.
Thank you, but yeah, I hate it too.
Donovan: There’s no way she likes it. She looks like a drag queen.
And I’m vindicated!
Me: He’s right. Was attacked by sales person in Bloomingdale's. Needed to share the horror.
“Your new friends?” Mildred asks over my buzzing phone.
I smile and shove my phone into my back pocket. “Yeah, it’s them. Their consensus is I look better without makeup, and Donovan agrees with me that I look like a drag queen.”
“He said that?” she replies, shocked.
I chuckle and pull my phone back out so I can show her the texts. “Donovan is a straightforward and uh, honest kind of person.”
Mildred adjusts the straps of her chic Coach bag on her shoulder and takes my offered phone. “Oh, dear,” she murmurs with mirth scrolling through the messages then hands me back my phone. “Your friends seem nice, though I see what you mean about Donovan.” She pauses. “Are all your new friends boys?”
I chew on my lip, tasting the gross waxy lipstick, and pull at the sleeves of my Arizona State University hoodie. “Yeah,” I reply with hesitation. “Is that a problem?”
“No, of course not,” she quickly amends with a gentle smile. “As long as they’re kind and supportive people, that’s all that matters to me. I simply meant that sometimes it’s nice to have girlfriends for things too, like shopping for one. I’m enjoying spending time with you like this, but I know teenagers don’t…”
“Actually,” I interrupt, “I’m glad I’m here with you. I…” My heart picks up speed, as I approach dangerous territory. Even talking mundane things of my past hurts. “I didn’t really have friends before coming here, girls or otherwise, so I don’t know how to, I don’t know, be a teenage girl?” I groan. “That sounds dumb. I just mean shopping, gossiping, and all the other teenage girl clichés, they’re completely out of my wheelhouse.”
“Oh, darling,” she pulls me into her arms, and it’s another exercise in relaxing my muscles. “You are a teenage girl. There are no rules on how to be one, you are one. Even if you hate shopping, wear nothing but jeans and t-shirts, find gossiping abhorrent, and never wear a stitch of makeup, it doesn’t make you any less a girl.”
My head rests against the purse free shoulder, and I can smell the soft scent of roses. Slowly, I wrap my arms around her waist and fight hard against the tears that are making the world a blurry mess. It feels so stupid to get all emotional for essentially being told it’s okay to just be me, but no one has ever told me that. All I’ve known is that I’m broken--wrong in a way I don’t know how to fix. Acceptance is a concept I’ve never experienced until recently.
Finally, I remember I’m in a damn mall and should probably be saving these Hallmark moments for later. What is it with Mildred dropping emotional bombs in inappropriate times and locations? I thought Brits were all about a stiff upper lip. I pull away and run a finger under my eyes to catch any renegade tears, and it comes back with black smudges. Right, clown makeup still on face.
My aunt smiles with watery eyes. “How about we head to the loo and wipe all that off your face? I have some makeup wipes in my bag.”
I sniff. “Yeah, that would be good. Melting clown is not a look I think many can pull off.”
We both laugh, a wet but friendly sound, and head towards the escalator. I love escalators, because all I have to do is stand there and hold the railing. This small difference is all that’s needed to keep my anxiety in check.
When we get to the bathroom, it takes two of the wipes to get all the crap off my face. I think I’m going to stick to my plan of eyeliner and mascara for a while. Reconsidered the lipstick when I found glitter pink all over my front teeth. Even with my face ruddy from all the scrubbing, I don’t think I’ve ever been so happy to see plain me.
“So for party clothes, perhaps you may be more comfortable in something somewhat more subdued,” Mildred advises when we leave the restroom. “A nice blouse, jeans, and a pretty pair of boots?”
“As long as the boots don’t have heels,” I insist. “I know I’m short, but I’ll be a whole lot shorter when face planted into the ground.”
“I think we can manage that,” she chuckles and leads the way to Macy’s.
∞∞∞
After spending about ten minutes in the Macy’s juniors’ section, I’ve deduced that they have something against sleeves or maybe just protecting shoulders, because even when these shirts have sleeves there seems to always be cutouts at the shoulders. Do they not know it’s fifty degrees outside? Don’t get me started on the fabric that feels the thickness of tissue paper.
I pull back a rare unicorn of a blouse that has both the shoulders covered and has sleeves-- sleeves that are three-quarters in length and have enough bunched fabric to ensure they will never fit inside a coat. I groan. It’s official. The fashion industry wants women to freeze to death.
“That’s it. I’m wearing nothing but jeans and Henleys in protest until the industry stops wanting to give women hypothermia,” I grumble to myself and sigh. “Maybe I can pull something off from the men’s section.” Then I remember I’m tiny. “Make that the boys’ section.”
I turn in defeat and hanging on the wall, ready to make me a hypocrite, is this black blouse that is nothing but lace with a nude tube top sewn in for modesty. It has long sleeves and a large keyhole neckline. It’s girly in an old gothic romance kind of way, and I’ll definitely freeze wearing it, but I want it. Damn it, they got me!
Grabbing a size small, I find my aunt flipping through the racks. Gingerly, I hold it up to her and mutter, “This one.”
Mildred fingers one of the lace sleeves. She’s found a few other unicorn grade shirts with long sleeves that cover the shoulders, and these will actually fit under a jacket. They’re nice if not somewhat formal looking.
“Very pretty,” she murmurs with an approving smile. “You’ll need a strapless bra, and I’d recommend getting a nice jacket or coat. I don’t think your red sweater will quite match, nor keep you very warm.”
I nod and chew on my lip, relieved that she’s here. Before now, clothes shopping was a twice a year thing with my father hurrying me along, and me fumbling to figure out things like bra sizes.
With one blouse, this trip slowly turns into buying me a new wardrobe. New bras that fit, socks, underwear, new pairs of jeans, more Henleys and shirts that I’m not going to freeze in, a pair of pretty knee high boots that have only a one inch heel and rubber tread, and my favorite, a new leather motorcycle jacket with four zipper pockets. Four!
By the time we stumble out of Macy’s, it’s a struggle to move under the weight of all the shopping bags, and I’m starving.
“Thank you for all of this,” I say, hefting up some of the bags in illustration. I can’t admit to her the relief I feel to wear something not provided by my bastard of a father. Instead, I tell her, “I never got the chance to do these kinds of things with my mom, so it’s nice that I get to do this stuff with you.”
There’s a bittersweet pull to her lips. “I wish your mother was here. She would’ve loved to do these things with you, but I’m also glad that I can be here with you.”
“Were you and my mom close?” I ask, it finally sinking in that this woman knew my mother. For how obsessed he was, the bastard never talked about her-- to me anyway.
“Surprisingly so, yes,” she answers wistfully.
“Were you two very different?” I question, confused by her statement. I don’t have siblings, but sisters being close isn’t weird as far as I know.
“What?” she blinks, almost like she was lost in her thoughts for a moment. The smile on her lips is at odds with the sadness in her eyes. “How about we go get some dinner, and I’ll tell you a bit about her?”
“It’s like you read my mind,” I beam. “I’m starving. Who knew shopping could work up an appetite?”
∞∞∞
We end up at a small bistro down the street from the mall, and it’s more upscale than I had in mind. My aunt fits in perfectly in a cream, cowl neck cashmere sweater, brown slacks and matching ankle boots. My jeans, clunky boots, and hoodie, not so much. I don’t care what these strangers think of me, but I am growing more aware of other people. Before, anyone that existed outside of my hell was white noise. Now, I can focus on more than simply surviving.
We’re seated quickly at a table near the window, and the whole place is set for mood lighting. The overhead lights set low and a candle on the table.
I feel a strange unease that takes me a moment to place. This feels like the evenings when my father would dust me off and dress me up for functions the university he worked at held. Those were torture of a variety that in some ways were as painful as the physical blows in the basement. Watching his colleges fawn over the bastard as he worked the crowd, it felt like inside I was beating against soundproof glass. I wanted to scream that he was a monster behind that smile. Beg someone to save me, but I knew none of these people would believe the hysterical cries of a girl with no proof against the suave charm of their coworker. He was a god in their small circle, and they all worshipped at his Alter.
I grit my teeth and push down the ugly memories. He can’t reach me now, and sitting across from me is someone who cares about me, who believes the truth, even though I don’t know how she knows. I want to ask, but I’m not sure I want to know the signs that were clear to her but others were too blind to see. Some other day I’ll ask, but not tonight. This night will be a happy memory that will stand against the evils that want to swallow me whole.
I sit up straight and attempt to smile up at the waiter when he comes to take our drink order. Water for me and a glass of wine for my aunt. She also puts in an order for a cheese and fruit board as an appetizer.
“Something to tide us over until food arrives,” she winks at me over the table.
He returns surprisingly fast with both our drink orders and the appetizer. For dinner, I order the Penne alla Salsiccia and my aunt orders the Penne al Salmone. Taking our menus back, he smiles, tells us we made excellent choices, then scurries off to put in our orders.
I take a sip of my water then fold my arms on the table. It’s time to learn more about, well, everything. Mildred has answers to the pile of questions that keep stacking taller since I got here. Does she know what I am? What my father was really after? Shit, why didn’t I ask the guys if being a witch was hereditary? I know Gina’s mother is also a witch, does that mean at least one parent has to be a witch? I want to ask flat out if my mother was a witch, but if my aunt doesn’t know what I’m talking about, then it could be a one way ticket to straightjackets and colorful drug cocktails. Ugh. I wish I was a little more Velma, and a lot less Shaggy at the moment.
Rubbing the fabric of my sleeve between my fingers, I stutter awkwardly, “Can you tell me more about my mother? I…I don’t even know her name.”
“That bloody prat didn’t even…” she growls, and I fear for the glass in her hand. I wonder what the tensile strength of a crystal wine glass is.
I shrug and mumble, “The only reason I know what she looks like is because…he had a picture of her on their wedding day.”
She takes a deep breath, releasing it slowly, before answering. “Your mother’s name was Helina Volkov, but everyone called her Lina. She was named after her great aunt, Helina, who was as intelligent as she was beautiful, and she was a great beauty.”
“She didn’t take his name?” I ask, confused.
Mildred shifts her gaze to the appetizer on the table, picking at some of the offerings. “It’s tradition for the women in our family to keep their… maiden name and pass it down to their daughters.” She fumbles over “maiden” like she was replacing the word she wanted to say.
“Why?” I stretch the question a few syllables.
“Well,” she takes a bite of a cube of cheese, waiting until she’s finished to carefully answer, “the Volkov name has some…prestige attached it. Wealth, power, property…things like that.”
“Wait, are you telling me my last name should be Volkov, and we’re rich?” I squawk, the rabbit hole that’s my life growing deeper.
Pressing her lips together, Mildred continues to appraise the food. “Technically, your father’s line is equally prestigious, so you could also go by Lyncas if you choose,” she says this with equal amounts of disdain and caginess, then mutters under her breath, “Carlota would love that.”
It’s like talking with the boys if they had British accents, though this has the flavor of intent. I don’t feel like she’s lying to me, but there’s a purposeful careful choosing of her words.
Suspiciously, I question, “But his last name is Santiago, and you said mothers pass their name down to their daughters.”
“Yes, well, it’s all very bureaucratic and complicated in our circles,” Mildred replies with a flippant wave of her hand. “Point is, no, your last name shouldn’t be Santiago, but it’s your choice on whether you wish to change it.”
The idea of the bastard’s name no longer attached to mine is overwhelmingly heady. I don’t even care that I know next to nothing about my mother’s side of the family. “Yes,” I cry, too loudly for the quiet restaurant, “I’d like to change my name to Volkov.”
“Okay, darling,” Mildred replies, the more genuine warmth I’ve grown familiar with back. “I’ll start the process right away. I’m… proud that you’ve chosen to become a Volkov. I think your mother would’ve been too.” Her eyes widen and she shakes her finger at me, then starts digging through her purse. “That does remind me.” She says into her large bag, pulling out a white envelope. “I’ve been meaning to give this to you.”
I take it and carefully open it. Inside is a credit card with a… “$5,000 limit?” I croak. “You’ve been meaning to give me a credit card with a $5,000 limit? Why? In case I have to make an emergency escape to Boca Boca?”
“What? No, it’s for any expenses you might have.” She looks at me quizzically. “Is there even such a place as Boca Boca?”
“There’s a Boca, Boca Raton in Florida and a Boca a Boca in Panama,” I answer smugly, popping a cube of, I think, brie into my mouth.
“Why… How do you know that?” She blinks at me, bafflement coloring her words.
I shrug. “Internet.”
She shakes her head, as if attempting to dislodge that information back out of her. “The credit card is to handle any personal expenses when I’m not around, until you’re eighteen, of course, and have access to your trusts.”
“Trusts? As in, plural?” Hello, rabbit hole? Can we reach the bottom now?
“Yes, well, as I mentioned, both sides of your family are… very well off, and you’re an heir to both, which entitles you to shares of that wealth,” Mildred explains way too casually, like using the word “heir” is normal.
I take a large gulp of water. My brow rises, as I inquire, “And about how much is in these trusts?”
She squirms and clears her throat, getting very British under the demand of exact amounts. With a hand angled over her mouth, she breathes, “A few hundred million.”
With that, I’m pretty sure my brain is now slowly leaking out of my head. I put the envelope into my sweater pocket, then clasp my hands in front of my mouth.
“Not that I don’t like where we live, because I do,” I start, speaking slowly. “But, uh, if we’re so well off, why are we living in a three bedroom house in the middle of nowhere Oregon?”
“Yes, well,” she starts for the third time. Mental note: yes well is translation for I don’t want to talk about this. “There’s a project I started recently back in London that requires the assistance of some of the people that live in Twin Cedar Pass. The house was available furnished, and I didn’t think you or I really needed a whole lot of space.”
A project that needs assistance in a small town that’s strangely full of supernatural people, and your niece just so happens to be one?
Before I can ask her to elaborate, we’re interrupted by the waiter bringing our entrees. He places the plate of pasta with sausage and marinara sauce in front of me and the plate with salmon and pasta in a white sauce in front of my aunt. Both dishes smell heavenly. Fresh grated parmesan cheese and cracked black pepper are offered and accepted.
By the time our waiter is finally gone, Mildred is taking a bite of her dinner and changing the subject. “I believe I was telling you about your mother, before we got so sidetracked.” She takes a small sip of her wine, a bittersweet expression taking over her face. “Your mother was a wonderful woman, much like her namesake. Even as a young girl, she was terribly inquisitive, particularly when it came to the people around her, but it was always tempered by a generosity of spirit. She had a way about her that made people feel safe enough to lay down their burdens at her feet.”
She sniffs and takes another bite of her meal. Looking lost in her memories, she professes, “Lina was smart and beautiful, but I think she was too tender hearted. She saw the potential for good in everyone, but not the darkness that too easily can snuff out that light.”
“Like him?” My stomach sours thinking of the bastard, but I stubbornly take a bite of my dinner.
Mildred sighs heavily. “Yes, I believe so. Adelmo was the dangerous combination of handsome, charming and broken. He worshiped Lina, vowed the world to her, because she was his air-- his very reason for being. It sounds very romantic,” she criticizes, “but that isn’t love. It’s chains.”
She reaches over and squeezes my free hand. “When you choose to share your life with someone, please make sure you’re together because you enrich each other. You are whole people on your own but are better together. My darling, you don’t need someone else to give you worth, nor are you responsible for someone else's.”
I nod and sniff. Damn, this woman is good. “Got it. No Romeo and Juliet reenactments.”
“Certainly not,” she asserts sharply, her nose wrinkling in disgust. “How I despise that play and how people have romanticized it.”
I choke out a laugh. “We’re studying it in my English AP class now. You should hear how the girls in my class swoon.”
She rolls her eyes. “Bloody twits. Are they at least explaining the themes of literature of that time period, and how the tragedy of the play isn’t that they couldn’t live without each other but that their deaths were senseless?”
I grin, glad to know my aunt is as annoyed as I am. “Not at the moment. Mostly we’ve been reading it out loud and then translating for the modern day meanings. I’ve been enjoying playing devil's advocate-- the rest of the class, not so much. Kaleb backed me up today, so that was nice.”
“Speaking of, I would love to hear more about school and your new friends,” Mildred inquires none too subtly.
I tuck my hair behind my ears, trying to figure out how to explain the guys, especially since I can’t be sure she knows anything about the supernatural. “Well, overall school is good, and I’m lucky that I have at least one of my friends in most of my classes. Both Kaleb and Donovan are in my AP Chemistry class, and the teacher allowed me to join Kaleb and his lab partner.” I snort, remembering what Donovan told me after class. “Donovan and Kaleb used to be lab partners, but they kept finishing their work too quickly and spending half the class period with nothing to do. Two weeks ago, the teacher had enough and split them apart to ‘help with the students that were struggling.’”
“Let me get this straight,” she says with a smirk. “Your friends are too smart and instead of finding new ways to challenge them, your teacher split them apart.”
“Pretty much.” I take another bite of my dinner. It tastes so much better now that we’re not talking about the bastard. “Let’s see. I told you about English. Not much to tell about Study Hall, and we learned how to cook an egg in Foods and Nutrition. Exciting stuff.” I leave out that Gina and some of her entourage are also in my Food and Nutrition class. Mostly they glared and whispered, so not high on my concern list. “Not much to really tell. I did start school yesterday so it’s hard to say much more than school is school. The guys are nice, funny, and well, they’re all really close and they treat me the same way. Like I’m one of them, even though they just met me.”
“That’s wonderful, darling. I’m glad you found them,” she replies, then teases, “Now tell me about them. Are they cute? When will I get to meet them?”
“I can’t believe you asked me if they’re cute,” I laugh, getting the warm fuzzies that she cares enough to want to know about my friends. With mock reluctance, I admit, “They… are attractive, but they’re just friends, so no getting any ideas, and at least one of them is picking me up on Saturday.”
“Is that so?” she emphasizes with a sly pull of her lips over her wine glass.
I roll my eyes and blush. “None of that in front of the guys.”
She snickers quietly, then needles, “But I’m pretty sure it’s in the teenager handbook that they must be embarrassed at least once by an adult in front of their friends.”
I cover my face with my hands and groan, but my cheeks are wonderfully sore from genuine smiles that keep making their way across my lips.
Over the rest of dinner, I say what I can about the boys. I tell her about how Nolan is both charming and silly. That Felix seems to always find a silver lining and has a pop culture reference for every occasion. How people seem to be afraid of both Donovan and Connor, but really Donovan is passionate and frank, while Connor reserves his attention for people and things that matter to him. And they’re both funny and frustrating, and on occasion, frustratingly funny. Last but not least, I talk about Kaleb and how he’s the group’s voice of reason. He’s kind, compassionate, and has the patience of a saint. Patience the boys have way too much fun testing.
By the end of the evening, we’re laughing and I feel light. That’s the real gift the boys gave me. Simply by being themselves, they’ve helped me start to unshackle myself from my past. I’ll never forget what’s happened to me, but I now feel a sense of hope that it won’t rule me forever.