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Façade
I should have known. It was a rookie mistake on my end, to not anticipate the sadistic moods of my father, and I’m practically kicking myself for it as I watch car after car pass down the driveway, people being dropped off at the front door. This is so much worse than the awkward family dinner I had foreseen.
I don’t know if I should text Jagger about the change of plans, warn him of what’s to come. Or if his father has already done that for him. Just as I’m about to get up the courage to ask, his name pops up on my messages with a simple, one word text.
Mayday.
I begin pacing back and forth, making Grim nervous as she watches my jagged movements from her bed. This changes everything. Now we aren’t just pretending for our parents, but an entire audience. One that I’m sure is going to be much more suspicious of this new development between Jagger and me than my father predicts.
Deciding I need to change, since the level of snobby just went up by a thousand, I go into my bedroom and root around my closet, looking for something a little nicer than slacks and a sweater. I rummage all the way to the back of the cupboard when I see it: my never used prom dress.
A clear bag of plastic protects it from the nonexistent dust, my memory betraying me by going back to the moment I bought it, thinking I could go stag to the prom and not be bothered by not having a date, or friends, to go with. But then I overheard my mother talking on the phone to one of her friends, saying how embarrassed she was that I was even going to attempt it. It would “just make her look sad and pathetic” she’d said, having no idea I was standing right around the corner. She didn’t know that I had already bought a dress, one that I had thought would give me the confidence I needed to pull it off.
It has been sitting in my closet ever since. Still in the bag. Still with the tags on it.
I guess tonight it will finally see the light.
Twenty minutes later there’s a knock at my door, and I peek out the window to see Jagger’s black sportscar sitting outside, though he is invisible to me from this angle. Walking to the door, I take a deep breath before my hand twists the knob, fingers slightly shaking. When I open it with a slow creak, I see Jagger standing tall on the other side, wearing a black on black suit, tailored perfectly to his every muscle; his hands placed in his pockets like he couldn’t be more relaxed. I wish I felt the same way. And looked as good, too.
His easy smile disappears when his eyes take me in, dragging downwards from my hair to my heels. With the blatant reaction, my chest locks up in panic, wondering if I should just stay inside and fake illness. It would be so much easier to face my angry father than to embarrass myself in front of dozens of people, all who will be watching me like a hawk. And with me in this ridiculous dress, no less.
“I’m going to go eat some raw chicken. Tell my parents I have salmonella, okay?” I go to run into the kitchen when he gently grabs my arm, keeping me from going anywhere. I turn back around to see the same look on his face as before, but now with a touch of warmth to it, no longer shocked, but pleased.
“You are not getting out of this that easily, Montae. And if so, then you’re letting me join you.” He’s talking to me with a light air but he seems distracted. When I notice his eyes are on the dress again, the urge to hide hits hard.
“I know, it’s ridiculous, but it’s all I had that was fancy enough for this damn stunt my father pulled,” I defend, my hands smoothing out the soft fabric at my hips. The dress is mermaid style, fitting my every curve to an outrageous degree. I chose a warm shade of red one level darker than my hair to compliment it, the sleeves full length to cover my arms and most of my hands; small rings set at the ends to sit around my middle fingers to keep them from riding up. I’m completely covered, and yet he’s looking at me like I’m naked. I’m terrified it’s the same kind of look I’m going to receive if we go in there.
“You look like autumn,” he says with a small, curved smile. “And nowhere near ridiculous.”
“Really?” I ask, still feeling jumpy, especially when my eyes land on the clock next to the door and I see the time. We really need to go.
“I wouldn’t lie to you,” he affirms, taking my hand in his, surprising me again. It’s the second time he’s done that, and it’s as stunning as the first. People never want to touch them, as though feeling the raised skin on my hands will give them the heebie jeebies. The feel of his palm in mine is alien and warm, strong and smooth.
I give him an unsure look. “Is your dad with you?”
He shakes his head. “No, I dropped him off at the house. I wanted to see you first, make sure you were okay. Are you?”
“Hell no,” I laugh awkwardly, letting him lead us out the door. “You?”
“Nope.” He smiles down at me, and with it I feel a touch of my anxiety lift from my shoulders. At least I’m not the only one who has been thrown off kilter tonight.
Jagger
I discovered that this thing was going to be much more than a small dinner party when my father asked me what tux I was going to wear tonight. I asked warily, stiffening in my chair, “Why would I wear a tux to dinner?”
He looked at me curiously from the desk in his home office, saying as he wrote something on his computer, “Well it’s not just a dinner, is it? It’s your engagement party.” His smile was absolutely ecstatic, just like it had been ever since I told him of Cyvil’s change of heart about the marriage.
My muscles locked up with the sound of his keys clicking. When he saw this, he said, “Oops. Wasn’t supposed to tell you that.”
“Engagement party?” I echoed, trying to keep my voice even. What the hell was he talking about?
He paused again, looking up from his keyboard. “Well, after you said Cyvil’s parents had invited us to dinner, I decided to give them a call and thank them for the offer. They said it was really going to be a surprise party for you and Cyvil. I guess I let the cat out of the bag.” The look of guilt passed quickly before he was back at work again, pretending as though I wasn’t there.
Standing up in a stunned fog, I left his office, drove to my apartment, got dressed in a stupid tux, met him an hour later, and texted Cyvil a mayday at a red light although I’m sure she had to know something was up by then. I dropped Dad off at the house, and after seeing all of the cars, I decided to pick up Cyvil myself so we could talk. I wanted to see if she was alright.
She was not.
And after seeing her in that skin hugging dress, neither was I.
Her hand in mine now, I feel her squeeze it a little tighter the closer we get to the house, the lights, the people… Even I don’t feel good about this. It seems more like an ambush than a nice surprise for us. A test.
Once we get to the door, we step inside together, and my eyes go to the dozens of bodies mingling around the foyer and into the rest of the house, women in evening gowns and men in fitted suits and tuxes, looking more like an upscale wedding than a simple engagement party. And with how Cyvil and I are dressed, this very well could be.
Looking over to see her reaction, I notice the pot light above us makes the different shades of red in her hair stand out, vivid against her pale skin. It’s waved and drapes across her back and shoulders, making her look like a classic movie star from the forties. She wears simple makeup, a shimmery champagne color on her lids and mascara to bring out the smokiness of her eyes. I wasn’t kidding when I said she looks like autumn, all warm colors and softness.
“Does New York support the death penalty?” she asks around a tight smile, nodding to the people that greet her across the room.
The strange question has me pausing. “I don’t know. Why?”
“I just want to know before I murder my parents.” She gives a small wave to an older woman about ten feet away from us, her graying hair placed in a tight bun on the top of her head. Her returning smile is curious as she looks between the two of us.
“I’ll Google it later,” I tell her under my breath, thinking it may not be such a bad idea after all.
We slowly crawl through the house, going from room to room in search of our parents, having people stare at us like animals behind glass as we go; the disturbed looks mostly aimed at Cyvil. The longer this goes on the stiffer she gets, until her arm feels like a weighted stone, threaded through mine. My cheeks actually hurt from all of the fake smiles I’ve been having to give people, pretending as if I don’t see the blatant misunderstanding in their eyes when they see us together.
The only room left to search is the den near the back of the house, the one Cyvil says her father favors for smoking his cigars with his buddies. On our way down the hall to our last resort, a slim, tall body slips out of the bathroom to our right, glossy, light blonde hair swaying behind her silver dress.
Her smile is like a serpent’s when she turns around and spots me.
“Jagger Wells.” The smile doesn’t dissipate as she slinks her way up to me in her too high heels, not hesitating to dance her fingers up a path on my chest, along with her eyes. It’s as if no time has passed to her at all, and I’m still her plaything. “How long has it been, hmm?”
At the sight of her, my entire body goes into lockdown, staring at her and then through her, feeling the pressure of her hand through my shirt like a vice grip. I close my eyes against the pounding in my chest, a flash of light illuminating the backs of my lids.
Arguing. Rain. Losing control of the wheel. Careening into the wall. Screaming…
“Hello, Renee,” I distantly hear Cyvil say next to me, but it’s like listening through a tunnel, her voice echoing in my head. Still, I can hear the edge to it.
Startled, not having paid her any mind when she first approached, my ex stares at my fake fiancée like she discovered a stain on her dress. “And who are you?”
As though sensing my distress, Cyvil’s arm slowly pulls me away from Renee Montgomerie’s slithering hand. The move does not go unnoticed by her. “We went to school together for four years. You were in my Language class.”
Narrowed green eyes slowly dawn with recognition, the smile turning humorous now. “Oh, that’s right. Cypress, right?” She holds out her bony hand, which Cyvil ignores.
“It’s Cyvil, actually,” she corrects, voice even.
“Right.” Renee gives her a once over, the unimpressed smirk on her lips not seeming to think she has any competition. Not until she sees Cyvil’s hand still tucked around mine. She turns to look at me. “Jagger, what is this?” she asks tightly, her smile a little less relaxed than before.
I still can’t speak. My voice box has lost function.
“Jagger, I asked you a question,” she hisses, that short temper of hers that I remember so well resurfacing in an instant.
“This is none of your business. Enjoy the rest of the party, Renee,” Cyvil finishes for me and pulls my limp body behind her, all the way to the end of the hall and then around a corner, coming to a halt outside of what looks like a broom closet. The shock of seeing a ghost from my past hasn’t left me yet, even as Cyvil looks up at me worriedly.
“Jagger? Can you look at me?” Her gentle fingers prod at my face, light against my frozen skin. Her concerned, pinched frown doesn’t lessen, even as I finally find my voice.
“Sorry,” I wheeze out, closing my eyes again, but deciding it’s a bad idea since that’s when the memories decide to choke me the hardest. At least my heart doesn’t feel like it’s about to stop anymore.
“Don’t apologize,” she says quietly, taking her hand away from my skin, eyes still watching me. She doesn’t ask what the problem is, why I blanked out. Instead she lets me have a moment, which I appreciate more than she will ever know.
Once I calm down enough, standing silent with her in the hall for minutes that feel like hours, the familiar disappointment starts to set in. The last time I had a panic attack was a month after I started seeing the psychologist after my mother died. Having one now after three years feels like a major setback. Though it’s not like I had been doing so well before.
Taking a deep breath, I catch a hint of Cyvil’s perfume in the air, feeling it cascade down my lungs. Clean soap and lilac. The calming simplicity of it sends another wave of steadiness through me, enough so that I can look her in the eye now and not see darkness cloud her edges. Though she said it wasn’t necessary, I apologize again. “Forgive me, I didn’t mean to lose it on you like that. It’s just –” I go to tell her the truth but find my tongue has swollen again, keeping the words hostage.
Her eyes seem to understand, though I can’t possibly see how. “Don’t worry. Panic attacks aren’t something to be ashamed of. And if anyone could cause one it would be Renee.” Her golden eyes darken to a shade of burnt amber, and I know there’s a story there. “Let me guess,” she says drolly after a minute, “ex-girlfriend?”
All I can do is nod. She doesn’t have to know the real reason for the attack, why the sight of Renee’s face sent me into a tunnel of anxiety and pain. Not even my therapist knows the truth of it. So why would she?
Just then a giggling figure rounds the corner, the smiling face of Cyvil’s mom greeting us; a glass of rose-tinged liquor in her hand. When she sees us, standing closer than is probably normal and looking serious, she grins that much wider. “There you two are! I’ve been wondering where you snuck off to, you little love birds. Hello, Jagger.” She kisses my cheek, or tries to. She’s about three inches off and instead gets a mouthful of my hair. It sends her into more giggles.
Cyvil lets her head rest in her hand, leaning against the wall next to me. She suddenly looks very tired. “Mom, how much have you had to drink?” she asks, not looking up.
“Oh, not tooooo many. And anyway, it’s a celebration is it not?” Her cheeks match the shade of her drink, and she nearly trips on the hem of her gown when she says loudly, “Surprise! This is your engagement party! Isn’t it wonderful?” She motions around her to the empty hall, as though this is the party.
“It’s great, Mom.” Her tone and grave expression says otherwise. “Why don’t we get you some water and then we’ll find Dad, okay?” Her arms support her tipsy mother as they walk down the hall, me following behind since I don’t know what else to do; still woozy myself from my freak out. Cyvil gives me an apologetic look over her shoulder, as though to say, “I’m sorry we got interrupted.”
I nod, continuing to feel the fist stuck in my throat. The one that has been there for three years and has never let up for a single second.
Cyvil
It’s been a while since I’ve had to try and sober up my mother. The last time was after the funeral for Grandma Darcy. I had found her still in her black Vera Wang dress, stooped over the stairs leading out to the porch, a bottle of vodka clutched in her hand like a lifeline. Whenever my mother is really happy or really sad, she gets drunk. At least this time it’s because she’s happy. Still, it doesn’t lessen the embarrassment of it for me, of having to force food and water down her throat so that nobody has to see her in this state.
Except Jagger. He watches the whole thing from a bar stool with sad eyes, still ringed in the same blankness from when he saw Renee. I can’t even begin to decipher the cause for that episode right now, not with my primary focus being on my drunk mother.
“There you go, take big sips, alright?” I tell her as I hand her the large sports bottle filled with ice water. I grab the pink champagne from out of the other. She doesn’t seem to notice.
Pouring it down the drain, I look back at Jagger, still concerned that he’s not over what happened in the hall. To see him go completely numb like that brought back a lot of bad memories, especially the ones after coming home from the incident.
I sit on the stool next to him once all the liquor in the kitchen has been hidden, watching my mother sleepily sip at her water, her eyes closing and then opening a minute later; that dopey smile still in place. If she knew what she looked like right now, her sober self would be horrified. I guess it’s a good thing she normally never remembers these events afterwards. I wish I could do the same.
“She doesn’t do this often,” I explain to him, feeling like I owe my mother some sort of redemption for her current condition. Though at the moment it’s in short supply, what with the prom memory still fresh in my mind. Can’t say my mom and dad ever won any awards for being stellar parents.
His posture relaxes, elbows sitting on the counter with his hands enfolded in each other. His gray eyes fill with a sad sort of amusement. “Well, at least it’s better than being out there, right?”
As though she heard him, my mother slumps on the island across from us, her head resting on her arm, out cold and snoring like a beaver. I give him a long look. “Maybe not.”
Being the gentleman that he is, Jagger picks up my limp mother and we discreetly head out of the kitchen and down the hall, hidden from view of any party guests. I lead them to an empty guest room on the first floor, and he lays her down on the bed. I take off her heels and pull the covers up over her waist, pushing the hair out of her eyes. At least she’ll get some sleep.
Crawling back into the hall while trying not to make any noise, I pull the door shut behind us. Just as we turn around, we come face to face with my father, a short glass filled with dark liquor in his hand. Giving us narrowed eyes, he asks what we’re doing. I explain Mom’s less than graceful state in a few words, and he nods his head understandingly. “Best let her sleep, I guess. Did she tell you the surprise?”
“Yes,” I say, squelching the curse I want to throw at him for the sick look of pleasure on his face.
“Good, then you’ll come with me. We’ll make the announcement now and then call for dinner.” He starts walking away, expecting us to follow, and I stare after him – so does Jagger. I guess I should have expected this. My father only sees what he wants to see. But I saw the looks we got from just holding hands earlier, and I don’t see how this brand of news is going to go over any better.
I’m right. It doesn’t.
As Jagger and I stand awkwardly next to my father while he explains the real reason for everyone’s presence, an unpleasant hush falls over the crowd, eyes staring at me and then Jagger, mystified by it all – and not bothering to hide it. Arguably, the majority stare at me, namely the scar, and wince before looking at Jagger, heads tilted to the side in obvious sympathy for his circumstances. It doesn’t surprise me. Everyone here has to know that something more is going on. I’m not the type to have a boyfriend, much less a fiancé that looks like Jagger, and everybody seems to know this but Lance Montae.
After a tense moment of silence, my father giving the gathered bodies a dark look, a slow clap begins until it sounds semi-sincere. The whole time I want to escape into the floor. And by the look on his face, I think Jagger would join me.
Dinner isn’t much better. Everyone talks to their counterparts, ignoring us at the end of the table. It would have been fine for me, but it seems to piss off my dad, what with the less than pleased look on his face. But it’s not like he can bully people into congratulating us, much to his dismay.
The only one that paid us much mind was Renee Montgomerie, who stared at me through the length of the four-course meal, her silver dress glinting under the large chandelier hanging over the dining table like a disco ball. Her eyes were like daggers, cutting through me until I had to look away. With that kind of venom, I know she still believes she has some kind of claim over Jagger, though he seemed to act like he had seen the devil himself when she walked into the hall, eyeing him up like a favorite toy she had forgotten she owned.
Jagger never looked up to notice.
Finally, the night comes to a close, and it goes down as one of the longest evenings of my life. As the guests begin to go home, I rip off my heels and refuse to care where they land, Mr. Wells giving me a funny look when one hits the wall closest to him.
At this point, I really don’t give a damn if he thinks I’m the most improper lady he has ever met. I’m tired, sore, and I just want to collapse in a place where no one will find me.
I begin climbing the stairs, giving our fathers a less than half-hearted goodbye as I go.
Reaching the second floor, I make a right, heading to the end of the hall to the last door, painted a fading shade of pink. Opening it with a familiar creak, I find the empty remains of my old room. Even in the dark I can see the brightly colored walls, the marks in the floor from where my bedroom furniture sat for so many years. All that remains now is a long purple cushion sitting on the window seat, overlooking the mountains and the guest house out back. I don’t bother to flip on the light as I enter, making my way to the window and parking it on the bench, my forehead resting against the cool glass.
I have hated parties like these since I was a kid and it was my mother’s favorite pastime. All that tonight proved is that my dislike for them hasn’t changed, and neither have the guests and their obvious staring. But tonight, it hurt a little bit more, like an extra barb was added to the others, and I know exactly why.
When you look like me, something of a monster’s creation, you naturally get horrified and disgruntled reactions from people. But when you look like me and you have someone that looks like Jagger Wells on your arm, the looks are for a whole other reason. I hadn’t expected it to sting as much as it did. And I think it’s because, in a way, it proved my father right. If the people in my house tonight thought it so bizarre that I ‘found’ someone, then maybe there isn’t a man out there that is going to see past the outside and look within, to see what makes me a person and not just a tragic story.
Maybe Jagger really is my only hope at not living a lonely life.
No, I think to myself after letting the thought simmer. I refuse to believe that. Just because a room full of snooty people with sticks up their asses believe otherwise doesn’t mean I don’t have a future with somebody else. I have met enough kindhearted, non-shallow people in my life to have hope that I’ll find another.
A light knock sounds near the open door, and I startle, having been lost in my own head for too long. Looking to see who it is, I spot the tall, sculpted outline of Jagger in the doorway, his knuckles having knocked on the frame. I can’t see his face when he asks, “Can I come in?”
I shake my head. He falters. “I made a pact with myself when I was six that I would never let a boy with cooties enter my room. Do you have cooties?” I ask, not able to keep a straight face.
“Freshly vaccinated, actually,” he says with a small laugh, his footsteps bringing him closer until he’s standing in front of me, the light of the moon giving details to his face. The first few buttons of his tux are undone, his blazer missing in action. He is black on black on black: his hair, his eyes, and his clothes. I sigh, and not just because I’m tired.
Without permission, he sits opposite me on the bench, the two of us barely fitting. I lift my legs up and tuck them to my chest, giving us more room. He blanches. “Sorry.”
“Now who’s always apologizing?”
He smiles weakly, looking out the window and up into the sky. “I think we both have a problem.”
“Maybe.” Or perhaps we have been trained to think that things beyond our control are our fault.
“What are you thinking?” he asks me, eyes trained on my face now rather than the moon.
Bad things. Real things. “Nothing.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“You don’t have to.”
He chews his lip, still looking at me as though I hold the key to unlocking some sort of puzzle. And then just like that, it disappears. Clearing his throat, he asks, “How are you holding up after all of that?” He nods towards the door, and the hell that had been beyond it only an hour ago.
I lean my head back against the wall, not looking at him for fear it will give away the truth. “Fine.”
There’s an awkward pause, a moment where all you can hear is the crickets chirping outside, and then, his voice – just the right amount of burdened and soft that it has my eyes burning. “No, you’re not.”
I shake my head. “No,” I admit, swallowing hard, “I’m not. None of this is fine. Not for you, me, or anyone else.”
I hear a snicker and look up to find him smirking of all things. “Hasn’t anyone ever told you that life isn’t fair? It is rarely fine because of it.”
“It’s not about what’s fair. This is about morality. I wish more people had it.”
“Like your father?”
“And me.” I stare at my silk covered knees, feeling him look me over with that laser vision of his again. I hate being put under the microscope, and his always seems dialed in perfectly.
“You don’t actually believe that,” he says confidently, eyes returning to the window.
“I’m lying to get what I want. How is that any better than what my dad did?”
He contemplates for a second before explaining, “I’m not saying that it’s right. But it’s not all wrong, either. Even before you came up with this plan, and I willingly went along with it, you were trying to help out my dad, find a way to save him. I know that you’re doing this just as much for me as you’re doing it for yourself. That’s what makes you a good person, what separates you from your father.”
Still. “He doesn’t want me to be alone. It’s not completely selfish,” I say, not even understanding why I’m defending him anymore.
“Yes, but instead of giving you a choice about whether that’s what you wanted or not, he blackmailed you into it. That is selfish.”
I stare at him, see that the color of his eyes has changed from gunmetal to cloudy gray. It’s amazing to me how they change so easily with his mood. I wonder if they lighten when he’s passionate about something, excited, or happy. I hope I’ll get to find out. “You’re pretty insistent about my goodness considering you’ve only met me four times before tonight. How do you know I’m not really a sadistic devil worshipper waiting to use you in a sacrifice after I convince you I’m a perfect angel?”
He eyes me up like I’m just what I described. “Okay, that was oddly specific. I take back everything I just said.” A smile leaks through, and then he’s laughing, and so am I. It feels strangely nice after the terrible night we’ve had.