“You’ve talked, Dad, and I’ve had to listen. That’s not exactly the same thing.” She wanted to make him understand, but she didn’t know what else to say. He never wanted to talk about it. It was easier for him; he felt comforted, safe. She was the one who had to sneak into the locker room to shave her legs. She was the one who hadn’t had her hair cut since it happened. She wasn’t even allowed to work at her embroidery loom or make her own dinner anymore.
Her dad looked up.
“It’s just safer this way,” he said. “You could have an accident or hurt yourself.
“I’m not her,” she said quietly. The words seemed to hang in the air like knives. When he didn’t say anything, she sighed. Hugo Dubois was every bit as stubborn as his daughter. “Dad, I’m sixteen. I think I can handle it.”
“We’ll talk about this later.”
“No!” She said, slamming her glass down so the orange juice sloshed over the top. “You always say that.”
“Beauty.”
She knew that tone well. She clenched her teeth together to keep herself from screaming. He wouldn’t even look at her now, had stopped listening. She recited the names of roses, Nearly Wild, Gingersnap, Fortune-teller, until she was calm enough not to throw her glass at the wall. “Fine,” she snapped instead. She grabbed her knapsack and pushed past him. There was no point in talking to him anyway.
“Aren’t you going to have any breakfast?”
“I’m not hungry,” she yelled before storming out of the house.
Sabrina looked at Beauty. She was leaning against her locker with her arms crossed and an expression of sulky anger on her face. Her hair was coming out of its knot, strands falling into her eyes. Sabrina winced.
“That bad?” she asked, taking her math book out of her locker. She was secretly glad that Beauty was worked up over something. She’d been too calm and uncaring for too long.
Beauty kept staring into the crowded hallway. The noise was swelling as classes let out for lunch. Someone’s bag hit her shoulder, but she barely moved.
“You actually yelled at your dad?” Sabrina continued. She’d never even known Beauty to snap at her father. She was too calm for that, too scared to say anything.
“Yeah.”
“Cheer up,” Sabrina said. “Everyone fights with their parents. That’s what they’re there for.”
Beauty sighed. “I don’t.”
Sabrina raised an eyebrow. “I know. It’s not natural.”
“I guess. He’s just been so weird lately…since the accident.” Her mouth twisted bitterly. “It’s like he’s afraid it’s in the blood or it’s contagious or something.”
“He’s just worried about you.”
“I know,” she said. “I’m drowning in it.”
Sabrina shut her locker door and propped one shoulder up against it. “Do you want me to ask my mom to talk to him or something?”
Beauty half-smiled and shook her head. “I don’t think that would help, but thanks.”
Luna poked her head around the corner and grinned. “Who needs help?” she demanded. Who needs help?” she demanded.
Sabrina snorted. “You do, apparently. Are you aware that you have several hundred butterfly clips on your head?”
Luna twirled once, laughing. She was wearing a leather jacket with a secondhand bubble-gum pink prom skirt. She plucked a barrette from her hair and attached it to Sabrina’s streaked hair.
“So, what were we talking about?” she asked.
Sabrina glanced at Beauty. “Beauty had a fight with her dad.”
Luna tilted her head. “My mom goes all creepy quiet when she’s mad at me,” she said. “What does your dad do?”
“Walks away.” Beauty bit hard on the inside of her mouth when her lower lip started to quiver. She would not cry. She hadn’t cried since before her mom’s funeral and she wasn’t about to start now. Not here, in the hallway, in the middle of the day.
Luna slung an arm over her shoulder and gave her a quick hug. Beauty couldn’t remember the last time someone at school had done that. For a long time people just seemed afraid to touch her, even talk to her.
“Wanna call him names?” Luna asked brightly. “It always helps me.”
Beauty shook her head. She knew her friends were just trying to help, but they would never understand. Since her mother’s death, she and her dad had only had each other. It felt wrong to fight with him, dangerous. What if something happened to him before they made up again?
Beauty felt the tears burning at the back of her eyes. She hated feeling like this, all angry and guilty and scared. “Never mind,” she said. “Let’s not talk about it anymore, okay?”
Luna nodded. Beauty and Sabrina followed her to her locker. Luna ignored Clare and her friend, who sneered from across the hallway. They’d been doing that for a week now. Clare just didn’t seem to understand that Luna didn’t care about Matt and didn’t have the same ideas about dating as she did.
What she couldn’t ignore, though, was the state of her locker.
The word “slut” had been scrawled across the door. Luna swallowed, shut her eyes briefly. Some schools were harder than others, she told herself. It didn’t matter what strangers thought, even if she prided herself on never having met a stranger. She liked to think everyone was a friend she hadn’t met yet.
But sometimes it didn’t work that way.
Clare and her friend burst into laughter. Sabrina whirled around and glared at them. She was about to say something when Luna shook her head.
“Don’t,” Luna said quietly. “You’ll give her power over me if you acknowledge her.”
Sabrina’s mouth tightened. “Hard for her to have power if I sit on her and make her eat glue.”
Luna smiled, but Beauty could see the sadness behind the curve of lips. She knew the feeling all too well.
Luna gathered her binders. The inside of her locker was covered with photocopies of Pre-Raphaelite art and a small painting of a woman at a banquet with Luna’s mother’s signature on the side. She closed her locker, snapped the lock shut and refused to look at the graffiti.
Something unfurled inside Beauty. She, unlike her father, was starting to learn that some things shouldn’t be ignored. She dropped her knapsack on the floor and dug through her stuff until she found a bottle of blue paint and a brush.
“Just a minute,” she said firmly.
Luna and Sabrina watched her curiously. When Luna looked at Sabrina, she just shrugged. Bored, Clare and her friends walked away.
With her paintbrush in hand and a tube of sky blue acrylic paint, Beauty felt powerful, in control. It was like a shawl settling over her shoulders, and she loved it. She wasn’t sure she’d ever felt like this before. She’d definitely never been this public about her art before.
Her strokes were quick, slightly hesitant, but the image that took shape on the locker door was fluid and pretty. The butterfly had curved wings and a woman’s body, and it covered the vandalism completely.
“Oh, Beauty,” Luna said. “It’s beautiful.”
Beauty shrugged, suddenly embarrassed. She could feel the speculative eyes of the students walking by. She tried not to blush.
Luna stared at the butterfly a little longer before glancing past Beauty’s shoulder and lifting her hand in a wave. “Hey, Poe. Come here.”
Beauty’s eyes widened instantly. Sabrina tried not to laugh at her terrified expression.
“What are you doing?” Beauty hissed. “I thought you liked the painting.”
“This is my way of thanking you,” Luna whispered back, barely moving her lips.
“Why? Do you hate me?”
Luna giggled but didn’t say anything else as Poe sauntered up to them, knapsack over his shoulder. His hair was down, falling into his face. He was wearing old cargo pants and a black T-shirt, and his Discman was in his pocket, as usual. Beauty felt her mouth go dry.
“Hey,” he said. “What’s up?”
“Not much. I wanted
to remind you that I can’t sing for the band after school. I have to work on a project at Beauty’s house.” Luna glanced sideways at Beauty. “Right?”
Beauty nodded. “Right.”
Poe shrugged. “Okay. We’ll do it later.”
“Sure,” Luna agreed. She grabbed Sabrina’s hand. “Okay, we gotta go. Bye,” she said before they hurried down the hall toward the cafeteria.
Beauty wasn’t sure if she wanted to run after them, hug them or kill them. She was horribly aware of her mouth. She wanted to smile but was afraid it would look like a grimace or that he’d think she was nauseous. Which she suddenly was.
She couldn’t think of a single thing to say.
He just stood there, way too gorgeous, with his battered-up guitar case, flicking his hair out of his eyes. The silence stretched on. She was feeling desperate and terrified that she would start stammering about the weather or current events.
Someone just shoot me now, she thought. Put me out of my misery. He’s going to think I’m some kind of an idiot. I’m not ready for this sort of thing.
Poe saw the wet paintbrush in her hand and looked at the butterfly gleaming on Luna’s locker. “Did you paint that?”
She nodded. “Yeah, just now,” she added in a rush. “Someone wrote on her locker.”
“I’ll just bet they did.” His jaw clenched. “People can be such jerks. What did it say?”
She told him, anger burning the back of her throat all over again. Poe shook his head and swore. She tried not to be distracted by the way his eyes glittered.
“I don’t think this school is ready for Luna,” Beauty said, slipping her free hand into her pocket.
Poe glanced at her, smiled slowly. “You seem to be doing okay,” he remarked.
Beauty shrugged. “I like her,” she said. “I guess you do too.” She stopped, wondered if it was too late to bite her tongue right off. Why had she said that? Why was she reminding him that he’d dated her and that Luna was way funkier and prettier and cooler than Beauty could ever hope to be? She really was an idiot.
Poe glanced at her. “She’s like a sister,” he said. “I hate to see people down on her.”
Beauty felt like grinning. Luna had already mentioned that she and Poe were better off as friends, but it was much nicer hearing it from him. She was still frustrated from her fight with her dad and still nervous around Poe, but it didn’t seem to matter as much. They started walking down the hall, not really going anywhere in particular.
“I didn’t know you could paint,” Poe said.
He was close enough that his sleeve brushed hers. She wanted to remember every detail because she just knew this kind of luck wouldn’t last.
“I just play at it,” she said. “Mostly at home. I’m not that good.”
He looked at her, lifted an eyebrow. “The butterfly was pretty cool. Better than I can do, that’s for sure.”
She smiled. “Well, I guess we’re even because I really can’t sing.”
He grinned back. “How bad are you?”
“Really bad. My dad once offered me a raise in my allowance not to sing.”
Poe laughed and she suddenly didn’t feel like the freak whose mother had an accident and whose father was getting weird. She was just a girl walking with a boy.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Poe said. “But I’m not as good as I’d like to be either.”
“You have a great voice,” Beauty argued. “Kinda folky and dark.” Am I flirting? Do I even know how?
He turned toward her.
“How do you know that?” he asked.
She felt herself flush. She could hardly tell him she sat on her porch and listened to him every Sunday night. He’d think she was stalking him. This was not the way to build a relationship. She forced herself to shrug.
“I’ve heard you. You guys practice near the art room sometimes.” She mentally patted herself on the back for a good save.
“I guess I’ll have to drop by the art room more often then,” he said.
The way he smiled at her made her nervous all over again, but in a good way. It was like he really meant what he was saying.
“I guess you should,” she replied, surprising herself.
They both looked up at the bell when it rang.
“Damn,” Poe muttered. “Already?” He caught her eye. “What class do you have?”
“Art. You?”
“History.”
She nodded as they stood uncertainly, looking at each other. She held up the paintbrush.
“I guess I should wash this before it dries,” she said, just to fill the sudden silence.
“I guess so,” he said. “I’ll see you later.”
She nodded again. “Sure.”
She wanted to say something more, something clever that would make him laugh or think of her later. But she didn’t say anything. She watched him walk away, and before he turned the corner he glanced over his shoulder and winked at her.
6
Beauty sat at the kitchen
table flipping through a book of Pre-Raphaelite paintings. When the doorbell rang, she frowned. She could barely hear it over the music blaring in the living room. She knew it wasn’t her dad. He wouldn’t be home until dinner and he would never ring the bell.
She padded softly to the front door and peered through the key hole. Luna’s distorted face flashed into view. She was dancing to the music that rattled the windows. She started to sing as Beauty’s hand hesitated over the knob.
No one had come to visit since the accident, not even Sabrina. She was too nervous about having people see how she lived, to see their pity or have more rumors flying around at school. She was safer hiding, quiet.
Luna pounded on the door, still dancing. “Hey, B!” she shouted, pounding again.
Beauty sighed. She couldn’t very well pretend not to be home. She took a deep breath and opened the door, smiling casually. The scent of roses was strong. Petals were scattered on the porch.
Luna grinned. “Hey, good song.”
Beauty nodded, swallowed. “What’s up?” she asked.
Luna shrugged. “Not much. Ready to work?”
Beauty frowned. “Work?”
Luna rolled her eyes. “Ten minutes with Poe and you go all gooey on me. Remember? I said I couldn’t rehearse with him because we have homework.”
Beauty nodded. “I thought you made that up.”
“I did, but I figured we should do it anyway. Can I come in or what?”
“Oh.” Beauty blinked, stepped aside. “Sure, of course. Sorry.”
“I can come back another time if you’re busy?”
Beauty bit her lip. This was her opportunity to send Luna home, to keep everything simple and faded. If she sent Luna home, she could go on pretending everything was okay. She shut the door firmly behind Luna.
“No, come on in,” she shouted over the music. Beauty led her to the kitchen after turning down the stereo. Luna looked around curiously.
“Cool house,” she said. “It’s so normal. Unlike mine.”
Beauty nearly snorted. “Do you want a drink or something?” she asked. “Juice? Tea?”
“I’d love some tea.” Luna dropped down into a wooden chair and opened her knapsack, pulling out books and binders and a pencil case covered in beads and star-shaped sequins.
When the kettle whistled, Beauty poured hot water into the pot to steep the rosehip tea mixture she’d made from her grandmother’s recipe. The scent was tart and comforting. Luna spread out her papers and picked up a green felt-tip pen.
“Okay,” she said. “We have to figure out what we want to put in this journal and how we should lay it out. Did you get a chance to look through some of the books?”
“A little,” Beauty said. “They were basically groupies, right?” she asked hesitantly. “For John Keats’ poetry and that critic guy, John Ruskin or whatever?”
Luna grinned. “You’re right, actually. I hadn’t thought about it that way. We could do so
mething really fun with that.” She tapped her pen on her notebook, leaving little marks like stars fallen in the grass. “Why don’t we start with our favorite stories or paintings and go from there? You pick the paintings since you’re into that.”
Beauty poured the tea into cups and then started flipping through the books in front of her as Luna continued to speak. It was nice to have a friend who didn’t mind silence, who didn’t look at you askance as if trying to figure out if you were going to crack. She recognized Waterhouse’s The Lady of Shalott and several Rossetti paintings of dark-haired women.
“Okay, my favorite story is about Dante Rossetti,” Luna was saying. “He was so creepy, I just love it. He wrote poems for Elizabeth Siddal, who he called ‘his Lizzie.’ I think she was one of his models as well. Anyway, she was sick a lot and eventually died of an overdose, and Rossetti had all of his poems buried with her.”
Beauty glanced up. “That’s romantic, not creepy.”
Luna leaned back in her chair, looking smug. There was a star rhinestone on her cheek. “That’s not all,” she said. “A few years later, after several affairs I’m sure, Rossetti decided that he wanted his poems back.“ Luna paused. “So he had his Lizzie dug up so he could pry the poems from her cold dead hands. He said her hair was still thick and bright, all coiled in a braid.”
Beauty blinked. “You made that up.”
“Well, maybe the part about her hair, but everything else is true.” She sipped at her tea, looking proud of herself.
Beauty shuddered. “That’s gross.”
“I know. Cool, huh?”
“You are so weird.”
“This is true.” Luna seemed completely unperturbed by the friendly accusation. “Your turn.”
Beauty turned back to the reproductions in front of her. There were several beautiful ones that she liked, and many of them seemed to be attached to some poem or other. “We could show The Lady of Shalott and then have the poem next to it,” she suggested. “And have Keats’ ‘Isabella and the Pot of Basil,’ which is also creepy by the way, and then show Hunt’s painting.”
They spent the next hour searching through books for paintings and poems and anecdotes. Beauty thought she might have liked to live in a house full of artists, especially with William Morris and all his hand-painted furniture and medieval fabrics he loved so much. It would be like living in a dream. She could understand now why Luna had claimed to live in a Pre-Raphaelite house.