ʷᵃᵛᵉˢ ᵒᶠ ᶜᵒˡᵒʳ / ᵇⁱˡˡⁱᵉ ᵉⁱˡⁱˢʰ

chapter one

The second I stepped out of the taxi cab in front of the house, I knew that the summer lying sprawled out before me was going to be just as I had imagined it--dull, listless, lonely.

Despite what I was told, I knew that this was a form of punishment. Of banishment. My mother had walked in on something that had made her resent me, had made her scared to even look at me. She refused to let me to stay, told me that a summer away would be the best thing for both of us. I was to stay with some old friends of hers, strangers, the only people who had agreed to take me.

"The O'Connels are nice people. You'll like it there," she promised.

I'd lost count of how many promises she'd broken.

Mom had known Maggie O'Connel since college. A time before the surgeries and excessive amounts of martinis, when her beauty was unaltered by plastic, when she could get through the day without cracking open the liquor cabinet. I seen pictures of her from back then--hazy Polaroids stuffed into a random photo album--and knew we looked similar. Now, with everything she's had done, the differences outweighed the similarities. But still--before--the resemblance was uncanny. Both of us had owl-eyes, huge and hazel; both of us had dark brown hair, streaked with the faintest shimmers of auburn (now she was a bottle blonde, and her eyes were always half closed with defeat).

I was jarred from my thoughts by the sound of a door opening and closing. I returned to the present--standing, suitcase in hand, in front of a massive house. The ocean glittering in the background. A soft drizzle dampening my travel-worn clothes.

A woman, of delicate size, was approaching me at a rapid pace. She had a smile plastered over her face, and wore slippers, terrycloth shorts and a T-shirt that read, "Beach Time!" in bold yellow letters.

This, I thought, must be Maggie O'Connel.

"Hello, sweetheart," she gushed upon reaching where I stood on the curb. The taxi--my one chance at escape--had long since driven away, leaving me stranded.

Maggie hugged me, and I was somewhat ashamed at how close in height we were. Both of us were short--in fact, she was likely taller than me. Shameful. Yet another thing inherited from my mother, though she had taken a liking to wearing towering heels to hide this feature. If there was a surgery to be taller, I have no doubt in my mind that she would be the first to get it.

"How was the ride down? You took the train, didn't you? Ah, ignore what I'm wearing. I was just making dinner," Maggie said, guiding me up a wide stone walkway to the front door. She opened it, and a heavenly scent filled my nose. I breathed in deeply, closing my eyes for a moment before realizing that I must look especially strange. When you forget what it's like to have a home-cooked meal, sometimes even the faintest trace of one can leave you in shock.

I cleared my throat and stumbled inside, to the foyer. Unsure of what to say, I simply muttered, "Your house is beautiful." This wasn't a lie. The foyer had polished marble floors, a crystal chandelier emitting a warm golden glow, and white walls adorned with multiple oil paintings of the ocean. I was familiar with tasteful decor--my mother had crowded our home with antique furniture and a disturbing number of nude sculptures that she said "spoke to her"--but this place, despite its obvious luxury and expense, lacked the sort of formal stiffness that I had grown to despise.

It was refreshing.

"Are you hungry?" asked Maggie, as I followed her to the base of a grand spiral staircase leading up to the second floor. I shook my head.

"Just tired," I responded politely. 

"Oh, you must be! Here, let me show you your room." She took my free hand and led me upstairs. My skin pricked under the warmth of her fingers. How long had it been since my own mother had held me like this? Had she ever?

The second floor was made up of a multitude of hallways. We turned down one that seemed similar to all the others, apart from the door at the very end of the hall, which was cracked open. A girl was standing in the doorway. She had pale skin and dark hair, and was watching me with a mixture of surprise and amusement playing over her features. It was almost taunting, the way she looked at me, as if she knew something about me that was meant to be a secret. 

Well, of course she does. It is no doubt that my mother went into great detail about my "condition" to Maggie, and then Maggie informed everyone else. 

"That's Billie," Maggie said, nodding towards the girl, who did not say hi. She merely shrugged. "She's my daughter. You two are around the same age, I think. Billie is seventeen. I have a son, too, but he's moved out."

I was still sixteen, but my birthday was only a week away. Maggie didn't seem to know about that, though, which I was grateful for. The last thing I needed was for her to try to celebrate it in some way. 

Maggie walked into a room a few doors down from Billie's. It had plain white walls and minimalistic furniture, with a bathroom connected. I put my things down on the floor.

"Make yourself at home," Maggie said kindly. "And come downstairs anytime if you're hungry. I can get Billie to give you a tour a little later, if you want."

I shook my head. "I think I'll be okay for now. Thank you."

Maggie nodded, gave me a quick once-over, and then left the room, closing the door softly behind her.

I walked over to the set of windows on the wall across from the bed. They overlooked the beach behind the house, and the expansive ocean beyond. I smiled softly despite myself. I should've been miserable, but seeing the view of the dazzling water and imagining painting it made my spirits soar.

However, once I turned away from the windows and remembered my circumstances--abandoned in this massive house with a family of strangers--my spirits plummeted once again. There was one thought spinning round and round in my mind: This is going to be the worst summer of my life.