Belladonna Read online

  I opened my eyes and glanced at her.

  She was staring at me with an odd flush in her cheeks, all the fidgeting abandoned. “My mom had to clean me. Even when I was well again. She had to wipe me.” She said it with a hardness in her expression, as if challenging me to console her.

  I knew she was being real then. That we would be friends. Because there’s nothing glamorous about a mom lowering her teenage daughter into the tub.

  “My mom can’t even wipe the kitchen clean,” I said.

  Isabella tipped her head back and laughed.

  The sound of her laughter filled my chest. I swallowed the guilty squirm for being cruel about Mama.

  “Anyway.” She licked her lips. “Don’t tell, will you?”

  I felt the frown on my face.

  “It’s just, I don’t want the girls whispering and stuff,” she said, shifting on the edge of the basin.

  “I won’t tell.”

  “Promise?”

  “Promise.”

  Isabella shuffled closer to me. “In that case,” she said, “I have a secret for you.”

  “Oh?” My stomach lurched. It was a secret about when she had malaria, I was sure of it. Sophie LeBaron would be so jealous.

  Isabella leaned toward me and pressed her hand to my ear. Her breath was hot and smelled of bubble gum, artificial and buttery. “You’re the prettiest girl in school,” she said.

  I blinked.

  She pulled back and, with a groan, jumped down from the basin.

  Speckles of water from the fountain flicked against the back of my neck. What was the right thing to say? It was a lie. Not just a small, white lie either. It was a lie so untruthful it was almost insulting. Isabella took a long stride toward a crispy-looking leaf. Was it a test? Was I supposed to deny it? If I said thank you, would that make me bigheaded?

  “Not after you moved here,” I heard myself saying instead.

  Isabella stamped on the leaf and turned to me with a smile. “Briddie,” she said, “you’re ridiculous.” She held out her hand.

  Pulse rushing into my temples, I stepped forward and took her hand in mine.

  And there she was, holding my hand.

  Isabella.

  2.

  June

  On Monday morning I pushed Flora McDonald to the front of the line for Mass. All year I had found it distracting to sit behind Isabella, studying the line of her nose, searching out the tiny beauty spot behind her right ear. So when I nudged Flora into the first pew, I made a special effort to flutter my eyelashes during prayers. To smile at Flora with mischievous cheer, to show how much fun I was, how interesting. At the end of service I squeezed past Flora to stand behind Isabella, and before I knew what I was doing, I reached out and touched the back of her shoulder.

  She turned and her eyes loosely focused on mine. “Oh, hi.”

  My confidence faltered. “Um. Did you have a good weekend?”

  Isabella shrugged. “Republican Club benefit.”

  The Republican Club benefit was a lavish affair hosted by Mrs. Quincy, a widow with such celebrated Yankee pedigree that her skeleton was probably made from strips of the Mayflower. The attendees had to wear red masquerade masks, and there was a silent auction at midnight.

  “Who won the boat?” I said. There was always a boat.

  On the other side of Isabella, Sophie LeBaron turned and scrutinized me. “Were you there?”

  I examined her. Was she being cruel, or was she really so dreamy she couldn’t remember the guest list? She began to chew absently on her lip, and I came down on the side of dreamy. “Not this year,” I said in the end.

  We shuffled out of chapel and I fell into step beside Isabella. “Are you going to camp over vacation?” I crossed my fingers in my kilt pocket. If Isabella was staying in St. Cyrus, I would at least have a chance to court her friendship. Maybe she’d invite me to the country club. I’d have to buy a new bathing suit.

  Isabella shook her head. “No, no camp for me.”

  A rush of glitter soared through my body. “Really?”

  “We’ll be in Bristol, at the summerhouse.”

  And all my hopefulness shrank back. I pictured a whitewashed cottage, windows blown open onto hillocks of dune grass. In the distance, a Dalmatian running across yellow sand. “So you won’t be here?” I said, my voice dangerously close to breaking.

  “No, Briddie, we’ll be in Bristol.” Isabella rolled her eyes. “Bristol, Rhode Island.”

  On the other side of her, Sophie giggled. She pushed her arm through Isabella’s with such careless familiarity that I felt ashamed of my delusions of competing with her. Sophie LeBaron wasn’t the richest girl in our grade, but her particular kind of richness afforded her a flimsy glamour, like a gold butterscotch wrapper. Her house had a downstairs ballroom with special carpet laid in strips so their housemaids could roll it back for dancing. Her parents threw infamous parties: at Thanksgiving, Mrs. LeBaron hid an emerald ring inside a pecan pie for a guest to find. But the most anticipated event was their Labor Day fireworks display, which my parents were never invited to. Flora said Mr. and Mrs. LeBaron ordered coolers of lobster specially delivered from Maine. And a woman from the conservatoire played a harp in a ball gown. Sophie’s family was from Texas, and since she had been the “different” girl before Isabella enrolled, it was pure social economy they should be best friends.

  Sophie began talking about a cousin with a boat, or a cousin’s cousin with two boats, and I fell halfway into a daydream where I took a bus to Rhode Island and strolled along a pier at sunset. Isabella would chance upon me as my hat blew into the water. Or maybe I’d be lounging on a candlelit patio, surrounded by amorphous, elegant friends.

  “Will you be going to camp, Bridget?” Sophie said, with such articulation that it was clear she was taxed by her own politeness.

  “No,” I said.

  Isabella laughed. “Briddie doesn’t have any interests.” My cheeks filled with blood; my shoulder knocked against the handle of a locker. Isabella gave me a theatrical wink. “Like me.” She tapped her yearbook.

  Sophie frowned at Isabella. “You have interests.”

  “I’m interested in getting out of St. Cyrus for the summer,” Isabella said with a toss of her wrist, her charm bracelet jingling.

  They laughed and began to talk between themselves about the Fourth of July, about the correct lotions for lightening freckles. And as Sophie and Isabella filed into the library, I hung back. I pulled my yearbook from my satchel. It still had the glorious fresh yearbook smell, like a new plastic tablecloth. I flicked it open to our junior class photos, and true enough, there were only two girls with blank spaces where clubs and activities should be: under Isabella’s photograph, it simply read “Izzy,” and under mine, “Bridge.” Even Sophie was a member of the Riding Club. I closed the book with a snap. Was that all I had to offer Isabella? Nothing?

  * * *

  That week I watched Isabella as she sunbathed on the tennis court during recess, as she doodled in the margins of her textbook during religious education. And in the evenings after school I sat on my bed and dreamed up scenarios for coaxing her friendship. It had shimmered before me, the day of detention. The promise of acceptance into a realm of hearty constitutions and fearless stunts at the country club. But now a long, Isabella-less summer vacation was looming ahead. Me and Rhona would lay out in the backyard on an old sheet Mama had darned too many times to be usable. Me and Flora would go to the community pool and paddle in the shallow end, since Flora was afraid whenever she couldn’t touch the bottom. And by fall, Isabella would have forgotten we were ever close to being close.

  And so, on Thursday morning, our final proper school day before vacation, I took destiny into my own hands. As the girls ran out for tennis, I faked an untied shoelace and lingered in the locker room. My heart crashing through my skull,
I slipped my hand into Isabella’s satchel and withdrew the cool, jangling chain of her charm bracelet. My fingers were numb, my heartbeat splashing against my eardrums. If anyone was to come in now, I’d be done for. I threaded the bracelet through the grate at the top of my locker and then ran onto the court, squiggles of white vapor creeping over my vision.

  After tennis, I scratched myself across the ribs racing to change back into my uniform. Only as I was leaving the locker room did I risk a peek at Isabella. She was sitting on the bench and had begun to rummage through her satchel, pulling out barrettes and pens and tossing them onto the floor. Giddy, almost tearful, I ran straight home after school, convincing myself all the way that I could hear a telltale tinkling inside my bag. At home I locked my bedroom door, pulled the curtains, and withdrew the bracelet. With shaking hands, I examined the charms for clues to decipher Isabella’s magic: the ballet slipper, the butterfly, the heart-shaped locket with the tiny, stiff key.

  * * *

  Friday was a half day on account of the summer vacation, and everyone was antsy, undoing their top blouse buttons as a concession to recklessness. Roll call was a scrimmage of girls inscribing yearbooks and exchanging bags of peppermint hearts from the drugstore. Isabella was in high demand, signing autographs and writing the address of her summerhouse on slips of paper for urgent vacation missives. Patiently, I waited until she was released from the melee and stopped at the drinking fountain.

  I approached her as casually as I could manage. “Hi. So, did you leave a bracelet behind in the locker room?”

  Isabella wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “Yeah,” she said slowly.

  “It’s just, I found one, and I wasn’t sure if it’s yours or not,” I said airily, as if I hadn’t traced its contours until the silver got warm.

  With a yelp, she reached out and hugged me, her yearbook jabbing me in the chin. “I musta looked everywhere. Where was it?”

  I licked my lips. “Between the slats in the bench.”

  Isabella raised her eyebrows. “Jeez. Close call. Thanks, Briddie.” Her eyes traveled over the line of my pockets, her interest slipping.

  “Oh, I don’t have it on me,” I said. “I took it home in the end, for safekeeping.” Now was the moment for my triumph. “I’ll meet you tomorrow so I can give it to you,” I said. “Maybe at the park?”

  Isabella chewed her thumbnail. “Tomorrow? Tomorrow is the club mixer.”

  “Oh.” I had forgotten about the monthly St. Cyrus Country Club Mixer. The other girls were always restless on the Friday before, forsaking lunch for slices of grapefruit packed into their satchels while I drank my cafeteria milk. Members were allowed to bring their dogs, and even from the bench on the other side of the street, I could hear a symphony of barking that lasted long into the evening. “Sunday, then, after church?”

  Isabella screwed up her nose. “I’ll just come over tomorrow and pick it up.”

  “Come over?” I blinked at her.

  “Yeah.”

  “To my house?”

  Isabella rolled her eyes. “Yes, Briddie.”

  My gut was tight. I tried to place Isabella in my house. It was like setting a chess queen on a game of tic-tac-toe. “Why don’t I just meet you somewhere? The Creamery?”

  “But I don’t know when the mixer will be done.” Isabella batted me on the shoulder with her yearbook. “Leave the bracelet with your mom if you’ll be out.”

  “OK,” I said. My stomach was churning. Isabella wanted to come over; she offered to come over. Her willingness was surely a good sign. But then why did she mention Mama especially? I observed her as she scribbled in Minty Walsh’s yearbook. Only Flora had ever been to my house. What if Isabella was just coming to investigate? Or worse, what if she was an envoy from the rest of the class? Isabella caught my eye and gestured for my yearbook. I watched over her shoulder as she wrote, Briddie saves the day again! See you soon, love Isabella. I stared at her inscription, at our names nestled there together. I allowed myself the luxury of hope.

  * * *

  On Saturday after lunch, I rearranged my bedroom with a curatorial fervor. My mermaid night-light I pulled out and wedged into a drawer between my jeans, along with a goofy photo of me and Rhona in matching Easter bonnets. Then I began a deliberate messening, selecting tokens of slovenliness that might indeed prove I was a real person. A tube of Mama’s Rose Sunset lipstick, discarded just so under my mirror. I draped a white cashmere sweater from Granny by the window seat even though it was far too hot to be out of the closet. I stood by my vanity and assessed. It could have been worse. At least I didn’t have cross-stitched Bible quotes framed above my bed like Flora. I positioned Isabella’s bracelet on my dresser at a nonchalant angle and then, for the final touch, pulled a book about Italy from my shelf and cracked the spine, laying it on the bed. When the doorbell rang, I flew down the stairs, yelling, “I’ll get it, Mama.”

  Isabella was on my doorstep.

  “Hey.” She was wearing white slacks and a white T-shirt with an oversize tweed jacket.

  “Aren’t you hot?”

  She raised her eyebrows. “Not really. Gonna invite me in?”

  “Oh.” I stood aside.

  Isabella pulled one hand out of her pocket and pointed to a picture on the wall. “Oh my God, baby Briddie!”

  I froze. I’d been so worried about my bedroom, I’d forgotten to doctor the evidence of my awkwardness in the rest of my house. In the photo, Rhona was precious and pigtailed, and I was pressing my fist to my eye, a spit bubble forming. “It’s terrible, don’t look,” I said.

  Isabella smiled. “It’s adorable. My mom lost a bunch of my baby pictures in the move, so you’ll just have to imagine me small and ugly.”

  I scrabbled for the right response. “I hardly have to imagine,” I said.

  She stuck her tongue out at me. “Is that your parents?” She gestured to a photo hanging over the telephone and began to walk down the corridor. There was an anticipatory clench in my stomach.

  “Isabella? Sorry, it’s just, my mom—do you mind—is it OK if you take your shoes off?” I said, all in one breath.

  “Sure.” She leaned against the banister, still staring at a picture of Mama and Dad in a rowboat on Lake Quinsigamond. As she handed me her sneakers I noticed her left sock had a ladder in it through which I could see the staggered line of her heel. Isabella shrugged off her jacket, too, and as I hung it up, I fumbled under the collar for the make. But an embroidered name tag had been sewn over the label: Ralph DeLaney. Of course. Ralph. What other allure could persuade someone to wear tweed in June? I gave it a tentative sniff. It was sour, like a dusty rug that had been lying in the sun. Isabella was climbing the stairs, whistling, and as she reached the top landing she turned. “Which one’s yours?”

  I pointed to the door on the right and she let herself in. “Cool.”

  The bed screeched, and I came in to see her bouncing on her elbows. As I’d hoped, she’d picked up my Treasures of Italy book and had opened it straight to the photos in the middle. “Oh my God. Look at that.” She held it toward me, tapping a photograph of a woman drinking espresso in front of a cathedral.

  I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to be impressed or scornful so I settled for a neutral “I know.”

  Isabella sighed. “It’s divine,” she said with uncharacteristic wistfulness.

  I perched on the edge of my dresser and then on the corner of the bed. Then back on the dresser. “So you’ll apply?”

  Isabella frowned at me over the top of the book.

  “For the academy. I mean, your parents will let you apply?”

  Isabella snorted. “They couldn’t stop me.”

  A treacly sort of happiness flooded my chest. “Me too,” I said. “I’ve been hoping for it since sophomore year. Though my grades are kind of . . .” I trailed off.

  Isabella looke
d up at me, her eyes bright, conspiratorial. “Me too,” she said.

  “So you like art history?” I stared at the carpet. It felt somehow exposing to be asking her directly.

  Isabella rolled over onto her back. “I guess.” She smiled up at me. “And what’s not to like about adventuring in Europe? Jailbreak!”

  I nodded. “I can’t wait to get out of St. Cyrus.” As I said it, I probed the idea, pushing myself to the town boundary, then to the coast, across the ocean. It was an elastic sort of feeling, projecting myself away from home. Pliant, precarious. I wasn’t sure that I liked it.

  “A whole year away from Rotary Club luncheons,” Isabella said dreamily.

  I had never been inconvenienced by a Rotary Club luncheon so it was hard to summon the right kind of relief. “It would be cool.”

  “It would be everything,” Isabella said, fixing her eyes on me. “Just think, Briddie. We’d have a whole year, just for us!”

  “We would?”

  She laughed. “Of course.”

  “But—” I licked my lips. “But what about Sophie?”

  Isabella scoffed. “Sophie will be married to Matty before they’ve cut the cake at her cotillion.”

  “Right,” I said, although I didn’t know who Matty was. “So.” I swallowed. “You’d go without her?”

  “But you’re going, right?”

  I crossed my fingers behind my back to avert a jinx. “I mean, I want to.”

  “Then I’ll go with you,” she said, shrugging, as if the matter was settled. “You just have to swear that we’ll stick together so we can have fun—never mind the nuns.” And she laughed.

  “OK,” I said. My cheeks were tingling. “I swear.”

  She smiled. “It’ll be glorious, Briddie.”

  Me and Isabella, juddering on bicycles through an orange grove, sitting at the end of a pier, dangling our legs into the sea. And then my heart plunged. “But, Ralph, he’s not— I mean, doesn’t he want to get married?” I pinched my nails into my palms.