Very Bad Things (Briarcrest Academy) (11 page)

He paled and pinched the bridge of his nose. “You don’t want
me, Nora. I’ll fuck you, and when I’m done, I’ll leave you.”

At the thought of him leaving me, all the air was taken out
of me and a pain squeezed my heart so hard I thought I might cry out. “Well if
not you, then someone else will do,” I said with a shrug, looking around the
bar. “Who should I choose? There’s the young guy over there in the corner with
the power suit and buzz cut who’s been trying to catch my eye since I sat down .
. . although I think I see a wedding band on his hand. He’s out, I suppose.
Even I have standards. And, there’s the fortyish-looking guy sitting across
from me. He’s been staring at my breasts.” I smiled and waved at the gentleman
in question, and he waved back, a hopeful look on his face. “Oh yeah,
definitely interested.”

I opened my purse and pulled out a pen and wrote my name and
number on a bar napkin. I pushed it over to Leo. “Do me a favor? Take this over
to him and tell him what a great girl I am. How good I am. How you know I’m not
really bad.” I stared at the bulge in his pants. “Maybe tell him how hard you
get when I talk about fucking.”

He pulled me off the stool so quick I didn’t know what had
happened until I was standing right next to him, both of our chests heaving and
tempers flaring. “Go back to your damn table. No fucking today, Nora,” he bit
out, eyes glowing with fire. Was it heat or disgust I saw? Whichever it was, I
didn’t care.

I smiled and batted my lashes. “Tomorrow?”

He growled at me, and I thrilled at the sound, imagining him
doing it while he made love to me. See, here’s the thing. This was a whole lot
more than just wanting to do bad things. I couldn’t blame this anymore on
wanting meaningless sex. No, this was all about
him
. About
Leo
.
He sparked this insatiable, urgent need in me, one that I hadn’t quite wrapped
my head around yet. I’d never felt more alive than when I was with him, even if
we were antagonizing each other.

“Are you high?” he asked me, his eyes boring into mine.

I laughed. “God, no. This is all me,” I said bitterly. “I
don’t need drugs to be a whore, Leo. I can do it all by myself.”

My young waiter appeared at my side, his eyes nervously
jumping from Leo’s firm hand on my elbow to me and then back to Leo’s angry
face, taking in the drama.

This was the most exciting lunch date with Mother I’d ever
had.

“Miss Blakely, your mother asked me to look for you?” he
said in his Italian accent.

I leaned in and kissed Leo’s cheek, inhaling his
butterscotch and male scent. He held me against him for a moment, almost like
he didn’t want to let me go, but then he pushed me back.

I turned and went back to my table, feeling his gaze the
entire way.

I sat back down, smoothed my hair, and put on a smile,
hiding my shaking hands under the table.

The same waiter picked up our plates. “May I get you ladies
anything else today? Perhaps dessert?”

Feeling exhilarated, I asked, “What do you recommend?” as
Mother gasped.

He smiled. “Today we are featuring the Sicilian watermelon
pudding and the orange-infused tiramisu. Both are divine.”

“Bring the check, please. I’m in a hurry,” Mother said
icily.

“I’ll take the tiramisu,” I told the waiter. “I’ve never had
one orange-infused before.”

“Nora, you’re not having dessert,” Mother said, snapping her
fingers in my face.

“I am and this nice young man is going to go back to
the kitchen and bring it to me,” I said. “I’m five ten and weigh one hundred
thirty-eight pounds. My hip bones stick out so far that I could pass as
anorexic. I’m
getting
dessert unless you want me to stand up and tell
everyone to fuck off? It’s no trouble at all. It makes me feel good to be
offensive, and I do enjoy seeing the expression on your face.”

Mother’s eyes widened to the size of the dinner plates in
the waiter’s hands. She tightened her lips. “You’re such a fucking baby, Nora.
Fine, eat your dessert like a two year old.” She smiled. “It doesn’t matter how
fat you are anyway, you’ll always be worthless.”

I looked back at the open-mouthed waiter and said, “One
tiramisu, please.” He bobbed his head and nearly ran from the table.

Best. Tiramisu. I. Ever. Had.

I DECIDED TO head back home for the
weekend so Mother would let up on me staying with Aunt Portia. Spacing my nights
there apart was probably a good idea so she wouldn’t ban me altogether. By the
time I got back to Highland Park, Mona had already left, leaving me alone for
the weekend in a ten-thousand-square-foot house. Cold and opulent, our
residence was one of the newer ones in an area consisting mostly of mansions
built over fifty years ago. My parents had built their estate by purchasing two
adjacent homes, tearing them down, and then building our house on the combined
3.29 acres, making it the largest on our street. And you needed all that land
when you had twelve bedrooms, ten bathrooms, an eight car garage, a gatehouse,
a water garden, a tennis court, and a pool. The Blakely home was the pride of
the neighborhood.

Most of our money came from Texas oil, inherited from my
dad’s grandparents, who’d helped make this area the exclusive place it is
today. They’d fought to keep us from being annexed by Dallas in the 1950s,
protecting Highland Park from being swallowed up by the expanding city. Because
of our history here, the Blakely name carried weight, epitomizing the
conservative beliefs held by most in this suburb.

Mother’s family? I didn’t know jack about them. Had never
met them. I wondered if she hated them and that’s why she refused to talk about
her relatives.

Mona had left me grilled salmon and a salad in the fridge,
so I sat down and ate alone. As usual, it was too quiet, and I turned the radio
on in the kitchen to keep me company. After putting my dishes in the dishwasher
and carefully cleaning the area where I’d eaten, I wandered around the house
aimlessly, my boots echoing hollowly on the polished marble floors as I passed
by an original Picasso.

I went in the family room, a huge room featuring a pool
table and a wrap-around leather sectional. Two 65” flat screens with surround
sound were mounted on either sides of the room. Unopened family games, like
Monopoly and Clue, were aligned on the built-in shelves. A bar was in the
corner, the wine and liquor just waiting for me to steal whatever was inside.

Had we ever sat in here, all of us together? Never. Mother
had been busy at the station; Father had been busy “working” which was most
likely code for fucking other women; and Finn, if he was home, he’d still be in
bed, sleeping off the hangover from the night before.

I left the family room and crossed the hall into the formal
dining room. A professionally decorated table dominated the space, but like a
magnet, my eyes were automatically drawn to the mahogany china cabinet against
the wall. I peered inside the ostentatious piece of furniture, staring at the
sixteen Noritake place settings. I’d read somewhere that the making of fine
china is a painstaking process, requiring all sorts of skilled artisans and
several types of machinery to get the perfect piece.

I gazed at the beautiful place settings with their little
pink rosebuds and shiny platinum trim. They were so lovely and delicate, yet
like me, no one cared about them, no one had a use for them. All that time
spent to make such precious pieces, and all it takes is
one
moment to
destroy it forever. Just like all it had taken was one horrible thing to ruin
me forever.

I opened the glass door and gingerly picked up one of the
plates, holding the weight in my hands. I hated the cold perfection it
represented and hated myself, too, for pretending to be perfect for so long. I
turned the plate over and stared at the tiny chips I’d starting making on
Mother’s china years ago. It wasn’t much, really. Just tiny little flecks of
porcelain that were missing from the bottom here and there, small bits that no
one ever paid attention to or looked at too hard. And like the missing chips in
this china, pieces of my spirit were also gone, destroyed by people who claimed
to love me.

I set the plate down on the table and picked up another one
and turned it over, staring at the missing flecks on it as well, caressing the
imperfections. I set it down. I kept pulling the china out, checking each piece
to make sure they weren’t really perfect, that they were as flawed as I was.
Maybe it was crazy that I’d scratched and clawed at Mother’s china for years.
It hadn’t matter anyway. She’d never noticed.

I stood frozen, horrified when I came across a dessert plate
I’d never picked at. How had I missed one?
No, no, not possible
, I
thought, searching it thoroughly, turning it this way and that, my suddenly
sweaty hands trying to find a bit of damage; just the littlest bit would soothe
me. And when I didn’t, I slammed it down hard against the dining table, feeling
instant relief at the destruction, at seeing the too-perfect plate smashed. And
then something inside my soul fractured too, and I couldn’t stop myself. I just
couldn’t. Madness burned like a fire inside me, hot and bright, wanting to
shatter everything. Unwelcome tears ran down my face, and it made me angry,
this fucking emotional tailspin I’d brought on myself by coming into this room.
I cursed and grabbed another piece and another and another, slamming each and
every plate, cup, and saucer down against the table over and over until every
single dish lay pulverized at my feet. Until I felt spent. Until nothing
perfect would ever be in this house again.

After that, I went upstairs and dyed my hair a deep red.

LATER THAT AFTERNOON, I reached
under my bed and pulled out a new bottle of Grey Goose that I’d taken from
dad’s study. I’d been coming to the house on regular stealthy visits to take
his liquor, sometimes grabbing the bourbon or scotch, but always coming back to
the vodka. I wondered if I’d killed any brain cells so far with my drinking.
Would it lower my IQ? I laughed. Did I care?

Tonight was special, and I intended to celebrate. I cranked
up the music on my iPod and poured myself a shot, thinking about my evening.

One Christmas, Aunt Portia had gotten me several yards of
vintage fabric she’d found at a second-hand store in downtown Dallas. It was
gorgeous and decadent, probably used to make fancy tablecloths or custom
curtains. Made from heavy, black silk, it had the unusual print of brightly
colored red cherries on it. I’d had it in my closet for a while, not quite sure
what I wanted to do with it.

You see, while I’d been at the Parisian fat camp, I was
taught lots of things: how to speak in conversational French; how to be a
well-spoken, mild-mannered hostess and hold a dinner party for twelve; how to
appreciate art and classical music; and finally, how to sew and embroider.
Unless you’re planning on being the First Lady, they're all completely
bullshit, except for the sewing classes.

When I returned home, I became a wee bit obsessed with the
inventiveness of sewing. Once I got my own machine for Christmas, it became a
full-on sweat shop in my bedroom. Mila had called me the sewing Tasmanian
devil, and I guess I had seemed frenzied, spinning Dad’s old shirts into
dresses and stitching pretty fabric into tea cozies for Aunt Portia. Making
something out of nothing made me feel like I was important, like I had value.

So, I took my special fabric and pulled out a pin-up style
skirt pattern I’d designed while at fat camp. I cut into the material, pinned
it together, and got to work sewing. After a couple of hours, my new pencil
skirt was finished, and I put it on, satisfied with the snug fit. In my closet
I found a red satin, button-up shirt, which I put on, tying the last few
buttons high above my waist, making it into a midriff-baring top. To finish it
off, I slipped my feet into a pair of red Manolo heels I’d worn to one of the
school’s formals.