Anger and love often make a surprisingly compatible match. The seemingly opposite emotions sometimes come together to form the most graceful of dancing partners. So, with this very pair swirling within her own heart, Bell emerged from her window at midnight. The journey began with a steady ascent up her fire escape and culminated in a challenging chin-up and hoist that required a small feat of gymnastics. The fire escape ended just five feet shy of the building’s roof, forcing Bell to reach for the top of the building with one hand while maintaining a firm grasp with the other on the railing below. Then, doing her best to avoid a glance at the distant sidewalk, she faced the final risk; catapulting herself over this short distance to reach the safety of the roof.

  Comparatively, the second portion of the journey was much easier than the first. It required crossing the roof with sufficiently light steps, wary, particularly on the Finch side, of Mrs. Finch’s light slumber. The only route from the Barnacles’ to the Finches’ entailed traversing the ceiling directly above the Finches’ master bedroom. The third portion of the expedition was essentially a repetition of the first, a short drop down the other side of the building to reach Blaine’s bedroom. This segment of the journey, however, was defined by one critical difference. When rappelling down the Finches’ side, one’s fall was cushioned by a minute speck eighty feet below posing as a trash Dumpster. Still, it was entirely possible to pick up some speed on this side, provided one took a lover’s leap of faith, hugging the building for dear life without promise of a returned embrace.

  The trip was exactly as Bell remembered; a steady perilous climb peppered with moments of euphoric relief and grave danger. But time had somehow lent the journey added treachery. The metal grates were louder now, despite her cautious steps. The drop seemed not so much higher as closer to death. Even the building itself had aged considerably over the years, its red bricks fading to light brown, its bright copper gutters dulling to green, and black paint peeling off in thick chips on every surface. Bell herself had changed considerably since her maiden voyage. Her steps were less certain, her hamstrings less supple, her confidence shaken. But finishing the climb required maintaining a positive outlook. Luckily, the city offered ample distraction. A taxi door slammed. A bus whistled. A pair of lovers fought. The city felt her excitement, Bell decided. They were in on this together. For a moment, she forgot the dire nature of her mission. How odd, she thought, that love and hatred could produce the same sensation.

  Finally, she reached Blaine’s room and paused to catch her breath. From the window, it looked exactly as she remembered: completely immaculate. In the darkness, his powder blue duvet appeared an almost ghostly white. The yellow plaid still provided the perfect foil to his beige striped wallpaper. The pillows on the bed remained perfectly ordered despite Blaine’s tumultuous sleep. In fact, of everything in the room, it was Blaine who had changed the most. His hair was tossed sweetly over his pillow and his lips parted slightly in a smile, causing him to look uncharacteristically cherubic and docile. Seen through the glass, he seemed softer somehow, younger, more innocent. His chest rose and fell with a disturbing slowness, as though he were not a man but some rare amphibious species that required less oxygen. He murmured things occasionally and changed his expression. It was as though sleep had robbed him of his evil intentions. It was nothing short of torture for Bell to see him in this vulnerable state. For ten years now she had pictured this image instead of counting sheep. But she did her best to detach from emotion. Her aspirations were so much bigger than love: She was after vindication.

  She hesitated a moment before moving toward his window. Was it possible that her sister was right, that telepathy alone had twinned the boys’ courtships? Was there any chance, she wondered now, that she’d made the wrong judgment, that Blaine had spoken from his heart the night before, that finally, after all these years, he had simply and suddenly seen the light, had woken up and realized he had spent his young life on shallow pursuits and wasteful women—or was it shallow women and wasteful pursuits?—and that the best, nay, the only way, to give his life meaning was to make Bell his wife? Even entertaining these thoughts lifted Bell’s spirits, but as she peered more intently through the window, she realized Blaine’s smile was more of a sneer and, kicking herself for her gullibility, promptly dismissed the notion.

  Without further delay, she reached for the window. Many close shaves with uncooperative doormen had made her as proficient at the art of window entry as window exit. She applied the necessary combination of forward and upward force, managing to lift Blaine’s window a whole foot without so much as a squeak. Next, she met the final challenge of the outdoor journey. She shrunk herself to the smallest possible diameter, then wriggled through the window. Duly relieved by the sensation of solid ground once again, she lay prostrate on the rug for several moments, taking in her coordinates. Luckily, Blaine had failed to note even the slightest disturbance. He’d reached, if possible, a yet deeper state of repose. One arm was stretched casually above his head as though his bed was a sandy beach and a fruity drink was perched on his pillow. Wholly entranced, Bell lingered for a moment, watching Blaine sleep, then, giving into a strange impulse, she surveyed the room to appraise the decor as though she was an honored guest enjoying a guided tour. Finally, Bell braced herself for the last leg of her journey then, taking a lesson from her father, silenced the rustle of her clothes by rolling across the floor.

  A long, low moan interrupted Bell’s covert approach. Blaine was still sleeping soundly, only now he lay on his side, cradling his head in his hands like a small forest animal. He looked so innocent in this pose that Bell was flummoxed again, finding herself hard-pressed to remember her cynicism. Unfortunately, nine times out of ten, passion trumps reason and so Bell ignored her better judgment, lifting herself from the floor in order to climb into the bed and nestle herself very close to Blaine in a spooning position. In her haste, she failed to notice certain critical environmental details. She had not yet admired the yellow daffodil posed daintily in the vase on Blaine’s desk, nor had she noted the simple fact that the man sleeping in Blaine’s bed was not Blaine at all.

  “Blaine,” Bell whispered.

  Billy shook his head and wrinkled his face to a dot. He turned onto his back, lifted his arms then clasped them across his chest.

  “Blaine,” Bell repeated. She turned toward him, rotating into an embrace.

  His eyes still closed, Billy turned to face Bell and muttered something unintelligible.

  Slightly frazzled by the commotion, Bell took a deep, strengthening breath then, flouting fate and gender roles, she coyly slid her hand from Billy’s shoulder to his waist. Billy smiled in response conveying his deep subconscious satisfaction. Then, smiling widely once again, he rolled toward Bell. “Oh, Bridget,” he said.

  Bell lay perfectly still for a moment, staring at Billy’s closed eyes. His eyelashes were long and thick. His skin was smooth and sweetly scented.

  “Blaine,” she whispered. She inched her hand lower toward his hip.

  Billy said nothing in response, only smiled with deep pleasure and yawned extravagantly.

  Bell stared at the sleeping boy, immobilized with yearning then, losing patience, shook him gently and woke him with a kiss on the lips.

  Billy puckered his lips for several seconds before he opened his eyes and realized the object of his affection. “Bell,” Billy gasped. “What the hell?”

  Bell braced every muscle in her body.

  “Bell,” Billy repeated. “What are you doing?”

  Bell said nothing for a moment, weighing her options frantically. As she saw it, she had two choices: attempt to hide under the duvet or make a dash for the door. And yet, after a careful assessment, Bell opted for a third, risky choice, wrapping her arms around Billy’s neck and sticking her tongue down his throat.

  “Oh,” said Billy.

  Bell took this as a good sign and clasped the back of his neck with more force.

  “No,” said Billy.

  Bell pulled away suddenly. “Oh,” she whispered. “I’m sorry.”

  On reflex, Bell turned away from Billy to face an impartial wall. She wished she believed what she had as a child, that simply by closing her eyes very tight she could make herself disappear from the world. Without another word or glance, she lunged out of the bed, sprinted down the Finches’ hall, and burst into her own apartment like a drowning swimmer reaching the shore. Finding the sight of Bridget simply too much to bear at the moment, she bypassed their bedroom, opting instead to sleep on the living room sofa. The sight of so many familiar objects did its part to transport her somewhat, but the rigidity of the sofa provided its own obstacle. Fortunately, she was graced with sleep within thirty minutes, but even this brought its own form of distress as her dreams were plagued with nightmares in which she single-handedly took on an army of twins, fighting pairs of every shape and size with little success.

  * * *

  At just this moment, Blaine awoke with a terrible start. Yet another dream featuring the Barnacle girls made him feel as though he might unravel. In the dream, the six girls had multiplied into six hundred. Each girl had been possessed by an evil, bloodthirsty demon. Each one wore a more beguiling expression as they marched toward him en masse, with military precision. Frazzled, he wandered into the kitchen to fix himself a snack. As always, salami and swiss beckoned as the sirens did Odysseus. He opened the refrigerator, removed the essentials from the fridge and placed a small pile of cold cuts on a plate, alternating, in his odd fastidious way, one slice of cheese between every slice of meat. But, once he’d finished its assembly, Blaine only stared at the striped sandwich. He stood in a trance for several minutes, contemplating his predicament. If all went well, he would soon be engaged to a young heiress. But if Bell continued to resist his advances, Billy would beat him to it. Nothing would irk him more than to watch Billy lap him at the finish, rendering Bell the second-place winner and Billy, a millionaire’s husband. Finding his appetite suddenly diminished, Blaine abandoned his sandwich. He needed to see Bell immediately. Surely, she could be persuaded.

  Sadly, the Barnacles’ living room was heavily guarded. Having overheard snippets of Bell and Bridget’s plan, Benita had set up camp near the front door in order to police traffic. To distract herself during quiet hours, she’d brought a deck of cards and dealt her fifteenth hand of solitaire as the night proceeded into the morning hours. While she played, she devoted dormant parts of her brain to the usual pastimes, reviewing her lines for Monday’s talent show audition, settling her dolls’ raging custody battles, and otherwise plotting her sisters’ destruction. She funnelled all other neurological energy toward her lifelong goal: whichever came first, her marriage to Billy or Billy’s seduction.

  Of course, Benita knew their union was impossible for the time being. The world of adults was too simple-minded to overlook their age difference. And yet, Benita felt certain the future offered some hope. Though many would oppose their union now, in ten years, they’d have fewer opponents. Taking some comfort in these statistics, she redoubled her card-playing efforts and moved through the dealer’s pile, three cards at a time, stopping only occasionally to cheat and check cards for preferable options. Yet again, her mind strayed to her favored topic. By the time she was twenty-five years old, Billy would be forty-three and by then their love would be acceptable in the court of public opinion. Furthermore, time would afford Benita an added selling point. By then, their age gap would turn into an advantage, rendering Benita an appealing alternative to boring middle-aged women.

  And while Benita knew it was a lot to ask that Billy wait, she suspected, even at her tender age, that love required sacrifice. Regardless, there was one issue on which she would not relent. If she couldn’t have Billy to herself, she would rather he was alone. The thought of Billy and Bridget together turned her purple with rage. With each new card she overturned, she considered a new act of vengeance. Perhaps she could tell Billy about Bridget’s past and thereby tarnish her image, or maybe do more serious harm by digging up some damning pictures. Either way, she was determined to find a way to sabotage their romance and found, for the first time since learning about the contest, an equally worthy challenge. Consumed, she continued her game of cards with increasing fervor, seeing, instead of hearts and spades on her cards, the face of her neighbor. As a result, it felt like prophecy when chance brought her a visitor and Benita looked up from her game of cards to find Billy standing at the door. And yet, Benita would soon face an equally astounding shock considering the fact that the boy standing at the door was not Billy at all.

  “Billy,” said Benita. She pursed her lips and pushed out her chest flirtatiously.

  Blaine ran his fingers through his hair then, realizing the reason for Benita’s mistake, decided not to make the correction.

  “Billy,” said Benita. “What are you doing? It’s after midnight.”

  “I was having trouble sleeping,” said Blaine, “so I came for a visit.”

  “Who did you come to see?” Benita asked. She batted her eyes coyly.

  “You know I can’t go a day without you,” said Blaine then, lifting his palm to his forehead, he assumed a melodramatic tone. “Love is all consuming.”

  Benita blushed and reveled in this compliment for a minute. Then, recognizing sarcasm, stopped smiling and narrowed her eyes. “Bridget’s sleeping,” she announced. “You’ll have to come back later.”

  “And Bell?” he asked.

  Benita regarded him suspiciously. Why did Billy care what Bell was doing? “Bell’s with Blaine,” she said haughtily. “She left an hour ago.”

  “I see,” said Blaine. And now, a truly insidious thought entered his head. But he felt he could not be blamed; circumstance had conspired with him. It was almost too easy. “If you don’t mind then, I might just go and knock on Bridget’s door.”

  “Suit yourself,” Benita sneered. “If you don’t mind damaged goods.”

  “Oh come on, Benita.” Blaine offered an insincere pout.

  “It’s your loss anyway,” she said. “Bridget’s not going to win.”

  “Win what?” said Blaine.

  Benita indulged in a demonic smile. “My father’s contest,” she said. “But, then again, what would you care?”

  “Why is that?” Blaine demanded, his interest finally piqued.

  “Sorry,” she said. In an instant, she completely transformed her expression, replacing her diabolical look with one that was equally angelic. “I can’t tell you. It’s too big a secret.”

  “Now, Benita,” Blaine scolded. “I’ll take it to the grave.”

  Benita performed a pantomime with excruciating accuracy, locking her mouth at the corner of her lips and then, opening her mouth again to swallow the invisible key.

  “Come on, Benita,” Blaine whined, matching her tone inadvertently. “I’m practically your brother. I’m definitely trustworthy.”

  Benita twirled her hair demurely, considering Blaine’s plea. “Oh fine,” she said. “But you can’t tell a soul.” Then she whispered, “Bell’s pregnant.”

  “What?” snapped Blaine.

  Benita nodded. “I thought you might want to know. Bridget’s not the one to marry. Bell’s already won.”

  Blaine said nothing for a moment, dizzy with questions. Could this little imp be trusted? Was this reliable information? “But what if Bridget accepts Billy’s—” Blaine paused, catching his mistake. “But if Bridget accepts my proposal,” he went on, “will she and Bell tie for first place?”

  Benita looked at Blaine sharply, alarmed by his choice of words. His mastery of the contest’s rules was striking, surpassing even her own. But greed overwhelmed her intuition for the moment. More distracted by Blaine’s question than his verbiage, she devoted the better part of her brain to considering this outcome. “Yes,” she finally admitted, placing her hands on her hips. “But if you don’t mind, please don’t tell Blaine that part.”

  Blaine said nothing, only stared at Benita, considering the new data. Then, remembering his previous goal, he said, “Well, thanks for the tip. I’m off to see Bridget.”

  Benita stared at Blaine for a moment, outraged by his treatment. Had she known, of course, that Blaine was Billy, she might have felt less injured. Unfortunately, she was condemned to curse her miserable luck. She’d intended to sabotage Billy and Bridget’s romance, not fan the flames of their passion. Finally, lacking a response, she wrinkled her face into a grimace then, resisting the urge to stick out her tongue, turned on her heel and stormed down the hall, muttering to herself. Surprised by Benita’s violent reaction, Blaine watched her angry march. As she disappeared down the hall, Blaine entertained a wicked thought. Without his baseball cap on, the world was at his disposal. He could indulge his every whim under the veil of Billy’s good reputation.

  Finally, once Benita’s footsteps had faded and her door had slammed several times, Blaine proceeded after her down the hall toward his intended destination. The change of scenery presented an unexpected challenge. Blaine stopped short at the door of Bell and Bridget’s room, lulled by the sight of Bridget sleeping and the room’s overwhelmingly feminine fragrance. The heady scent of rose perfume combined with the warm spring breeze and a faint trace of sweat to give the room an intoxicatingly feminine quality. Forgetting himself, Blaine remained still, as though hypnotized, surveying the contents of the room with new fascination. Solitude and moonlight afforded the room a magical glow and, blessed with the leisure to snoop, Blaine wandered around the perimeter with the entitled curiosity of a museum visitor. Bridget’s belongings announced themselves in bold colors. A pink boa and a pair of red heels rested on a wooden chair. An abundance of hanging, frilly things filled the room like windblown feathers. Leather bags poked out from every corner broadcasting every designer label. Countless pails overflowed with nail polish like Thanksgiving cornucopia; all of these artifacts asserted their owner’s heavenly girliness.

  Bell’s possessions, though harder to locate in the fray of ruffles and fringe, painted a more complex portrait. The colorful ribbons and awards of a precocious childhood were patchy in their commitment to a single pursuit. The garbled posters and photographs were an earnest, if clumsy, attempt to try on various points of view. The endless and seemingly haphazard array of books revealed, in patches, particular phases of interest and various abandoned pursuits. The peculiar selection of objects—a collection of tiny glass elephants, a cardboard diarama of the Grand Canyon, a pair of homemade roller skates fashioned from sneakers and skateboard wheels—betrayed a wonderfully eccentric mind, a person unafraid of failure. Here was evidence of a person striving to discover herself, to decide what in the world mattered, what causes merited her devotion. Here was a person trying to wrangle a worthy path from this beautiful abundance.

 

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