A Sisterhood of Secret Ambitions, page 7
Of course they did. Mrs. Brown was trained as a Wife. She was trained to be happy like this.
Next to the pictures, I saw Mr. Brown’s diplomas, articles written about deals he made, pictures of him with his powerful friends, and a retirement announcement framed like a trophy. The walls told two stories. Two lives. Mrs. Brown gathered children while he gathered accolades.
No matter how cherubic those cheeks, my dreams looked more like Mr. Brown’s life than the one I was supposed to want.
The end of the hall tucked straight through into the kitchen where I could hear Bea slamming pans as she angry baked.
Greta walked back in with her elbow wrapped and her chin upturned.
“I’m sorry about Mira,” I said.
Greta smiled. “Don’t be. It’s forgiven.”
We’d been trained to forgive, but I know that Greta wouldn’t forget.
“Where is she?” she said with a painted smile.
“Maybe she’s out in the garage?” I said, though I knew perfectly well she was climbing up the stairs.
Greta narrowed her eyes and brushed past me.
Oh. What a bony shoulder.
I followed the sound of cooking and the smell of fresh-baked something. Bea was in her element in the kitchen, wearing a yellow apron freckled with flowers. She matched the yellow subway tiles that covered the walls, cut through with a soft green tile in a subtle geometric pattern. The kitchen windows, lined with cotton embroidered curtains, were open to the backyard, and I could hear birds and creatures chattering outside, and taste the cool fresh air of the morning. The cabinet trim was painted green, and the glass centers showed clean and well-organized shelves full of platters, cups, and canned goods. All my friends seemed to have a place to belong here. Like one day a house just like this one would be their own.
Something inside me twisted. For a second, I was alone staring at a massive home that didn’t belong to me. I knew my place. I knew my future. I would be a wife of a powerful man. I would turn his head in the direction the society led me toward, and that was enough.
That was more than enough. I was grateful for everything they’d given me.
The front door opened, and a woman’s voice called from the foyer. “Girls?” Mrs. Brown was back with Iris in tow, and they weren’t alone. A group of five or so Beauty Makers rolled in carts and paints and curlers. I stood tall.
The Beauty Makers’ training and world were separate from our society. They were more like allies let in on our secrets than sisters. Cousins, maybe. But we trusted one another with our secrets, and sometimes one of ours would move to their society, and sometimes we’d bring in one of theirs to ours. The Beauty Makers were men and women and those in between, who played with beauty and gender until there were no labels that would stick to them. They were beautiful and handsome in the same breath. Their weapons were the artist brush.
Both societies knew well the power of observation. Sometimes it was best to fade away into a crowd, but other times you’d need to stand out. It was almost a magic trick really, the way clothes could turn a girl invisible, or make her the center of attention. Misdirection. A wave of the hand. If Harry Houdini could use a woman to distract, then why couldn’t we use ourselves?
It was an honor to have them in. But I lowered my shoulders and raised my chin. If we were already in the Beauty Making stage, then I knew what came next.
Next we’d meet the boy.
My stomach twisted, and I closed my eyes. I thought of the eight-page assessment, of what I’d studied for, of all the plans and hopes I had. I thought of my brain, my life, my future.
Then I opened my eyes, painted on a smile, and let them turn me into a doll with a perfect face, hiding dreams no doll should have.
My father gave me a collection of dolls.
One for each birthday he missed.
One for each mistress.
One for each time a business venture failed.
One for each time he came back home
with his arms wide and he was welcomed by my mother.
They stood untouched on a shelf.
Painted smiles, perfect silk, collecting dust for my mother to clean.
How could I curl their hair or touch their cold faces
when they were made to silence my storm?
The storm has always been inside me, rumbling inside my bones.
Asking questions when I should be silent.
Climbing trees when I should be still.
Ruling my dreams of a life my best friend doesn’t think I deserve.
The storm pattered against my brain
when I should’ve been silent.
The way all dolls were.
CHAPTER SIX
We made plans while they rid our bodies of hair. Mira won first go, because Bea and I ganged up against Greta and voted for her. I chose to go last because from my research, the last chosen had statistically the very best chance of winning. Going last would mean the most lingering feelings when we moved into the second stage. But my heavens, was it ever going to be hard to wait!
The Beauty Makers slathered creams to make our skin brighter as we spoke of where we’d like to meet him. Bea insisted on meeting at a bakery, which was an advantage I’m not sure any one of us could fight, but at least we’d eat well as we assisted her. Mira chose to meet him at a mechanic’s shop, Greta at a fancy restaurant, and I’d meet him in a library. They painted our hair with masks made of oils to repair the damage of the irons they’d use to fluff our hair up to stylish, as we chose which jobs we’d take to assist. Giggling and planning and arguing just a little as the Beauty Makers played with paints and powders for lips and eyes and cheeks.
Before I knew it, it was time for Mira to meet the man who I hoped would become my husband.
I wished I didn’t have to speak so much about the clothes she wore, or the hours of preparation that made her eyes brighter and darker, her hair slicked back and curled at the side of her ears, or the way her soft white jacket made her bronzed skin shine like sunshine, or how her white high-waisted slacks made her legs look miles long, or her cream heels clicked like tiny drums marching her to her future.
I wished I could speak about the thoughts in her head, or her dreams, or the kindness in the way she touched Bea’s shoulder before she followed the Matrons out to the car. I wished I could focus on the way Bea and I received our instructions and stood at the outside of a car shop, as we worked to redirect any other patrons from walking into the mechanic’s shop. I wish I didn’t have to speak about the matted wig that made my scalp itch, or the way the loose brown dress made me nearly invisible to the men and women walking down the street.
Beauty didn’t equal worth. I believed that down to my bones. Worth was intrinsic.
But those walking past me would have looked twice if I’d been the one done up, and now their eyes skidded right beyond me. Beauty made a microphone.
And without it I was as silent as a shadow.
I heard the splutter of Andrew’s car before I saw him turn up the street.
Andrew’s jalopy of a car ran, which was about the only good thing I could say for it. The fenders were covered in rust, the seat cushions had been carefully patched, and the engine left a trail of smoke that sputtered enough to be taken for Morse code.
I caught a good look and then turned my back as he pulled his car into the shop.
Iris flashed me a signal from her spot on a park bench next to the road that she would take over this task as I moved on to my next objective. I ducked inside to intercept the mechanic, in order to give Mira extra time to meet Andrew.
I pulled off the wig that had kept me invisible for Andrew’s entrance as I made my way through the back hallways toward the office. I flicked open my hand mirror and fixed my hair, and blended my makeup into my sweaty hairline. I needed every ounce of my beauty now. The mechanic, my target, was an older man with a soft gut and dark grease lining his knuckles. He sat in the back of the shop cleaning parts as the spluttering car entered the sun-streaked garage. A cloth tag on his work jumper uniform said his name was John, but from the Gossip’s report I knew it was actually Juan.
I blocked Juan’s path toward the open garage right in front of a glass window separating the halls from the open workspace. Mira lay on the trunk of Mrs. Brown’s car with her hat tucked over her eyes.
“Hello,” I said softly to the mechanic, careful to stand out of Andrew’s line of sight. It was important that Andrew knew where the mechanic was so he didn’t come looking for him. But the last thing I wanted was for him to see me too soon and dressed like this. “I’m so sorry to bother you. But could you help me with something?”
Juan glanced back toward the shop where Andrew and a future paycheck waited. I pursed my lips and pressed my shoulders back, holding my eyes as wide and innocent as they went.
“What can I do for you?” he asked with a soft and subtle accent.
I pulled a map from my purse. “I’m new in town, and I’m afraid I’m completely turned around. I can’t find my aunt’s house anywhere.”
His lips curled up. “It is hard to be new in a place. I will help.”
“Thank you so much.” I opened the map to block his view into the shop, but I could still see through the glass as Andrew climbed out of his car.
“I’m looking for Lilac Grove Lane,” I said. The mechanic focused on the map, but I watched Andrew put his hands in his pockets and look around. I watched him as he noticed Mira. I saw his neck bob, and he looked away.
Andrew Shaw seemed younger looking than he was in the photos. He was only a few months older than I was, but his face seemed too innocent compared to everything I’d seen. His brown hair was trimmed and parted in the same style he’d had since he was a child, thick glasses not obscuring a rounded nose, and lidded brown eyes. Something about him reminded me of a puppy, like he needed to be protected.
Or trained.
His nose seemed wider in person than it looked in the picture. He wore his weight well, with a thick neck and rounded arms like I expected, but the photos didn’t show the way the light warmed his skin, or how veins made rivers up his wrist, or his height. I thought he’d be taller. Maybe that was because the stack of information in my head about him was taller than a skyscraper.
He turned back to look at Mira. Really looking, now that he was certain she wasn’t aware of him.
I narrowed my eyes. Why him?
His test scores were higher than average, with a real head for numbers. Well liked by his peers. Small romantic history with age-appropriate girls planted from the society. But … what marked him different from the other men we’d charmed? My own test scores were as high as his, higher in history and diplomacy. Who decided he’d be the one to have a glowing life?
What did he do to earn all of this?
What had he done to deserve us?
“I like your car,” Mira said.
Andrew startled a little. Mira lifted her hat from over her eyes, and I saw him stand taller.
He rubbed the back of his neck. “She’s great, isn’t she?”
“She?” Mira said. “Why do men always insist that cars are women? I don’t enjoy being compared to property you can ride.”
Andrew’s ears flushed pink. “Sorry, I didn’t…”
Mira climbed off the car and walked closer. “So what’s wrong with her?”
“Is that it?” the mechanic asked me, pointing at the map.
Oh drat. Was there actually a Lilac Grove Lane?
“Yes,” I said with a false happiness. “You’re wonderful. So I know we took three or four streets from Lilac Grove, and then we turned onto a street that had Ivy in the name, though I can’t remember, Was it Ivy Field? Ivy Avenue? And then it was either 52nd or 32nd?”
He took the map and held it closer.
Andrew turned to his car and opened the lid thing. “Well, she needs new tires, a fan belt, and a bit of polish. But I think there’s something wrong with the starter.”
Mira leaned forward, peering into the engine. “I can help with that.”
Andrew reached for her hand to stop her. “I couldn’t.”
She turned and gave him a look. “Why? You don’t think girls know anything about cars?”
He flushed again. “No, that’s not it.”
“Then what?”
He looked at her like he had no idea how to deal with a girl like her. “You’re wearing white.”
Mira glanced down and then she pulled off her jacket, revealing a light gray vest and a light blue collared shirt that showed off an ample bosom she did not actually have without padding. She grinned her I DARE YOU grin. “Now what excuse are you going to use?” She dug into the engine like it was one of her toys.
Andrew glanced over for the mechanic. I ducked behind the map.
“Can you grab that torque wrench,” she asked with her hand outstretched. Andrew looked about, then grabbed it for her. He leaned over to see what she was doing with his car.
Their fingers brushed against each other’s, and they both seemed so invested in the engine, they didn’t know how perfect they looked together. Standing side by side like equals.
“How much did you pay for this car?” Mira asked.
Andrew’s eyes lit up. “Seventy-five dollars.”
“You overpaid.” Mira wiped her nose with a grease-stained hand.
“I know.”
I was impressed. A lot of men would have been angry or frustrated by Mira’s challenging tactics. Andrew reached for a clean cloth.
“My dad hates this car,” Andrew said, his voice quieting as he wiped the grease from Mira’s nose. “Calls it a flea-ridden bag of bolts.” Mira raised an eyebrow, and Andrew laughed, free and easy. “He’s not exactly wrong. But I paid for it with money I earned myself. I fixed it with my own hands.”
“That’s actually quite impressive,” Mira said, her voice quiet from the door. “I love a man who can use his hands.”
Andrew grinned and leaned against the car.
“Oh, there it is,” I said suddenly. I folded the map and stepped away from the window.
I was supposed to give her more time alone without the mechanic. I knew that.
But she was winning now.
“Do you need help finding the exit?” the mechanic asked gently.
I glanced back and Andrew was smiling as Mira made a joke. “I can find my way out of the shop,” I said.
He pointed toward the door anyway. “It’s that way.”
I blushed as prettily as I’d been trained and then took slow steps toward the door. I reached into my pocketbook. If Mira was fixing the car, then weren’t we stealing a job from Juan? I placed a five-dollar bill on a workbench. “For your help.”
Juan waved his hands, but I turned and wouldn’t let him refuse my money.
I should be happy for her. I was trained to control any feelings of jealousy, but it wasn’t just that she was winning Andrew. It was that if this worked, if she won him, then she’d be married and gone and our friendship would be over.
I’d seen it happen, time and time again.
Bea and Mira were my whole heart. My sisters. My home. We’d always done this together, but I never really worried about the moment we’d lose one another to a white veil and a life behind that happy ever after. Bea was always too young, Mira never seemed to fall for anyone because her standards were always so high, and while I’d fallen in love often enough, I always let the love fall apart before it could change me into someone I didn’t want to become.
I stepped out the door and into the glaring sunlight of the street. The door closed behind me, and Mira’s and Andrew’s voices disappeared behind the shut steel.
I wasn’t going to get out of this assignment without losing something.
The game had started, and no oath, promise, or history of friendship would make this simple.
My heart twisted as the people on the street walked past me, toward their homes or jobs or lives. They walked with purpose. With greatness. They walked like they knew exactly where they were needed.
And I just stood still as a shadow, watching as they all moved on.
Perhaps feeling small was what brought on that attack of my nerves. Perhaps it was fear of losing my sisters that made my eyes burn. I took deep breaths as my heart raced. My nerves would not stop, and my heart pounded so hard I could feel pain at my chest. Breathe, Elsie. Breathe.
My shoulders lifted nearly to my ears as I forced out hard short breaths.
Iris joined me like she saw the inner battle I fought and she’d protect me from it. “Want to play Matchmaker?” she asked as she leaned against the brick wall.
I wiped my sweat-soaked cheeks and nodded. I stood still and fought to slow my breaths.
My eyes burned as a woman in a wide hat walked past.
“Any ring?” Iris asked.
My mouth was full of saliva, and I couldn’t think clearly.
She walked past too quickly for me to see. I didn’t respond; I just searched the street.
Another woman walked past. Not wearing a ring, and walking with pride and a purpose to her step. I shook my head and let her go.
Iris met my eye with a gentle kindness. She’d seen a few of my nerve attacks, and she always stood so steady at my side.
Another man walked by
“He doesn’t seem lonely,” I said with only a slight tremor in my voice. We turned and watched the man walk and turn into a grocer.
The street was too quiet to be full of lonely hearts waiting for their chance to find love.
After a few minutes, as I focused on taking even breaths, and the panicked, painful chill of an unearned adrenaline rush finally subsided, I saw across the street a dapper old man in wool pants, a carefully tied bow tie, and a worn knit vest enter a small restaurant with large windows. He waved at the waitstaff and sat at a table by a window like it was a regular thing. A waitress brought him a coffee and a plate without him looking at a menu.
