Damselfly (9 page)

Cinderella’s castle became the home of my “real parents,” who would come and rescue me someday and break the curse keeping me so tiny. We would ride away in a gilded carriage, and I would never have to return to Lilliput ever again.

Hansel and Gretel became my brother and sister. Together we would bury the evil witch in candy and then live in her gingerbread house forever. In my reimagining, Hansel was my protective older brother and Gretel much younger, the baby of the family. And I was smack in the middle. Normal. And I didn’t have to go to school or have tutors or learn old, dead languages.

The Snow Queen looked so very much like Dr. Christiansen in the illustrations that I imagined they were one and the same. Hansel and Gretel would come and spring me from her icy castle, and we would escape to our gingerbread house on the next page.

As I grew out of the pop-up books, I began to write my own stories in a little notebook. I called them my “True Tales,” and they were my dreams for what my life would have been if I’d been born under different circumstances. Tales of my first day at school, getting a poor grade in English, first crush, first kiss…

When I met Jack, I stopped writing them.

Today I write a new one. Not on paper. Not for anyone to find. I write it on my soul.

The heat of the morning sun and the man lying next to me draw me from slumber. Light wraps around his bare arm, setting the tiny hairs aglow, then comes to rest on the sheet as a perfect triangle of white.

The man is Jack, but he’s a few years older now, as am I. We have both grown into our faces and wear them with confidence. We know the landscape of the other’s body better than our own.

Still, I hesitate to touch him. The featherweight blanket of quiet has settled upon us. I watch him sleeping, but staring and even touching is an intrusion into his space, a violation of his trust. And his trust is my most priceless treasure. I have fought to keep it with sweat and tears.

Somehow, now, we are nearly the same size. I’m not sure how it happened. I don’t know how he forgave me for lying to him or what he said when he discovered the truth. I don’t know why he loves me, why he stays.

But he does. And I do. I always will.

I seal up my story within myself. I seal up my body, heart, and soul so they will remain safe. I seal myself inside of my bedcovers to block it all out.

Chapter 9

It’s almost three o’clock in the morning, and I still haven’t fallen asleep. The glowing numbers on the clock cast a pale blue on the white wall. This is not my room, but I live here now. The only way I’m allowed to leave it is in a cage. They call it a “carrier trailer,” but it’s a cage.

A seamless white pillow and a small metal chamber pot are the only pieces of furniture. The pillow is far too big, and I wake up in pain every morning from the lack of support. I have a small pile of my things on the floor that Jane took from my house: a few books, my toothbrush, and some pens and paper. That’s it.

I alternate between blind rage and hopelessness. It’s an exhausting cocktail. Since that first day, my life has been an endless parade of photo shoots, costumes, and the Toms whom I’ve grown to resent. I have become the master of the fake smile. All Dr. Christiansen has to do is mouth the name “Jack” to me and I become the picture of happiness on the outside.

I have an entourage now. They’re all former doll-makers, puppet costumers, and doll repair specialists. They come in each morning to stuff me into whatever “look” the show’s chief stylist has decided I should sport that day.

The first thing they did was bleach out the purple dye from my hair. I was too tired to protest. If I’d realized I would be a Barbie when they were done, I would have made more of a fuss. Not that it would have done any good. They pull out their magnifying glasses to paint my face with makeup. They strip off my clothes without any thought for my privacy. I have learned to go silent, to hang on to my memories inside so I don’t go crazy. Then again, maybe insanity wouldn’t be so bad. I’m already locked in a white room with no means of killing myself. Why not go the extra mile and give them an actual, logical reason to keep me here?

I stare up at the ceiling, eying the edges of the recessed lights. I haven’t been sleeping well since my birthday, and all of the days run together in my mind in one confusing blur. It actually seems surreal. I’m not sure all of this is happening to me. Except there, on the wall, is the shooting schedule for the show.

I have two weeks to figure out what to do before they start taping me live and putting me on international television.

Some small remnant of me in the corner of my mind keeps asking,
Why? Why does Dr. Christiansen want this so badly? Why are there six of them and one of me?
They are questions I should pursue. I should figure it out. But the rest of my soul is so very tired. It turns out apathy is stronger than life itself.

I close my eyes. The little remnant keeps poking at me.
Why?

“Shut up,” I whisper to myself. “I want to go to sleep.”

Why?

My eyelids flutter open, and I scan the room as I search for answers inside my head. Dr. Christiansen has never been a pleasant woman, but she’s not one to do something without a reason. It might not be a reason I’d agree with, but there’d still be a reason. What logical explanation could she possibly have for putting me on the international stage and forcing me to pick a husband? What reason does she have for thinking it would actually work?

She has to realize she can’t threaten me every step along the way without some negative consequences. She’s observed me for too long to think that would be possible, even with drugs.

What is it I’m missing?

The clock on the wall changes to 3:01, and the door swings open and my hairdresser (can’t remember her name) flicks on the light. I fling my arm over my eyes and groan. The rest of the entourage follows the hairstylist inside, and they shut the door. Not a single one of them apologizes for waking me up. What on earth are they doing in here so early?

They’ve each dragged in their personal workstations, and now they’re lining them up along the walls. Buttons are pushed and the stations unfold themselves into things resembling desks.

The hairstylist clasps her hands together, bends over at the waist, and scurries over to me as if she’s about to have a conversation with a small child or a dog. Her hair is a mass of wiry gray-streaked brown curls; her face is a lesson in how
not
to apply makeup.

“Hellooooooo, peeeexieeeee!”

I have never met a more distasteful person in my life other than Dr. Christiansen. I open one eye and fantasize about shooting needle darts into her flaring nostrils.

She claps her hands again. I grit my teeth.

“Rise and shine! Up up up! It’s time to get you ready for your romantic sunrise pictures!”

So that’s what this is about.

I clear my throat. “What’s your name again?”

“Tina! We have rhyming names—isn’t that so exciting?” She nearly hyperventilates from all the “excitement” as her gold eye shadow sparkles in the fluorescent light. If Tina were ever to slice open a vein, I’m pretty sure she would bleed glitter.

The makeup artist pokes her head to the side of Tina’s hair. Her name is Susanna, and she’s the only person in the entire entourage I like. “We’ve got breakfast for you, Lina. Are you hungry?”

If anyone else had asked me that question, I would have said “no,” but Susanna treats me like I’m one of her girlfriends and we’re getting ready for a normal day. Somehow she manages to do it without diminishing the situation or being condescending. It’s a breath of fresh air and enough to make me realize I’m ravenously hungry.

“Yeah, what do you have?” I stand up cautiously, the cotton in the pillow shifting under my feet.

“One sec—I’ll bring you the tray.” She disappears behind Tina’s hair and then returns with a breakfast tray nearly overflowing with sliced berries, cracked grains, mini-omelets, and me-sized pancakes. I grab a plate and load it up with a little bit of everything before sitting down on the edge of the tray and eating as much as I can stomach. Susanna brings me some freshly squeezed orange juice and sits on the floor in front of me, cross-legged. She’s not much older than me—probably in her early twenties. She’s got shoulder-length dark brown hair that’s ridiculously shiny, and the rest of her is very pretty as well. If I was to ever pick an older sister, I think it would be someone like Susanna.

“So,” she says, “did anyone explain to you what’s happening today?”

I shove another bite of pancake into my mouth and give her a look that says,
What do you think?

“Sorry. I thought—” She stops and sighs. “I should have known better. Next time, I’ll make sure I brief you every night if I hear something has changed.”

I swallow a too-large lump of pancake with a grimace. “Thanks. It’s not your fault.”

“No, but still.” She rearranges her feet. “So today we have two hours to get you all ready, and then we’re doing sunrise photos on the hill with the Toms.”

“What hill?”

“The hill they built at the west end for this photo shoot. It’s actually a mound of dirt with some sod on top. I didn’t get a good look at it.”

“Fabulous. Do you have any coffee?”

“Faye! Bring me that thermos!”

Faye obeys and hands me a miniature stoneware mug that is still too big for me. But I manage to gulp down some coffee out of it anyway, and ten minutes later, I’m trembling like a kite in a hurricane.

“What
is
that stuff?” I ask Susanna. I can barely stand still.

“Coffee with espresso and a couple caffeine pills. We need all the help we can get to stay awake. Hey, are you feeling okay?”

“Yes. Aside from the permanent seizure, I feel absolutely fantastic.”

“Okay.” She gives me a half-smile as she studies me. “How about other than the coffee? How are you doing?”

“I guess I’m all right. I haven’t really been sleeping.” I wonder if she knows about Jack, but I don’t want to ask. I almost trust Susanna but not quite. She’s not exactly George or Mr. Coxworth. Doesn’t it bother her she’s working for a company that thinks it’s cool to force people to get married? And I still have no idea why Dr. Christiansen is doing this.

And that gives me an idea.

“Hey Susanna? Do you think you could do me a favor?” I have to word this just right. “This caffeine is really messing me up. There’s this stuff called guarana that our botanist grows. It’s all-natural and has caffeine in it, but it doesn’t make me all jittery. Do you think you could get some?”

“I don’t know, Lina…”

“Please? I’m not sure how many more of these early mornings I can take. I’ll even give you a note for him.”

I can see her wavering. “Who is it?”

I’ve already won. “Mr. Coxworth. He lives in a shack between the dining hall and my house. Does that sound familiar?”

“I think I’ve seen it. What do I tell him? And what do I tell the staff if they catch me?”

“I’ll give you a note for him. You can just leave it in his mailbox and then pick the stuff up later. If the staff ask what you’re doing, tell them you’re running an errand for the cook and getting some herbs.”

She wrinkles her nose up in worry, but she pulls a little pad of paper from her pocket. “Here, do you need this?”

“That and a regular-sized pen.”

“Okay. Why the bigger pen?”

“Because Mr. Coxworth is mostly blind, so I have to write it in braille. If I use my pen, it will cut through the paper instead of making a dot impression.” I feel bad for lying to Susanna, but I can’t have her reading my note.

When I’m done, it reads “Help. Why the show? Guarana” in heavy-handed Morse code. I can’t make it any longer or it might look suspicious. I almost forget to add “guarana” at the end. I’m sure Susanna would suspect something was up if she went to see Mr. Coxworth and he didn’t hand her something to bring back to me.

I run my hand over the little dots I’ve created to make sure they’re enough to convince Susanna it’s braille, and then I fold up the note and hand it to her. “Thanks,” I say. “I really appreciate this.”

“Ready for some makeup?”

“I guess. Can I brush my teeth first?”

“Please do.”

I take care of my business, and Susanna paints my face on. I’m a little glad for the makeup today since the dark circles under my eyes seem to extend all the way down to my boobs. Still, it feels heavy and unnatural.

When Susanna is finished with me, my costumer takes over and carefully seals me up in a fuchsia dress not unlike the awful one Dr. Christiansen picked out for my birthday party. Thankfully, this one does not have beads or petticoats, but the fabric is so stiff I have to keep pushing down the skirt to keep from flashing everybody. Tina the Terrible curls my hair with the world’s smallest curling iron and then gives me a gold headband. When everyone is finished, I am a miniature, and slightly older, Shirley Temple.

“It’s five o’clock, laaaaaaaadies!” Tina screeches. “Let’s get ready to go! Chop chop!” She claps her hands. Workstations are collapsed into carts; brushes and clothing and makeup kits are all tucked away.

Dr. Christiansen walks through the door with my cage. I fold my arms but force myself not to scowl.

“Get inside, Lina,” she says. “We have no time to waste.”

Sounds like someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning. Every one of my instincts screams at me to resist, but all I can think about is Jack. I can trade a few minutes in a cage for his safety. I exhale and fly inside. She shuts the door and locks it.

I plop down on the cushion padding the entire floor of the carrier, and fatigue nearly overwhelms me. The only windows are the narrow air slits lining the walls and the ceiling, so it’s dark and stuffy in here. Not a great recipe for staying awake, despite the fact that I’m still shaking all over from the coffee. Even when we start moving, the constant banging of the carrier against Dr. Christiansen’s leg isn’t enough to keep me from falling asleep.