19. MAGDALEN
19
MAGDALEN
My feet begin walking before my brain realizes where we’re going. Memory is a funny thing. It morphs and expands, adding colours and scents to keep the memories fresh after years of dormancy. But the foundation will always remain the same. Even if the street signs have been worn down and the fountain no longer holds any water, my body knows to turn where the splotch of yellow paint slid onto the sidewalk. That the corner I pass used to smell like baked bread. Further down the avenue, a pink awning that has been faded by the sunlight prompts me to make another right. The coffee shop to my left with the flickering sign in the window indicates that in exactly two metres Marta’s boutique will be in front of me.
My stomach flips.
I’ve known Marta since secondary school and yet the anxiety never gets easier. Despite being Dante’s age, she wasn’t afraid to talk to me and Anika growing up. Even back then, she was poking and probing at us. Trying to get us to try on something neon. My heartbeat lurches one final time as my hands close around the doorknob. I’m jealous of people who like to chit-chat.
It’s warm inside the boutique. The windows haven’t been opened yet and the white floors have absorbed the daylight. Smiling to myself, I see the wire rack on the far-left corner that Marta left because she accidentally spilled a gallon of glue on the floor and could never get it all the way off. Good to know some things never change.
Fabrics of tie-dye and leopard print surround the store. There is nothing but sparkles and shades of neon from what I can tell and I instantly regret coming into the store. As much as I love Marta, I will not be wearing anything bejewelled. It’s simply not in my nature.
‘ Cazzo .’ The nasal voice comes from behind the counter. ‘Who let models in my store?’ A throaty laugh fills the small space and I instantly regret not wanting to come in. Marta is colour. Strength in studded stilettos.
I sigh. ‘Marta, I know you want me to buy the zebra corset, but sucking up won’t get me anywhere near it’.
‘First off, that would look good on a fucking horse. Second off, I don’t lie. If I say you look like a model, take the compliment and fuck off.’
I can’t help it. A snort of laughter fills me, and I turn to look at her. The tension from this past week leaves me.
From what I learned in England, Marta would be considered the stereotypical Italian. As if she poured the sun onto herself, skin becoming so dark it’s almost reflective. Layers of gold jewellery cover her neck and wrists, and her bleached hair is piled high on the crown of her head with no hair tie in sight. And, of course, she is not wearing a bra. I smirk; maybe I’m more Italian than I care to admit.
‘So you’re fucking back.’ She raises her hands in delight, her bracelets creating a cacophony of clashing metal that rings in my ears.
‘Yes, and I’m in desperate need of something to wear. England is in a perpetual rainstorm, and I have nothing for above ten degrees.’
‘That’s what you get for choosing the literal most depressing country in the entire world.’
‘Yes, Marta. I know.’
‘Does the Queen execute you if you wear colour?’
‘Oh my god, Marta, you’re so dramatic.’
She circles around me, scrutinizing everything from the colour of my nail polish to my split ends, making me feel exposed and immediately less feminine. As if I’m being a woman wrong.
‘You’re thinner.’
‘Not a fan of fish and chips.’ I try to smile but Marta just rolls her eyes, pinching the thinning fabric of my polo. Her eyelids are dusted a bright shade of orange with two matching black hearts on the apples of her cheeks. How on earth does she have the energy to put herself together so early in the morning?
‘What are you, a thirteen-year-old boy?’
‘I will leave, you know.’
‘Shut up and let me think.’
Pinching my hips, pulling my hair (even though I don’t understand what hair has to do with clothing), wrapping her faded measuring tape around my thighs and accidentally groping me, Marta throws piles of clothes on the counter and for an hour I am poked and prodded until I’m sure my skin is raw. Styling people is the only time Marta stops talking and the store is eerily silent as she sighs and murmurs about my too-prominent hip bone or asking me if I ever thought about fake tanning. Only the occasional sound of satin falling from hangers disturbs the long time spent standing. After having closed my eyes and possibly blacking out for the fourth time she took my skirt off, leaving me to stand in only my underwear in the centre of her store, she pats my shoulder with a reassuring, ‘Would I ever steer you wrong?’ and lets out a comical sigh as we pass the zebra corset, her eyes practically swelling with tears at the thought of me leaving without it.
Scanning the tags of my new clothing items, she murmurs to herself, ‘Fuck, yeah. I’m good,’ and ducks behind the counter, quickly putting more clothes I can’t see in my bags. I try to object but when I lean across the counter she shakes her head and shoves my face back, a bracelet hitting me in the tooth.
‘Marta, don’t even think about giving me anything else. I have enough clothes for the whole year.’
Her jaw practically on the ground, she gapes at me. ‘You’re really nothing like Anika, are you? I gave you like ten items, Maggie. That’s good for a fucking weekend.’
‘Do I get a discount at least?’ I try to bat my eyelashes, but it just makes Marta roll her eyes. ‘Since you’re making me shop against my will?’
Marta narrows her eyes. ‘Will you let me put the corset on you?’
‘Not a chance, baby.’ I take out my wallet and reach for my card before she grabs it and begins looking through the card holder.
‘Then no discount for you, bitch,’ she winks, rummaging through my credit cards and, after finding one she likes, swiping it through the machine.
‘Thank your daddy for me,’ she smirks. I try to object and tell her to use mine, but after a moment’s thought, I realize my father hasn’t paid for anything of mine for the past four years. He wanted me home, after all. He owes me a few skirts.
Pushing the bags towards me, Marta tucks the card back into the wallet and shakes her head. ‘You’re thinner,’ she repeats.
My throat feels dry. Why is everyone in my life so perceptive? So watchful of my wellbeing.
I stare down at my wallet, my fingers tracing the pattern of the leather.
‘Some days, I would just forget.’ The words feel like hot cotton in my mouth, never wanting to say it out loud to anyone. Afraid and ashamed of my own weakness. Of how such a privileged little girl could ever think she had the right to feel sad. Afraid to admit that I could stay in bed for three days straight and cry the entire time.
She reaches for my hand across the counter, her metal rings cold against my knuckles.
‘We’ll remind you.’ She takes my hand between her own and kisses it with a loud smack. The outline of bright pink lipstick stains my skin and I’m flooded with warmth. I don’t deserve all the goodness I am given.
‘Thanks, Marta.’
‘Oh, it’s nothing. Thank me when you see the thongs.’
My eyes widen as she begins to push me through the front doors when we both suddenly come to a standstill. Marta slams into my back, propelling us out of the store and onto the sidewalk, where we see him across the street. Faded blue jeans, a thin cotton T-shirt and overwhelmingly manly. Theo stands tall, his lips pulled in an all-too-seductive smirk, but, just as I’m about to smile back, I realize he’s smiling at Marta. Right. He thinks I’m nosy. And obsessed. And he regrets wasting his Friday evening dissecting my bloody back. When he finally looks at me, his smile disappears. My gaze dips to the cobblestone, ready to quietly go whichever direction he chooses not to. Wanting to be just a best friend’s little sister again. But it’s too late to pretend we haven’t seen each other, and Theo is not one to hide. When my ears finally hear something past the loud pounding of my chest, I realize Marta has reached her full pterodactyl volume as she screeches at Theo to come over. He salutes her and begins walking towards us. I stare at the sidewalk, the piece of gum wedged between the cobblestones becoming extremely interesting.
Don’t be a pussy.
Trying to fake confidence, I look up. But my stomach flips when I see Theo already staring at me. Piercing grey eyes giving nothing away. His gaze travels from the bags in my hand to the fading bruise on my forearm, and rather than meeting my eyes, he looks down to the sliver of my stomach showing. I hold my breath, feeling flushed. When he finally looks up to my face, he clears his throat and attempts to give me a smile, but it feels unnatural. As if he’s only smiling at me for Marta’s sake.
‘My fucking god, you’re ageing like fine wine, Theo.’
‘Marta, we’re the same age.’ Theo runs a hand through his hair with exasperation and I’m enveloped in his familiar scent. Clean laundry and something entirely personal, to just him. I want to breathe in, to understand what exactly it is that makes me want to bury my face in his chest and drown in it. Ridiculous. I’ve spent a week with him, and half of that time he’s spent yelling at me. Now suddenly I’m fantasizing about his scent?
But even the fantasy makes me nervous, afraid Theo can somehow read my mind. I take a small step back for the sake of self-preservation. He’s just too powerful. And I, as I’ve come to learn, am entirely too inexperienced to be around someone like him.
It’ll always be me who gets hurt, reading into signs that aren’t really there. Romanticizing the slight graze of hand.
But immediately after I step back, I know I shouldn’t have. Marta and he speak in rapid Italian, throwing insults and inside jokes so I think my movement will go unnoticed. He continues to talk to Marta, feigning exasperation at another one of her flirtations, yet he looks directly at me, raising an eyebrow, chastising me with a second-long glance. Letting me know he knows what I did. All while claiming he doesn’t remember Marta flashing him on a dare in grade twelve. Gracefully, he puts his hands in his pockets as he continues to talk to Marta, and I think I’m off the hook, but then he’s asking Marta: ‘So what have you convinced Magdalen to buy?’ His voice is deep and frustratingly suave. I roll my eyes at his ability to make me feel like a child.
‘The basics. Latex corsets, lace garters. Lots of thongs.’
Theo eyes the bags for a second too long and for a moment I think he’s going to grab them.
‘She’s kidding,’ I interject, even though he still refuses to look at me, so instead my comment is directed at that gorgeous piece of gum on the sidewalk.
Marta snorts, ‘No, I’m not.’
My cheeks flare. ‘Marta, tell me you didn’t.’
‘Okay, I didn’t.’ She taps her chin with her long nail, obviously lying.
‘I’d be more than happy to check,’ Theo’s voice cuts in, and I defensively clutch the bag to my chest and this time the step back I take is deliberate, wanting Theo to know he will never get to see the contents of this bag.
‘No, very unnecessary,’ I croak.
‘You and I both know that won’t keep me away.’ He takes a step towards me and the grip I have on the bag falters slightly.
Marta clears her throat, looking from Theo to me with clear suspicion. ‘Okay, well, this has been great.’ Clapping her hands together, she winks at Theo and then starts walking back towards the shop. ‘Looks like you two have some catching up to do.’
‘We really don’t,’ I say just as Theo says, ‘Thank you.’
Opening the door to the shop, she turns around one final time and looks at me, humour now gone, and nods. ‘Remember, we’ll remind you.’
And then she’s gone, hands waving excitedly inside the boutique when she finds a woman browsing her mini-skirts.
‘So what will she remind you of?’ The sunlight hits his hair, causing him to look radiant, and I roll my eyes at how unfair it is that he wakes up looking like that. So unfair.
‘None of your business.’
‘Why? I’m very good with business.’
‘Are you stalking me? It seems I can’t go anywhere these days without you right behind me.’
‘Yes, Magdalen. I’m stalking you.’
‘Oh,’ I say dumbly. ‘I’m quite boring to be stalked.’
‘Not when I know you have a pile of latex corsets and thongs in that bag.’ His eyes flash with amusement.
‘Why, want to borrow them?’
‘How’d you fucking know.’
I don’t even try to hide my laughter, my stomach cramps as I double over, a mixture of wheezes and incoherent sounds escaping me. When I try to stop the image replaying, it just begins the process all over again. A warm hand settles on my arm, squeezing affectionately. He murmurs ‘dork’ under his breath and my heart flutters. He sighs before quickly taking the hand off and clearing his throat like he didn’t mean to say anything, so I stare at the walkway, confused and not ready to look at him yet. I place my hand over my mouth to control my breathing and, when I look up, Theo’s head is tilted, eyes narrowed as if trying to dissect me with his eyes. A small smile and he shakes his head, looking exasperated. I arch my back to stretch the overused stomach muscles and squint back at him.
‘What?’
‘Your laugh is really ugly.’
I gasp, raising my hand to push his chest, but he catches my wrist before I can make contact. ‘Take it back!’ My breath stops, unsure if I should pull it away. I’m trying to hold on to the anger, to remember how out of line he was, how small he made me feel. He looks down at our intertwined fingers, a slight frown on his brow, as if deciding whether to test out a secret desire. What could you possibly desire, Theo? I want to ask. But I don’t.
‘Can’t take back what’s true, baby.’
My cheeks burn at the pet name. I’m too old to have a crush on my best friend’s brother and the cliché makes me want to open the bag and show him the contents, to laugh about Marta’s attempt to rebrand me, like friends would. But we are not friends; we are in a dark limbo between strangers and acquaintances and every time he touches me he pulls me towards a third exit that I’m unsure he even knows he’s walking towards. So I stay silent, words lost as he spreads his fingers over mine and peers down at me, allowing me a final chance to retract my hand. Noticing I don’t move, Theo slowly presses our hands against his heart so that my palm is trapped beneath his. I’m engulfed by his strong and warm skin and the feeling makes me dizzy, unsure of what’s going on. The force of his grip causes me to step forward and, just like on the dance floor, our bodies are mere inches apart. My pulse quickens as he looks at me searchingly, fingers nuzzling my hand closer to his chest, a thumb brushing across my knuckles. A muscle feathers in his jaw as if realizing how ridiculous we must look, and he drops my hand. Why is it every time he touches me, he looks in pain?
‘Are you on your period?’
He chokes on the air, eyes widening at my question. ‘It ended yesterday. Why?’
So this is why everyone loves him – an answer for fucking everything.
‘Well, I just can’t figure out your mood swings. You tell me to get in your car, you tell me to fuck off, you tell me you see me , you tell me to fuck off.’ I list each offence on my hand, and wiggle the remaining pinkie. ‘What’s it going to be next?’
He rubs his face with his hand and stares at the boutique for a moment. Humour gone, a thick wave of tension fills the small space between us and I almost want to apologize for making him so uncomfortable. But before I have time to realize how incredibly submissive that would be, he whispers so softly I think it’s the wind tickling my ear.
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Not an answer.’
‘Would you like me to tell you to fuck off, Magdalen? Accept the apology and move on.’ His eyes darken, daring me to say anything else, and for some reason, his answer sends a wave of heat to my cheeks.
‘If that’s what you want to do.’ My voice becomes small, unrecognizable to my own ears.
‘What I want shouldn’t be talked about so early in the morning.’ His voice is low as his eyes lazily dip to the exposed part of my midriff before looking up at me again. Suddenly feeling dizzy and somehow naked, I can’t think of anything to say. My mouth opens but I close it again and, before I have time to formulate any coherent response, he huffs.
‘But hopefully, that will be resolved tonight.’ He is holding a torn piece of paper that shows a scribbled phone number on it. He looks at it again, shrugs, and shoves it back in his pocket.
‘Like you never left,’ I mumble, wanting to escape this awkwardness, mortified that I thought he was insinuating anything remotely intimate with me. I’m the younger sister, and growing a few inches taller doesn’t magically change that. Every time I think I am growing up, I’m reminded of how naive I can be. I reach for my bags, ready to walk back to the train station and sulk in my stupidity.
Theo eyes me while pulling out a pack of cigarettes from his back pocket. Observing me with casual indifference, I feel exposed and intimidated under his gaze. Does he enjoy making me uncomfortable?
‘And here I thought you didn’t keep up with what...’ he pauses, lighting one of the cigarettes and letting it hover between his lips, ‘or who I did.’
If there was any air left inside me, I would most likely choke. ‘More like you never even bothered to keep up with me.’
‘Semantics.’
‘Okay,’ I shrug. ‘Semantics.’
Smirking, he shakes his head disapprovingly. ‘That’s all you got, little Savoy? Okay?’
Discomfort turns into anger. ‘Should I show you the number of who I’m fucking so we can compare?’
The cigarette in his mouth wavers but his eyes remain fixed on me. Slowly, he plucks it with his thumb and index and exhales.
‘Careful – if I find out who, I might not be the only one with a black eye.’
‘Is that a threat?’
‘No,’ he shrugs his broad shoulders. ‘It’s a promise.’
I bite my bottom lip, ready to scream or maybe cry. If I’m not careful, I may just try to kiss him.
‘This has been joyous, really, but I should be getting back.’ I shift the shopping bags I’m holding to my other hand and take a step back.
‘You’re blushing, Magdalen.’
My mouth opens at his audacity. How dare he expose me? It takes all my willpower not to drop my bags and cover my face. ‘I usually don’t talk about fucking before nine.’
His eyes drop to my hands and he draws a deep hit from his cigarette, taking his time to answer. ‘Ah, I see. So when do you talk about it?’
‘What?’ I say, flustered. ‘This is ridiculous. We’re not friends. We don’t need to chit-chat.’
‘You wound me.’ His voice drops, and he takes a small step forward. ‘Am I not your friend, Maggie ?’
I’m surprised he doesn’t say anything about me blushing again, because this time, I know my cheeks are on fire. Something about Theo calling me Maggie is oddly intimate. It’s a name reserved for friends. For people who know me.
‘No. I’m afraid you and I are not friends.’
‘Huh.’ He mulls over my response, blowing smoke out of the side of his mouth. ‘Challenge accepted.’
‘Excuse me?’ I choke out. ‘What challenge? There’s no challenge.’
‘Oh, I’m going to be your best fucking friend this summer.’
‘Why are you doing this?’ I groan, pointing between us frantically. ‘ This doesn’t need to happen. We’ve been just fine ignoring each other all our lives. Let’s go back to that.’
‘Now, friend .’ He says the word like a threat, taking another step towards me. ‘ Friends show each other what they buy. Let’s see what’s in the bag.’
I scoff. Does he not have a number to dial?
Confused, frustrated and in desperate need of a drink, I settle my nerves and take a step towards him so that I almost brush against his chest. ‘Only one man gets to see what’s in this bag, friend. And it’s not you . ’ Before he has time to respond, I turn on my heel and walk towards the station, my hands shaking the entire way home.