Chapter Sixteen
Sixteen
The upside to Marcie’s ever-changing facades was that she was almost too busy to notice me at school anymore.
At fourteen, we were both navigating the ups and downs of puberty, though she had somehow managed to avoid the plague of acne that peppered my cheeks and chin.
She was barely at home at the weekends, juggling numerous dates with numerous suitors.
She attended every party she was invited to, and when she was not necking some boy down a dodgy alley behind the chicken shop, she had plans to meet up with Jessica or Olivia or Helena.
She wore heavy eye makeup that made her more intimidating than she already was.
She took up smoking—a vile habit that would probably have killed her eventually, had she even made it past seventeen.
But without her contempt, school became a more pleasant place for me. One lunch break, she forgot herself to such an extent that she smiled at me.
The thawing of our relations did not go unnoticed.
Marcie liked to be looked at, and people liked looking at her.
They noticed every tiny change in her appearance; every phrase she used was picked up and disseminated among our peers, every mannerism mimicked and honed to perfection.
It was sometimes like being surrounded by a legion of Marcies.
So when she softened toward me, everyone else did, too.
A couple of years after we’d started at St. John’s, I found a small group of acquaintances who were by no means popular but whom I got along with just fine.
It was a mutually beneficial relationship: They knew who I was and whom I was related to, and I helped to raise their social standing that way.
In turn, they made my days at school that little bit less lonely.
I no longer dreaded walking the hallways.
I had people to sit with at lunch. Despite this, I got the distinct impression they were never completely sure of me.
They even seemed wary at times: They couldn’t understand why I nipped to the bathroom after every lesson to wash my hands, nor why I produced my own sanitized Tupperware at lunch, filled with food I’d prepared myself.
I’d tell you their names, but there doesn’t seem much point. They weren’t around for long enough to matter. I had about six months of contentedness before Dad pulled me aside one evening and asked me a question that would, once again, drive a stake through my and Marcie’s relationship.
With Marcie out so much, I was able to form more of a relationship with my parents.
I still caught Mum looking at me sometimes with a small divot between her brows, but Dad seemed keen to forge a new bond.
I still refused to go on walks with him, but I allowed him to tell me about his latest discoveries and found I enjoyed recalling my long-dormant knowledge of nature.
In the autumn term, we’d spend dark evenings discussing his findings, the encyclopedia—in use once more—open between us. It was on one of these evenings that Dad cleared his throat, darted a glance toward the ceiling, where Mum was having a bath, and lowered his voice.
“I’ve been meaning to ask you about Marcie,” he said slowly, stiltedly, as though the next words out of his mouth would be rebellious.
His eyes flicked toward the ceiling again.
Clearly this was an original thought, not one sanctioned by Mum.
I stiffened. I did not want him to ask whatever was coming next, but he plunged on regardless, oblivious to my anxiety.
I stared at an illustration of a stag beetle as he said, “Do you think she’s been going out too often? I’m a bit concerned she’s”—he cleared his throat again—“getting a bit of a reputation for herself.”
This was the sort of question that always made me uncomfortable.
Because, in truth, I had heard rumors at school.
You’d call it slut shaming now. Back then, it was the norm, when a girl’s value was measured by her ability to hold out—not so much that it made her a prude, but just enough so as not to seem “easy.” The rumors were the sort of salacious gossip that always surrounds someone like Marcie.
Ill-advised attempts to topple her reign.
She didn’t care, not then. Not yet, anyway.
She told me, privately, that the furthest she’d “gone” was second base in a cupboard at Helena’s party, but I saw it differently.
The rumors marked a sea change. A suggestion that some of the allure of her was wearing off.
Too much of a good thing, and all that. There were whispers about her losing her virginity, particularly transgressive within the parameters of a Catholic school.
I didn’t know how to respond, so I remained silent for a good minute, wondering if I could get away with not answering at all. Dad leaned forward, placed his hand on my forearm. “You can tell me,” he said softly. “I know she hasn’t always made things easy for you. I just want to know.”
I stared at him, taken aback. I hadn’t realized that Dad was aware of the choke hold Marcie had on my life.
I wondered, first, why he hadn’t said something before.
Why he had stood by as Marcie stamped herself all over my existence.
And it was with this sense of injustice still thrumming through me that I began to talk.
I told him what people had been saying about her, that she lied to them frequently about where she was going, that she smoked and—I suspected—took drugs, too.
With each sentence, the words seemed to gain momentum, until they took on a life of their own, tripping over one another in their haste to be spoken.
I felt powerful and purged in that moment: like I was regaining some fundamental part of myself that I’d lost all those years ago.
But the words stopped flowing when I looked up and caught sight of Dad’s expression. It was one of abject horror, and I knew I’d gone too far. My stomach lurched painfully, and I wanted to claw everything back, but what I’d said sat between us like a bomb.
Dad blinked once, twice, three times in quick succession. He seemed lost for words. He cleared his throat again.
“Dad,” I said, and there was a desperate edge to my tone. “Please.”
“I can’t not do anything with this information, Iris. Surely you understand that. I won’t say it was you who told me, I promise.”
This was not a comforting assertion. She would know. She always knew. I’d gone into so much detail that it could only have come from me. Dad rose from his seat, the encyclopedia forgotten. I grabbed for his arm, but he shook me off and left the room.
I sat, frozen, and listened to him mount the stairs. I heard the knock on the door to the bathroom. I heard the low rumble of voices, before Mum’s became shrill. The door to the bathroom banged open.
“She could be lying!” she said as she crossed the hallway into their bedroom, bath forgotten. “Did you ever think about that?”
“Come on, Sarah.” Dad sounded weary. “You can’t not have noticed how much she’s been out.”
Their bedroom door closed behind them, and their voices became muffled. Cold dread pooled in my stomach. All I could do was wait.
I was granted one more day of peace. Marcie didn’t come home that evening, despite several calls to her mobile, and even Mum had to admit that she was out of control.
I saw her at school the next day, her mascara smudged under her eyes.
She smiled at me again, unaware of what was waiting for her at home, and I couldn’t bring myself to smile back.
I averted my eyes and swallowed the nausea.
I dragged my feet all the way home. Marcie walked with me, last night’s hangover seeping from her pores. “Do you know why I got like a million missed calls from Mum and Dad last night? Did something happen?” she asked.
I squeaked a noncommittal reply and ran to our room as soon as we were through the door. The shouting started two minutes later. I buried my head under my pillow, but I still heard a door slam and Marcie’s voice ringing with panic, then anger. Five minutes later, she barged into the room.
“Why did you do it? Are you trying to ruin my life?” she said. “I’ve been grounded indefinitely.”
I didn’t reply. I closed my eyes and wished I was somewhere else. And then I felt Marcie’s hand tangle in my hair. She wrenched my head backward, so my neck was exposed. “I said”—her teeth were gritted, her jaw jutting forward—“are you trying to ruin my life?”
I think it must have been that question.
The injustice of it. The flagrant hypocrisy.
The utter obliviousness to how she’d treated me for the last few years.
How she’d made my life miserable, and now she had the temerity to ask me if I was trying to ruin her life.
Something inside me snapped. I opened my eyes and forced myself to meet her gaze.
“Don’t you ever put your hands on me again,” I said quietly. And there must have been something in my expression. Something that made her release me. Something that caused a flash of fear to cross her face. She tried to hide it. She shrugged, turned away, but I noticed her hand was shaking.
I sat up. For the very first time, I felt a small surge of power. It was intoxicating.
—
Marcie never did touch me again. She didn’t wear makeup to school the next day.
She wore her skirt at a normal length and her shirt buttoned in all the right places.
She walked with her shoulders rounded and her head ducked.
People whispered about her in the corridors.
They wondered what had happened to the vibrant, fun-loving girl who was out every night.
She did her schoolwork diligently. She seemed not to notice the boys who preened in front of her. Before long, they lost interest.
And with the change in her came a change in me. Without her critical gaze from across the room, I walked taller. I met people’s eyes and spoke out in class and sat wherever I wanted at lunch.
My new acquaintances didn’t seem to like this new version of me, or perhaps the change in Marcie’s popularity meant I was no longer useful to them. Whatever it was, they shrank away from me in the corridors. I returned to my solitary existence.
The summer holidays rolled round. My parents were thrilled with the return of their golden child. She was welcomed back into the bosom of the family, and once again I became the outsider.
The days were long and hot and boring. My latest fixation was art. I found I was quite competent with a pencil. I spent hours perfecting my craft and learning about shading, color theory, and perspective.
And then school started again, and I prepared myself for the same old routine. Except it was not the same old routine. A new boy had joined our class. His name was Billy.
I fell in love with him instantly.