Chapter 19 Nellie
Nellie
Now
I cannot wait to get out of this shithole town. I hate it here!
I’m home from the Circles, locked in my bathroom, scrubbing off my makeup and smoking as many cigarettes as possible.
Why do I even give two shits about Jane? I know I shouldn’t care, but it burns me up. Fucking Blair giving her a ride there? Rushing to her defense about the stupid horse thing? Are you kidding me?
I just wanted to spook her a little, had no idea I’d cause her to fall. And now even that has backfired on me, made Jane even more popular with Blair and her crew.
Then, after she left, Dustin dragged me over to his Bronco to make out. He’s gross, but it’s better than being with no one. But while he was fumbling with my bra, he started to laugh.
“What?” I asked, embarrassed, my buzz killed.
“Nothing. Nothing about you anyway.”
I smacked his hands down, pulled away from him. “Tell me right fucking now.”
He shook his head, then looked down at his lap, almost sheepishly. “That Jane girl.” His voice was rubbery from too much Hunch Punch.
“What about her?” I asked, striking up a fresh smoke.
“She’s just…somethin’.” He shook his head again, smiling.
Fuck me. I couldn’t give two shits about Dustin, but it’s not like I need him having a crush on her.
“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” I said.
“What?” He twisted in his seat to face me, tilted his head.
“You like her?”
He grunted. “Um, no.”
But I could tell from the way his face became splotchy and red that he was lying his ass off.
I opened the door.
“Hey! Where you goin’, baby?”
“Oh, fuck off, loser!”
Dustin was gross enough to me before, but at least we had each other. Now he’s gonna be dead to me if he doesn’t watch it. Jane doesn’t need any more attention than what she’s already been getting.
All the guys tonight were mooning over her. Making asses of themselves. Even Tommy had a chubby when he was talking to her.
I’ve never had the hot guys pay me any attention, other than to make fun of me.
Push my buttons. I learned real early, like in elementary school, that I wasn’t cute.
Not like the other girls, who already had boys asking them to “go” with them.
And not like Mom and Dad, who are freakishly good-looking.
Other than my light-blond hair and blue eyes, I don’t resemble them.
My eyes are just ordinary, dull, not the crystal shade they both have, which mesmerizes people.
One day at church when I was little—and we never go to church except for the big holidays—some old lady with a loud voice stopped me in the hall and dug her bony hand into my shoulder.
“You’re the Andersen girl?” she asked. “You don’t look like your mother. Humph! That’s unusual!”
I tried to step away from her, but she kept her grip on me. “You must look more like your father,” she said, as Dad was walking toward us. She stared him down quickly before adding, “Come to think of it, you don’t really look like him that much either!”
Even though I was only six, I knew exactly what she was talking about. But I’d never really thought of it like that before. That not looking like them meant something bad.
But the worst of it? That came when I was ten. Mom and Dad were out at some charity ball, and when they stumbled inside—no doubt drunk off too many martinis—they sent the sitter home.
They thought I was in my bedroom, asleep, but I was sitting at the top of the stairs, waiting up for them.
I heard Mom say to Dad, laughing, “How do we even know she’s really ours?”
“Hey,” Dad replied. “She’s beautiful.”
My heart swelled for him just then. But, after a second, he added, “In her own way.”
In her own way.
I didn’t know what to make of that. Was it a good thing? To be different? Dad made it sound like it was, but I wasn’t sure.
But I damn sure used all this to my advantage. The next morning, I demanded Mom take me on a shopping spree in Dallas. If I didn’t have the looks the other rich bitches did, then I needed to have more. Of everything. More makeup, more clothes, the latest, biggest TV set, the best Apple computer.
I waited for hungover Mom to say she wasn’t in the mood for the drive—then I was gonna tell her that I heard that nasty thing she’d said about me. But she just said yes, and off we went. So I never told her, but her evil words have been growing inside me ever since, festering.
I’m not enough of a pussy to let anyone get me down, though. Not Mom, not Blair, and for shit sure not fucking Dustin. And not Jane.
Even with all my makeup wiped off, I no longer hate the girl in the mirror and the way she looks.
I’m seventeen; I’ve grown into myself. My lips are fuller, my face is just better—sure, the nose job Mom made me get in seventh grade helped—but I’ve also just matured.
I’m not the pathetic little thing I used to be.
My body’s developed now: I have curves, and I’m taller.
And I go to the best hairstylist in town.
But even with all this, nobody in town can see past who I once was, the ugly duckling. The freak.
No matter what I do, I’ll never look like Blair, with her heart-shaped face, model bone structure, perfect figure. Or Jane, who, despite her buckteeth, is pretty, though I hate to even admit it.
The only time I’ve felt pretty is when I went to Dad’s family’s place in Stockholm. I was fifteen, and my parents sent me over there for the summer.
I was in heaven. I was accepted. They don’t have the same bullshit beauty standards over there in Europe that they have over here.
My cousins took me skinny-dipping in the lakes, clubbing at the underage spots in the city.
Boys actually wanted to dance with me, actually hit on me.
Made out with me. I got felt up in the bathroom at one of those clubs by a tall blond boy named Sven, who was hotter than any boy in Longview.
And because they’re not so uptight over there, my big clan of cousins and aunts and uncles thought my darker side was funny.
To a point.
Until I got sent home.
I had developed a severe crush on a distant cousin, another tall blond named Thor. He came and spent weekends at my aunt and uncle’s massive house, and I was always flirting with him. And I thought he was flirting back, because he was always nice to me. I thought he liked me, too.
One night, when we went skinny-dipping, all of us, he was dog-paddling in the water right in front of me, like a foot away. I thought he wanted to kiss me, so I leaned in, but he looked confused, shook his head, then swam away.
I was enraged.
And then I had an idea. I knew he had a peanut allergy.
Could die from it.
So, the next weekend, I ground some up into powder and mixed it into my trail mix. Begged him to go hiking with me. To show me a new trail.
Once we were about a mile into the forest, I sat down on a rock and pulled out the trail mix. Offered him some.
He ate a fistful.
Happiness spread through me.
Not one minute later, he was gasping for air. Pointing at his backpack, motioning for me to unzip it, locate his EpiPen.
I just glared at him.
His hands started flailing around wildly, his face pleading with me to help.
I bit my bottom lip, careful not to smile.
And didn’t budge.
I glanced at my Swatch.
One minute had passed.
His face was now red as a Christmas sweater.
His choking sounds were getting louder, but we were all alone, the noises muffled in the grand forest.
Two minutes.
I gave him another nasty stare.
Then I unzipped his backpack. Found his EpiPen and slapped it in his shaky hand.
On the way home, I walked ahead of him on the trail.
“You just tried to kill me!” he shouted after me.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I lifted my shoulders in a shrug.
When we got back to the house, he told my aunt Elsa what had happened. I know because I was eavesdropping from the next room.
Next thing I know, Mom’s calling, telling me she’s on her way to come and get me.
I was furious. Not only did I not want to have my summer cut short, I’d actually been planning on begging her and Dad to let me stay, to finish out high school there.
“Not after the stunt you just pulled! Have you lost your mind?” Mom shrieked across the line.
I could picture her clasping the wall phone in the kitchen, frantic.
“I’m telling you, he’s lying,” I hissed over the phone. “He’s been sneaking into my room at night and…” My voice shook with fake tears.
“And what?”
“He’s tried to touch me.”
Mom sucked in a quick breath. It was almost like a sound of relief, like she wanted to believe me, was happy that there might be some alternate spin on this whole disaster. Someone else at fault.
“And, well, I threatened to tell on him. So now he’s made up this giant story about me, to cover his own ass.”
“Nellie, if you’re lying to me, I swear to God—”
“Mother!” I squealed, loud as I could. “I’m not! I’m totally mortified! This is so embarrassing!”
Aunt Elsa sent me home anyway.
I don’t think any of the Swedes bought my little story, but it kept me out of trouble with Mom and Dad at least.
And I plan to go back there. Maybe even instead of college. Surely they’ve all forgiven me by now?
The door handle rattles, snapping me out of my thoughts. That’s followed by a fist rapping against the door.
“Nellie, what are you doing in there?”
Sigh. Mom.
Why can’t she just grow a pair and ask me if I’m smoking?
I stub out my cigarette, empty the ashtray into the toilet, douse the air with perfume.
Yank open the door.
Mom jumps back.
“What? What’s the big emergency?” I snap.
Mom shrinks a little, combs her French-manicured fingernails through her feathered bangs. “Just wanted to see how your night went.”
I exhale loudly, lean against the doorframe. “Shitty. Okay?”
“Is this about Jane?”
“Yeah. So?”
Just having to talk to Mom makes me want to light up another Marlboro.
“Well,” she says, a tiny smile spreading across her lips, “I think you can stop worrying about her. They are weird. The whole family is cuckoo. I went out there earlier today—”
What the fuck.
“You did?” I practically shout at her. “Without telling me first, asking me? Was Jane—”
“No, calm down. She wasn’t there. Her mom sells”—she bats her hand around in the air”—potions or whatever, and some of the women have been out to her little shop, which is just a lean-to, really, to buy ’em, and so I went to investigate. For you, for me.”
I hate it when Mom meddles. Sure, I like for her to fix things, get me out of deep shit, do things for me, make shit happen, but sometimes…sometimes she takes it too far. Like hauling ass out to the Swift farm.
God, they must think we’re such freaks!
“Did you tell them you were my mother?”
Mom flinches, as if I raised a hand to her. Her eyelids are shaded in emerald-green eyeshadow; she blinks her fake long lashes so quickly, it seems like she’s trying not to cry.
“’Course I did. But the lady—excuse me, the very strange woman—couldn’t have cared less. Seems like she doesn’t have a handle on Jane, like she doesn’t even like her. But I’m telling you, they are low-rent. Beneath us. They can’t shine our shoes. So not worth worrying about.”
She’s talking so fast, I can’t tell whether she’s trying to convince herself or me.
“Don’t worry, I didn’t even say anything about you. Just mentioned to the woman that you were the same age as Jane. Nada more. Got it?”
I blow out a sigh. Roll my eyes. “Okaaay. So, like how was their place? Tonight Blair was saying how cool it is, which is so annoying—”
“It’s a real dump, sweetie.” She steps forward, tucks a lock of hair behind my ears. Her wrist smells like Giorgio, the perfume she’s worn for as long as I can remember.
I can tell she’s just saying that for my benefit. I’m sure Blair was right; I’m sure it is cool.
“Their house is basically a shack, and the shop is basically a shed. The woman was wearing this ugly dress, breastfeeding her baby in front of me, exposing herself—”
“Ewww!”
“Not a good scene. So chin up, young lady. The novelty will wear off soon. I promise.”