Eleven Paper Girls - Chapter 2

Eleven Paper Girls

-2-

Terri spent the last remaining hours of light hiding in the attic.  Some part of her was hoping the boy would come back, but another part of her was hoping he wouldn’t.  That part of her wanted to die of embarrassment. 

School would be an embarrassment too.  She could already feel it.  She didn’t fit in with these people in Southern California.  They were all burnished bronze skin and surfer tans.  Not her.  She had fit into Seattle perfectly.  She could hide her red hair and pale skin in large jackets, in hoodies, in anything she could hide in.  Her freckles and imperfect skin could be disguised by makeup and scarves.  Not here in Southern California.  Her makeup ran with sweat and made her break out the first day.  Her hair frizzed up.  She couldn’t hide in any of her old clothes. 

They’d nicknamed her Strawberry Shortcake.  It had meant to be hurtful, but she had worn the name with pride.  And when Josh had asked her for help, she’d exulted in the looks of derision that the popular kids had steered her way.  It didn’t matter.  In terms of brains, she’d been untouchable.  It was her only protection from the others.  It didn’t protect her heart, but Josh had been sincere in asking for help.  She had been hoping that finally, finally in her senior year, she would have someone to call a friend.  Now she would never know. 

Sulking again, she decided to go downstairs.  She could hear her mother calling about something, probably dinner.  Ever since they’d arrived here, her mother had insisted on having dinners together – “Like a family, again,” her mom had said brightly. – but it hadn’t worked out the way they all had thought.  Terri had sulked through most of the week’s dinner and her father had distractedly been writing notes in a notepad.  Her mother too, despite her insistence on dinner, had been stuck to her phone, feeling the need to have it close by in case someone called to reserve or ask for a job. 

With heavy feet, she made her way to the trapdoor of the attic, when something caught her eye.  The light from the window must have been catching on something because out of one of the attic’s dark corners was a golden glow. 

Terri took apart the boxes and junk that crowded around the glow and saw what it was that had shined so brightly.  A mirror had reflected the light onto a very shiny, very beautiful book.  It was made out of white, tooled leather.  Scrolling ran up and down its sides and the pages were edged with a golden sheen.  It was titled, “The Book of Happiness.”

Terri couldn’t help the smirk that came to her mouth.  Riiiiight.  As if there was such a thing, such a secret to happiness that reading a book could solve.  Stupid self-help manuals.  But it was such a pretty book nevertheless.  It had a clasp, like a diary, but there was no lock.  It clicked open easily and when she turned to the first page she gasped. 

It was like an illuminated manuscript.  She’d seen some of those in museums, but this book was better.  It was truly beautiful.  The colors were swirling and seemed almost alive.  She saw that it was divided into sections, like different chapters.  After the title page, the chapters were each fronted by a glowing picture of a girl.  They were all of varying ages, but none seemed to be older than herself.    There were eleven in total; eleven paper girls. 

She scanned through the first chapter.  It was about a girl named Marie, who lived in France.  She seemed to have been a peasant even though, when Terri flipped back to her picture, she looked like a princess.  She was just getting into the story when her mother called loudly from just below the attic trapdoor. 

“Fine!” she called back, none too happily.  She flipped yearningly through the rest of the pages.  The pictures were all so happy, all so gorgeous.  Oh, how she wished she were that happy and that gorgeous.  How beautiful all the girls were!   She came to the last girl and turned the page.  Curiously there were no more pictures.  The rest of the book was blank. 

She ran her fingers over the blank page.  If only she were like those girls: pretty, confident, perfect.  With a frightened yelp, she threw the book away from her.  It landed like a thud in front of her.  Closed, it was no longer glowing, the light outside was fading and throwing the attic into darkness. 

Strange, she swore the texture of the paper beneath her finger had changed.  It had suddenly felt cold, like the texture of chicken meat straight from the fridge.  And it had felt like something else, it had felt like it had curled around her finger. 

Freaked out, she scooted from the book and practically fell out of the attic. 

Giselle's Diary (an original story)

Giselle’s Diary

-1-

March 6

One week!  Jerry and I have been married one week!  I can’t believe I’m now Mrs. Gerald Allano.  Giselle Allano.  What do you think?  It has a nice ring to it, right?  And I’m still sore.  I can’t stop thinking about it.  Who knew sex would hurt so much and yet be so nice at the same time? 

Jerry and I are leaving for Venice tomorrow.  We really can’t afford it, but he says that with the money he saved up from tips and now his new job at the shop, we should be able to make it.  It’s been like a whirlwind, like a dream almost.  I can’t believe it. 

I’m starting this diary because I think it might be nice to keep a record of our first year of marriage.  Besides, Jerry has always said I should write something.  He bought this for me as a sort of wedding gift. 

My parents have finally come around to liking Jerry despite the fact that he didn’t graduate from college.  I didn’t really care about that.  I love him.  I finish all my credentialing in June this year.  Only a couple of papers left and I can finally start teaching. 

March 7/8

The airplane ride was a bumpy one.  Storms all the way across the middle of the country.  I’ve never been outside of California.  New York had some late snow on the ground and we almost decided to make snowmen on the tarmac.  Jerry laughed at me when I said tarmac.  I had to explain that the airport runway was called that.  He just said that I’m too smart for my own good. 

March  8

We’ve made another stop here in London.  We had to walk from Heathrow airport all the way to the bus.  I fell asleep on Jerry’s shoulder on the way to the hotel.  I’m afraid I may have drooled on his shoulder a little.  Some romantic I am. 

I’m sitting here now while he takes a shower in that closet of a bathroom.  The hotel rooms here are weird.  Tiny.  The bathroom is split into two parts.  One has the shower and the sink and the other has two toilets.  One’s a regular toilet and the other, we couldn’t figure out.  I think it’s to wash yourself after.  It’s so embarrassing right now, all these little things you never thought about.  I mean, peeing in front of your own husband shouldn’t be embarrassing, right?  I’ve barely gotten over the being naked in front of him part, though I have to confess I like seeing him naked. 

March 10

We are staying in London tonight and leaving tomorrow.  The ticketing agency screwed up our train passes.  Jerry was upset because the hotel at first refused to let us stay on for one more night.  He convinced them for one more night but they charged us an arm and a leg.  I’m afraid we have to withdraw some more money.

The strangest thing happened today.  We were at the top of St. Paul’s Cathedral when Jerry pointed out that we could see the whole entire of London including the Thames.  It was breathtaking except for the height part.  I hate heights.  Then something happened.    

I was turning to hug Jerry when suddenly, one of the gargoyles on the roof moved.  I swear it moved!  I screamed and the next thing I knew, Jerry was hugging me and when I looked again, it wasn’t the gargoyle that had moved but a large crow sitting on its wings.  I don’t know why I panicked so much.  He asked me what was wrong, but I couldn’t tell him that I had seen a gargoyle move.  The marriage vows were “for better or for worse; in sickness and in health” not “for saner or for crazier.”

March 13 - Morning

I think I’m in love with Venice.  The town is magical.  Who knew that I would love all the little bridges all the little canals?  And the ice cream!  Oh my god!  Heavenly.  The Italians call it gelato.  I call it delicious. 

If we are what we eat, I’m going to turn into pasta, red wine, and gelato by the time this trip is over.  I’m going to take a few more pictures of the food we’re eating now before our gondola ride since Jerry is giving me the “what are you doing?” look.  I think he’s going to regret giving me this diary as a wedding gift.             

March 13 - Afternoon

The gondola ride was a disaster.  The gondolier cussed us out in Italian.  It wasn’t my fault, and Jerry, sweet man defended me. 

We were going through an old part of Venice, very quiet, very old.  The gondolier, an old guy, was trying to explain in broken English that sometimes when it floods the graves of the people in the churches would float in the water.  I don’t know if he was sensationalizing it, but I could almost picture it.  I was looking around at the walls when everything went black.  When I could see again, the town was still Venice and I was still in a gondola but everything was burning.  There were bodies everywhere and people dying.  And there was someone, someone tall and dark coming toward me and I couldn’t resist, I stood up.  He said he had come for me.    And then I came to, wet and in the water. 

Our gondola had capsized and the gondolier blamed me!  I thought those gondolas were supposed to be uncapsizable! 

Jerry won’t tell me what happened, but it must have been pretty bad.  He looks worried.  He says that it looked like I was sleepwalking.  I think I might have had too much red wine.    

March 14

We are leaving for London again and back to the US tomorrow.  I shall write again when we get back to California.  Nothing else happened while we were in Venice.  I guess maybe it’s just nerves or the time shift.  I do feel a little exhausted.  The wedding and the honeymoon were more stressful than I thought.  Or maybe my mother was right, maybe marriage is a sort of mental illness. 

Eleven Paper Girls (A story to go with Rosie Hardy's photograph)

Eleven Paper Girls

To Rosie:  Your images are beautiful (and sometimes macabre) inspiration. 
Rosie's original photograph can be found @ http://www.flickr.com/photos/rosie_hardy/2585846463/

-1-

When Terri first walked into the attic, the first sensation she felt was cold.  It was kind of creepy – being that it was in the height of summer – but the sensation was there all the same.  Outside she could hear the buzz of traffic speeding along the San Pedro freeway.  But in the attic, the sounds were muted, the sensation of cold almost all consuming.  Her breath seemed to frost the air. 

This house was the last in the cul-de-sac, a restoration house, her mother called it.  But to her, restoration really meant old.  Not that an old house seemed to bother anybody.  For several days now, her mother had been busy booking reservations for “a charming Bed and Breakfast overlooking the cliffs of Palos Verdes.”  Hmph.  She’d been busy all right.  Too busy for Terri. 

Her dad too was too busy.  He was finally writing that great American novel he’d been meaning to. 

She remembered the day they’d decided that dad was going to be a writer and mom would run her bed and breakfast.  It was right after Gram’s funeral.  Her parents had shed tears, but they hadn’t really been too sad.  Gram and her dad were “estranged” and when they had come into some money when Gram had died, her parents decided to take a few years off and work on “their dreams.” 

Terri kicked at an unpacked box in the corner of the attic angrily.  Yeah, their dreams.  But what about hers?  Moving in the middle of the school year, especially senior year, had been devastating.  She had already made plans.  Her picture was already in the yearbook!  And now, now no one would remember her by the time Spring Break came. 

Outside the late California sun shone onto the blue ocean and suddenly she missed cold, rainy Seattle.  It was damp, but it was home. 

Sighing, she sat down on one of the moving boxes.  There were still a bunch of them unpacked in the attic, mostly raingear and boots.  Her mother had decided that those boxes would be the last to be unpacked.  She had smiled brightly at the moving men and laughed when she asked them to take the boxes up to the attic.  “Rain?  Here?  I doubt we’ll even see the rain in Southern California.” 

She tore off a strip of tape holding the box flaps together.  Inside, her bright red rain slicker bloomed.  She almost cried with the pain of missing home.  The slicker was new.  She had bought it over the Christmas break intending to wear it when she came back for Spring semester.  She had just gotten to know Josh over Thanksgiving.  He was one of the most athletic boys at Washington High.  He was also painfully gorgeous.  He had been her lab partner in biology, his worst subject and he had asked for help in the new semester.  Red was his favorite color.  Again, the heat of righteous anger hit her.  How dare they?  Her parents hadn’t even asked if she wanted to move.   

Outside, the whirr of a lawnmower cut through the sounds of muted traffic.  Uninterested, she leaned over the side of the box to peek out the only window that let in light.  The window was pretty high and she could barely see out.  In the afternoon light, a boy about her age was mowing the lawn.  His dark hair was slicked back with sweat and he wore a shirt with the arms cut out.  He was whistling.  She couldn’t hear him, but she could see his cheeks puffing out.  Curious, she stood stepped on the box.  It rocked unsteadily under her, the rain slickers and boots shifting underfoot.  The boy was carefully guiding the lawnmower from one side of the large expansive lawn to the other.  He called out something to someone unseen and then he laughed.  She leaned closer, trying to see who was just around the corner.  As he turned his face up to the sun, she caught his eye and he smiled unreservedly at her.  Shocked, she slipped off the box and landed in a thud on the dusty ground. 

When she finally scrambled up and got over her embarrassment, the sound of the lawnmower had moved away and outside, the boy was gone, only the clean shaven path of grass left in its wake.