Sacrifice of Love (44 page)

The rich ladies, with their upturned noses, liked to look out their windows at me as if I were somehow infecting their perfect little world with a contagious disease. They looked at me like I was poor (which I was), a menace (which I wasn’t), and like there was something wrong with me (which I wasn’t even sure of). Normally I would laugh at their response to me, but I didn't like them taking so much notice. Chances were, they would complain to my mother's boss, and she would get in trouble, again. It wasn't my fault the road crews decided to work on the alley, but it's not like “His Grace” would care.

My mother had worked as Edmund LaRue’s cook for almost ten years now, having taken the job after my father took off. Mr. LaRue, or King Edmund, as I called him, was an arrogant, greedy, self-righteous man who kept to himself. He probably had more secrets than rooms in his house - if that were even possible. But, as much as I despised him, he paid my mother well and so I couldn’t complain.

I jumped off my long board as I approached his house. If he heard the clicking of it against the sidewalk, he might throw another fit; that is, of course, if Mrs. Nose-Against-The-Window hadn’t already put in a call. I looked up the long driveway as I stepped in front of the gate. Only the gray Rolls-Royce lay parked against the side of the house, causing my heart to fall - no bright yellow Lotus. Ryland wasn’t home yet. I hopped back on my long board to roll down the side of the house; my somewhat good mood dashed by the absence of my best friend. Who cared if King Edmund got mad at me for making a racket?

I crashed into the kitchen, the slam of the door disrupting the 70s music that my mother and Mette, the LaRue’s baker, were listening to. Plopping myself onto one of the many bar stools surrounding the long work surfaces, I placed my head on my arms and covered my face as much as I could with my hood.

“Happy Birthday, Joclyn!” my mom said. I only grunted as I attempted to cover my head with my hoodie. “How was school?”

“Fine,” I said into the countertop.

“Fancy that,” Mette said in her rich, Irish accent. “She can almost disappear into the table. Must be a trick learned when one turns sixteen.”

I grumbled nonsense at them again and covered my head with my arms, trying to ignore the laughter of the two women.

“Not funny,” I growled.

“Hello, in there! Joclyn, can you hear me?” my mother lifted the side of my hood as she called into it, I tried not to smile. “Well, I think she’s done it! She has melded into the sweatshirt and become one with it.”

“That will make it easier to wash her, that will.”

“Not funny,” I tried not to sound amused, but I don’t think it worked. My mother snorted so loudly it reverberated off the pristine marble countertops.

“I’ll just throw her in the washing machine, then a little bleach,
lots
of detergent, and the skateboard can go in the dumpster.”

“Hey! It’s a long board, and it’s the only way I get around! Unless you bought me a car. Did you buy me a car?” I shot up like a light, my face breaking out into an eager grin.

“There she is,” Mom laughed, throwing a present at me. “Happy Birthday, honey! Sorry, no car this year.”

“She lives. She lives. Praise the Lord! I thought for a second we would have to call a priest to exorcise her from the sweater,” Mette laughed, her red bun bobbing on top of her large round head. “Happy Birthday, dearie.”

My mom nudged the present at me again, prompting me to open it. Her eyes were sparkling with that eager anticipation she always got about gift-giving. The package was a good size, but lumpy and squishy. Clothes. Clothing had been an issue with my mother and me since that darned mark showed up on my face and chased my dad away. I preferred to hide the mark - and myself. She thought I should show the world how beautiful I was. I guess she might be right; I could be seen as the epitome of the fair-skinned, dark-haired beauty with some form of ethereal features. My mom fawned over my bone structure and perfectly-formed eyebrows that just grew that way. But, when I looked in the mirror, I only saw a skinny girl who wasn’t quite good enough. My mom obviously saw something different; she liked to give me blue shirts to highlight my black hair, or green belts to set off the silver of my eyes, or so she said. All I saw were vivid colors or an obvious lack of fabric that would make me stand out.

For years my mom kept trying to convince herself that my choice of baggy dark-colored clothes was a stage that I would outgrow. I always found a way to hide myself; I kept my black hair long and falling in a sheet around my face, my clothes always dark and at least a size too big. It was all done in a way to help me blend in so people wouldn’t notice me. I felt comfortable inside my safety shield, hoping that no one could see me or figure out what was wrong with me. When the Goth kids showed up at school, it worked to my advantage. My mom, for once, thought I was trying to be cool, but I wasn’t overly emotional or narcissistic like they appeared to be. I just wanted to disappear.

“Go on,” Mom prodded. “Open it.” I sighed before ripping off the paper. It was a deep red shirt, embroidered with some beads and fabric flowers. There was no denying it was pretty. It even looked like one of the things I wished I could wear – if only I felt comfortable doing so.

“Just try it on, Joclyn.” My mom danced around in her white kitchen shoes; how in the world could I say no to that? I dragged my feet all the way to the bathroom, the red shirt sticking out of the arm of the hoodie my hands were hiding in. I put on the shirt; cursing the fact that my mother could tell what size I was, even through my purposely too big clothes. It was snug, but not too tight. I stared at myself in the mirror for a second, looking through the tunnel of dark hair. I looked so different in the shirt, almost pretty. Without thinking, I pulled my hair up into a ponytail, just to see what it would look like, but the mark stood out so vividly; its ugly shape stuck out right behind and below my right ear. I twisted my hair and pulled it around the side, down the side of my neck. The low twist covered it easily, but I still didn’t trust it. Part of me wished I could dress like this, but I could never tell my mother that.

I sighed just a little bit before leaving the bathroom, knowing that Mette and my Mom would fawn over me. I looked in the mirror a second too long, trying to figure out a way to get out of this. Even if I said it was too small, my mom would insist I show her anyway. Best to get it over with. I closed my eyes so that I wouldn’t have to see my mom dance around with excitement again. The door clicked open, and I stood there, eyes closed, waiting for it to come.

“Oh, Joclyn,” my mom said, “it’s beautiful.” I didn’t need to have my eyes closed, I could hear the soles of her non-slip shoes squeak against the floor as she danced in joy.

“Mom, don’t...” I pleaded, but I knew it was useless.

“That color... with your hair... Oh please wear it to dinner tonight - without that darn sweatshirt,” she added. I could feel her tug on the hoodie, but I hung on for dear life.

“Mom. No.” My eyes snapped open in my attempt to retort, and I froze. Ryland stood right in front of me, a huge grin on his face. My jaw dropped as my heart went into overdrive.

Ryland LaRue was the son of my mother’s boss. Ry was two years older than me and stood a good head taller. We had been friends since my mother first started this job when I was five, playing together in the kitchen and hiding on the grounds of the estate. Ryland would always be my very best friend, but lately it was hard to see past his dark curly hair, crystalline blue eyes and “private school Rugby muscles” without feeling like my heart was getting restarted. This heart slamming was for a different reason though: he hadn’t seen me wear anything other than a hoodie since I hit puberty. I felt uncomfortable, and Ryland’s appreciative grin wasn’t helping matters much.

Mette and my mother broke out into huge bouts of laughter at their little joke. The look of surprise on my face must have been hysterical. Rather than join along, as part of me wished to, I squeaked and moved to put my hoodie back on. I slid into it as quickly as I could without revealing my scar. I had kept it hidden from Ryland for this long, thanks to Band-Aids and carefully placed hoods or hair. I didn’t need him seeing it now. It would only give him a reason to run away.

“Ah, come on, Jos... It’s pretty,” Ryland pleaded.

“No.” I spoke as sternly as I could, turning to repeat the word to my mother who was in stitches with Mette against the confection mixer. My mother’s laughter stopped.

“Joclyn, you have to wear it tonight,” she pleaded. “Your grandmother bought you a matching skirt.”

“Skirt?” I gasped. There was no way they were getting me into a skirt. But I could tell by the look on my mom’s face that I was trapped. My birthday dinner was the only time of the year I saw my father’s parents; it would break their heart if I said no.

“Ugh. Fine. Fine!” I snapped, ignoring my mother’s look of triumph before rounding on Ryland, one finger pointed in his face. “One word of this to anyone, even mentioning it to me, Ry, and I will kill you.”

“Uh huh,” he laughed, his blue eyes rolling. “What are you going to do, Jos? Hide from me? It does look very pretty on you, you know.”

“Ryland LaRue, so help me...”

“Yeah, yeah, I got ya,” he smiled, grabbing my hand that pointed in his face. “Come on. I’ll have her back in an hour, Mrs. Despain.”

“Better make it two, Ryland. I don’t need her moping around while I try to get the chicken broiled.” My mother smiled so brightly that I could have almost guessed what was on her mind. More gifts.

“No problem, Mrs. D.”

“Oh, and Joclyn,” my mom’s voice called after us. I turned back to her, halting Ryland’s departure. “Please try to avoid Edmund and Timothy. I think my job has been threatened enough for one week.” She smiled, but it was half-hearted. She was always the first to get in trouble over my friendship with Ryland. I nodded in understanding before Ry pulled me out of the kitchen and into the servants’ quarters. We gained the usual snickers and side-glances as we scampered past the many rooms occupied by the live-in staff, heading to the back corridors that the servants used to move around the massive house.

At first our friendship had been tolerated by Edmund, but a few years ago that had started to change. For a year or so, it had been labeled unacceptable, and then last year, we were told we were not supposed to be friends at all. Ryland had been warned and threatened by his father to stay away from me, while my mother had been under constant “warning” of losing her job. I wasn’t surprised. To
King
Edmund, I was nothing more than a dirty peasant. We probably should have taken it seriously, but Ryland insisted everything was okay, so my mother and I followed his lead.

We entered an upper hall where Ryland’s bedroom sat, the door just ahead of us on the left. I kept my eyes looking straight ahead, smiling until an unusually short man in a three-piece suit with a thick, neatly trimmed beard turned the corner to face us. I jumped behind Ryland, not needing his arm to move me there. I knew that man, and I hated him.

Timothy Vincent was the Vice President of Ryland’s family’s company, Imdalind Forging. He was responsible for the metal-forging method that had made them their trillions. Timothy was also the man who reprimanded my mother on a weekly basis about my continued relationship with Ryland. He caught sight of us and moved toward us quickly, an even angrier scowl than usual carved into his face. Timothy always made me uncomfortable – even on his best days.

“Ryland, we have been looking for you.” My heart sank. We. That could only mean one thing. A heavier gait entered the hall and I moved further behind Ry. I didn’t have to see Edmund LaRue to know what he looked like. In many ways Ryland could be described as his father’s clone, but instead of the mop of loose curls Ryland had, Edmund kept his hair short and slicked back in a gentle wave. Where Ryland’s eyes were the warm and welcoming color of the depths of the ocean, Edmund’s were as cold and distant as the polar icecaps. They always cut into me with a frigid poisonous edge that made my insides repulse.

I sank into Ryland’s back, my face pressing against his polo shirt in an attempt to hide. His muscles were tensed and strained. Ryland’s hand reached back and found the tips of my fingers that stuck out from the cuff of my hoodie. He squeezed my fingers between his in an attempt to reassure me. As always, his touch warmed my body, the tingling warmth shooting right to my stomach.

“Ryland! I am so glad we found you. I would like to move our lesson to an hour after dinner.” Edmund’s voice was laced with a false endearment that shook my bones. His statement was not a question but a command. Ryland had been taking lessons with his father since he was twelve. Ry had always insisted it was some fencing thing, but the way they talked about it always made it seem so sinister - like they were going to take over the world. Who knows? Maybe they were. Corporate drama is a little out of my league.

“Yes, Father, that’s fine. I will meet you in the court.” Ryland’s voice was distant and diplomatic. When he talked like this, he reminded me of the heir to the multi-million dollar company he was, not my energetic, fun-loving best friend.

“Ryland,” Timothy spoke slowly, dragging out his syllables, and I knew he was going to address our friendship. I shifted my weight, cursing the dark hoodie that stuck out from behind my hiding place. “I am so glad to see you have taken our advice about your choice of friends.”

Timothy’s voice seemed hopeful, odd, seeing as how I stood right here. I cursed my oversized hoodie and attempted to draw the fabric closer to my body. Being so close to both of them made me almost, dare I say it, scared.

“I have expressed my opinion on this multiple times, Timothy. Please do not make me repeat it.” Ryland stood a little straighter as he attempted to end the conversation.

“Now, now, Ryland. We don’t need any of that.” Edmund’s voice lacked any warmth. “After all I would hate for your attitude to be the cause of a downfall.”

I cringed; was he talking about me or about my mother? Edmund had never before said anything so bold when I was within earshot; it was almost like he couldn’t see me. That, in itself, was a ridiculous thought; Ryland wasn’t enough to hide behind, even with all his muscle.