Vicious Little Darlings (14 page)

“I told my mom I was busy, which means she'll try again in an hour. I really don't know how I'm going to get out of this one.”

“Can't you just tell her you're … you know … not interested in dating anyone right now?”

Agnes throws me a glare. “No.”

I don't say anything. Then I wave my hand in front of the cabinets. “Uh, I'm sorry, but … what's with the dolls?”

“My mother started this collection for me when I was five. She's been buying them for me ever since, even though I hate dolls.” Agnes gets up and opens the first cabinet, removing a wooden doll in a floral cotton dress and a funny-looking hat. “This one was made in France in 1875, and is worth a mere thirty-five thousand dollars.”

I gasp.
Thirty-five thousand dollars? I could live off that for a long, long time.
“I didn't know dolls could cost that much,” I say.

“Oh, they can.” She rubs the back of her neck. “If you're willing and have the money, there are always ridiculous things to buy. And the more money you have, the more absurd the purchases. That's why wealthy people have so many silly collections. What else are they going to do with their money?”

I glance at the Marie Antoinette doll again.

Noticing, Agnes says, “That's the only one I like. It reminds me of Maddy.” Carefully removing Marie Antoinette from the cabinet, she adds, “But Maddy's much more beautiful, of course.”

Much more harmful too
.

A smile creeps onto Agnes's face while she adjusts Marie Antoinette's hat. She then puts the doll back into the cabinet and, with her foot, nudges aside a pile of boxes. “I should probably rent a storage unit.”

“Why can't you just tell your mom you've outgrown dolls?”

“Impossible.” Her face darkens. “It's a hobby we're supposed to be bonding over. Besides, she's never been interested in hearing the truth. She's fragile, nervous, and prone to depression—you know the type. The last thing I want is to upset her, especially when I didn't exactly turn out the way she wanted.”

“What do you mean?”

“I wouldn't let my mother give me a cotillion. She had plans for me: a future filled with shopping, sailing, charity balls, and, of course, procreation. She almost had a stroke when I told her I wanted to study medicine.” Agnes resumes cracking her knuckles. “The dolls are a compromise. I pretend to love them and she continues to buy them for me. It's the little game we play so she won't regret not being able to have children of her own, or feel she adopted the wrong kid.”

“I'm sure she'd never think that.” It's what you're supposed to say in a situation like this, but what do I know? Her mother could have regrets just like mine did. I'm living proof that not all mothers are maternal. I feel bad for Agnes. It must be awful worrying that your mother regrets adopting you. I know my parents regret
having
me, but that's different. They didn't choose me, whereas Agnes's parents specifically picked her to join their family.

“My mother and I are complete opposites,” she says. Wow. Once you get Agnes talking, she doesn't stop. “And my father—all he and I ever talk about is the stock market. That is, he talks and I listen to him regurgitate the
Wall Street Journal
— Oh, shoot! I forgot to call Maddy.” She reaches for the receiver on her desk. “She's on campus, looking for you.” I notice the antique typewriter next to the phone. Another collectible, I'm sure. “I was supposed to call her when you got home. She was really worried. Where did you go, anyway?”

“I told you, I … uh, had to talk to my professor.” Not very smooth. I blame it on the sex. It's my personal belief that too much sex kills brain cells.

Agnes says, “I would've looked for you myself, but my mother called. You were gone for quite a while.” She raises an eyebrow.

“I went to town. I had a lot of errands to run. And then I … um, I went to look for a job.”

“A job? Why?”

“It's complicated. My grandmother is temporarily cutting me off. She's trying to teach me the value of money or something,” I explain. Although I do feel close to Agnes right now, this isn't the time to tell her the truth about Nana or my childhood. And luckily, Agnes is smart enough not to ask.

She raises her hand and says, “Hold on.” In her tender, just-for-Maddy voice, she coos into the phone, “Finally. It kept ringing. Why didn't you pick up sooner?” She pauses, bites her lip. “Well, Sarah's back. Where are you? Do you want me to come pick you up? Okay. We'll talk when you get home. Bye.” She hangs up and looks me squarely in the eye. “I could lend you the money. Then you wouldn't have to get a job. And you could pay me back whenever.”

I'm touched by her offer. “Thanks, but I'll manage.”

“I would give you a job myself, if you'd feel more comfortable.”

“Doing what? Cataloging your dolls?” I snicker.

For a moment Agnes looks contemplative. “What if I hired you to be my household assistant? You could help me around the house and with the grocery shopping. It'd be like having a real job, except your hours would be much more flexible.”

“I should be helping you out with those things anyway. And paying rent.”

“I would never make a friend pay rent. Really, Sarah, let me help you. Besides, you'd be doing me a favor. I was thinking about hiring a housekeeper anyway, but with your assistance, I wouldn't have to.” She rummages around her desk until she finds her checkbook. “How does five hundred a week sound?”

Insane.
“I appreciate it, Agnes. I really do. But I'll figure something out. I'm going to take a shower now. Are you going to be okay?”

She nods.

I turn and climb the basement stairs. When I get to the top, Agnes says, “Sarah?”

“Yeah?” I turn around.

“Thanks.”

“For what?”

“Listening.”

“No problem.” I smile and walk out the door.

After my shower, Maddy pounds on my bedroom door. “Knock knock,” she singsongs. I'm so not in the mood to deal with her. She shouldn't have told me my relationship with Reed was doomed. Even if she thought she saw it in the cards, she shouldn't have told me, because now I can't stop worrying about it.

“Sarah, can I come in?” she asks, and then opens the door before I can respond. “Hi,” she says, plopping down next to me on my bed. She bounces up and down, a bubblegum-pink blur. Her hair is tied into two perfect Princess Leia buns. How did she get her short hair to do that? Is it a wig? She notices me staring at her hair. “Extensions,” she says. “I got them today. I was
so
sick of having short hair, so I went to Sally Jo's. They didn't do a good job, though. They're totally pinching me.” Maddy finally stops bouncing. “So, where did you go today?”

“To town. Didn't Agnes tell you?”

“She said you were looking for a job—something about your grandma cutting you off—but I thought she was kidding.”

“No.” Who would joke about something like that?

“So, really? A job? But you're in college. You don't have time to work. Why is your grandma being so mean?” She scrunches up her nose. “Work sucks.”

This little act—the scrunching up of her nose—annoys me more than anything. I feel a rush of anger. What does Maddy know about work? Has she ever had to work? I doubt she ever had to spend an entire summer working in a Hot Dog on a Stick booth while wearing a hideous polyester uniform and explaining to dumb customers the difference between the cheddar-cheese stick and the pepper-jack-cheese stick. And I doubt she ever had to work as a shoe gopher during a Nordstrom's Anniversary Sale, scavenging for women's size-eleven shoes in a dark, sweltering storage room.
Work sucks
. I feel like slapping her.

“Yoo-hoo, earth to Sarah. You're zoning out.”

I wonder if I look as furious as I feel. If so, Maddy doesn't seem to notice.

“I called you a million times today,” she grumbles. “Why didn't you call me back?”

“My battery died.”

“I really needed to talk to you.”

“Why?”

“Sebastian and I talked, finally.”

My blood quivers. “Oh.”

“Yeah, it's kind of a long story.” Maddy gets comfortable on my bed. “He sent me a dozen roses today.” She makes a face. “Of course, I threw them away and that made me feel a little better, but then he started calling and leaving me messages and that made me really mad, so Agnes took me out to lunch to get my mind off things. Then we went to get my extensions. The whole time, I kept calling you, but you never picked up, and by the time we got home, I was still upset, so I broke down and called him. I didn't tell Agnes because I didn't want her to get all overprotective. Anyway, I called, and a girl picked up.”

My palms get sweaty. “Really?”

“Yeah. I hung up on her. Then I did a reading and the tarot cards said she's not the girl he cheated with. It was someone else. I have to find out who she is.”

“Why can't you just let it go? You don't want Sebastian back anyway, right?”

“The truth has to come out, Sarah. Otherwise I'm going to be tortured forever. If he hadn't cheated on me in the first place, I wouldn't have broken up with him.”

“Wait,” I say. “I thought
he
broke up with
you
.”

“Not technically. That weekend he came to visit, he actually came clean about sleeping with someone else, just like I suspected.”

“He did?” I squeak.

“Yeah. He said it was just a one-time thing, back in September, with a girl he didn't even like. He said he was lonely and she was there and she basically threw herself at him, so …”

But I didn't throw myself at Sebastian.

She goes on. “The fact that he could have sex with someone else … I mean, I thought he was
the one
. How could I spend the rest of my life with someone who betrayed me? I had to end it. But it's still his fault because if he hadn't cheated on me, we'd still be together. And that's the same thing as saying he broke up with me.”

It is?
Why didn't she tell us this in the first place? I remember her distinctly telling Agnes and me that Sebastian broke up with her, not the other way around. She made herself sound like the victim. Why?

I take a deep breath. “Did he tell you who the girl was?”

She looks away. “No.”

I try to hide my relief.

“You don't keep things from me, do you, Sarah?”

“What?” We lock eyes.

“You've never lied to me, have you?”

Fuck.
Does she want me to confess? Is that what she wants? I'm so tired of this bullshit. I'm sick of feeling paranoid every time she utters Sebastian's name. If I don't get this off my chest, I'll implode.

“You know, don't you?” I finally say.

She pauses, then says, “Well, yeah. It's kind of obvious.”

The words flood out of me. “I'm really sorry. It was a horrible thing to do. I don't even know why I did it. I wasn't thinking, it just happened and I know that's not an excuse, but I don't know what else to say other than I'm sorry, and I feel awful and I'll do whatever it takes to make it up to you.”

“You slept with him?”

“Yeah,” I say, confused.

“Today?”

“No, not today.” What the hell is she thinking?

“Then when? I mean, you were gone all day, so I figured you went to see him. You did see Reed today, didn't you? You can tell me; I won't get mad. I'm your best friend.”

Oops.
I avert my eyes and say, “Yes, I went to see him today.”

“And you slept with him.”

I nod.

“Even though I told you he would break your heart? Why would you put yourself through that? Wake up and smell the testosterone, Sarah. You don't understand boys the way I do. You've never had a boyfriend. I mean, you've slept with a lot of guys, but relationships are different. They're a lot more complicated than just sex.”

I ignore her condescending tone because I really do feel bad. After all this time, I still can't believe I fucked Sebastian. I need to get this off my chest. I have to tell her the truth.

“Maddy,” I say, “I have a confession to make.”

“Don't tell me you didn't use a condom.”

I should do it fast, like ripping off a Band-Aid. Looking her in the eye, I say, “I slept with Sebastian.”

She just stares at me. Not the reaction I was expecting. She doesn't look angry or shocked or hurt at all; she looks simply … blank. A moment later, she covers her face with her hands and says in a monotone, “What?”

“I'm so sorry. It was a shitty thing to do and I feel really awful about it.”

She looks at me. “
You
feel awful? You had sex with the man
I
was supposed to marry, the love of my life, and
you
feel awful?” She gets up off the bed, crosses her arms over her chest, and says, “How could you?”

“I never wanted to hurt you. It was a stupid, stupid thing to do. I don't know what I was thinking.”

“You obviously
weren't
thinking,” she scoffs. “When did it happen?”

“Early in the semester, when I didn't know you very well.”

“Be more specific.”

“It was that day you went with Agnes to look at the house—you know, the day Sebastian came by to surprise you. It was just that one time. It never happened again.”

She begins pacing. “So, let me get this straight. All this time, you and Sebastian have been hiding this from me? You let me worry and cry about that other girl when all along you were the slut who fucked my boyfriend?” Her lips twist into an ugly scowl. “Well,
fuck you
, Sarah!”