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Authors: Carolyn Turgeon
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“They said that that was why we were all so heartbroken there, because it had been passed down by our ancestors.”
“Really?” I asked.
“Yes,” she said, nodding slowly and whisking an eyelash from my cheek with her thumb. “You cannot escape your fate, Tessa, or where you come from.”
I looked at her and was surprised to see how strange she looked, as if something fierce and sad were beating its way out of her.
“What is it, Mary?” I whispered, but she just reached out and entwined her fingers with mine.
CHAPTER FIVE
My thirteenth birthday came and went that second summer. I’d been working in Mercy Library for almost a year. It felt like more time than that had passed; I felt like a whole new person and marveled sometimes as I watched myself with a library patron, recommending
The Canterbury Tales
or
The Divine Comedy.
Mary waited until we closed the library to present me with my very own rhinestone-covered skirt she’d sewn for me herself.
“Someday you can wear this to dinner with your boyfriend,” she said, grinning. “You’ll be the prettiest girl in the restaurant.”
I turned red down to my toes as I slipped into it. Before she let me look in the mirror, Mary took out a shiny plastic purse full of cosmetics and spread glitter and powder over my face. She painted black arching eyebrows over my own, and drew my lips into a bow. She twisted my hair onto the top of my head and stuck long ivory pins through it.
“Look,” she said, and I walked straight to the mirror and peered into it, at the strange sparkling girl staring out. Mary came behind me, resting her chin on my shoulder. “Look at our eyes,” she said. “You’d think we were related.” I looked back and forth and saw it was true: my eyes looked big and blue, almost sloped like hers, though in my case it was the makeup more than anything else.
“I don’t look so terrible,” I whispered, and was immediately embarrassed to have said it out loud. But it was true: I looked almost pretty, my light hair falling in my face and piled on my head, my face sparkling with glitter.
Mary laughed. “Of course not,” she said. “You’re beautiful, Tessa. Don’t listen to anyone else. People try to shut out beauty wherever they can in this world, but it’s a mistake.”
I smiled, traced the lines of my face in the mirror.
Beautiful,
she had said. I couldn’t see it, but I basked in it anyway, rocking back and forth so that the skirt swished around my knees.
It was around that time that, one day, Mary sent me into the library’s depths with a box of old books for storage, and I came across an old dusty box marked “Circus” in faded letters, hidden behind a stack of ancient encyclopedias. Mary’s circus stories had taken on the aura of dreams and myth; this box seemed impossible, sitting here before me. I dropped everything. My hands started to shake as I ripped off the tape that ran in lines across the top. I couldn’t imagine being more excited if I’d happened upon a treasure chest just lifted out of the sea.
Breathlessly, I peeled back the box cover. Even through the tissue paper they were wrapped in, I could see the sparkles and rhinestones and sequins of the leotards. I reached in and lifted out the one on top, carefully unwrapped it and held it up in the dim light. The red sequins shimmered; the leotard was so heavy and ornate that my arms grew tired holding it up. I stood up, my breath quickening, and held the leotard up to my chest, smoothed it over my belly. It extended halfway down my thighs. I could only imagine how Mary had sent hearts racing in outfits like this.
I laid the leotard neatly over another box nearby and lifted out the rest, one after another, not even caring if I messed them up, what Marywould say. One after another I pulled the costumes out of their wrappings and held them up: vivid reds and yellows, a brilliant electric blue with clouds of sequins swirling down the sides. The colors seemed to take
“Really?” I asked.
“Yes,” she said, nodding slowly and whisking an eyelash from my cheek with her thumb. “You cannot escape your fate, Tessa, or where you come from.”
I looked at her and was surprised to see how strange she looked, as if something fierce and sad were beating its way out of her.
“What is it, Mary?” I whispered, but she just reached out and entwined her fingers with mine.
CHAPTER FIVE
My thirteenth birthday came and went that second summer. I’d been working in Mercy Library for almost a year. It felt like more time than that had passed; I felt like a whole new person and marveled sometimes as I watched myself with a library patron, recommending
The Canterbury Tales
or
The Divine Comedy.
Mary waited until we closed the library to present me with my very own rhinestone-covered skirt she’d sewn for me herself.
“Someday you can wear this to dinner with your boyfriend,” she said, grinning. “You’ll be the prettiest girl in the restaurant.”
I turned red down to my toes as I slipped into it. Before she let me look in the mirror, Mary took out a shiny plastic purse full of cosmetics and spread glitter and powder over my face. She painted black arching eyebrows over my own, and drew my lips into a bow. She twisted my hair onto the top of my head and stuck long ivory pins through it.
“Look,” she said, and I walked straight to the mirror and peered into it, at the strange sparkling girl staring out. Mary came behind me, resting her chin on my shoulder. “Look at our eyes,” she said. “You’d think we were related.” I looked back and forth and saw it was true: my eyes looked big and blue, almost sloped like hers, though in my case it was the makeup more than anything else.
“I don’t look so terrible,” I whispered, and was immediately embarrassed to have said it out loud. But it was true: I looked almost pretty, my light hair falling in my face and piled on my head, my face sparkling with glitter.
Mary laughed. “Of course not,” she said. “You’re beautiful, Tessa. Don’t listen to anyone else. People try to shut out beauty wherever they can in this world, but it’s a mistake.”
I smiled, traced the lines of my face in the mirror.
Beautiful,
she had said. I couldn’t see it, but I basked in it anyway, rocking back and forth so that the skirt swished around my knees.
It was around that time that, one day, Mary sent me into the library’s depths with a box of old books for storage, and I came across an old dusty box marked “Circus” in faded letters, hidden behind a stack of ancient encyclopedias. Mary’s circus stories had taken on the aura of dreams and myth; this box seemed impossible, sitting here before me. I dropped everything. My hands started to shake as I ripped off the tape that ran in lines across the top. I couldn’t imagine being more excited if I’d happened upon a treasure chest just lifted out of the sea.
Breathlessly, I peeled back the box cover. Even through the tissue paper they were wrapped in, I could see the sparkles and rhinestones and sequins of the leotards. I reached in and lifted out the one on top, carefully unwrapped it and held it up in the dim light. The red sequins shimmered; the leotard was so heavy and ornate that my arms grew tired holding it up. I stood up, my breath quickening, and held the leotard up to my chest, smoothed it over my belly. It extended halfway down my thighs. I could only imagine how Mary had sent hearts racing in outfits like this.
I laid the leotard neatly over another box nearby and lifted out the rest, one after another, not even caring if I messed them up, what Marywould say. One after another I pulled the costumes out of their wrappings and held them up: vivid reds and yellows, a brilliant electric blue with clouds of sequins swirling down the sides. The colors seemed to take
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