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Authors: Olivia Wildenstein
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write our own chance cards and property deeds, but at least we had the board, the dice, the bills, and the metal tokens. It gave us something to do on dreary, rainy afternoons.
“Fine,” I finally say.
She smiles. “Kim!”
A short woman with a long, coarse braid trots over.
“Gotta escort a prisoner. Take over.”
The walk to the dayroom is quick and quiet in spite of the pointed looks the guard keeps firing my way. I wish she’d stop. I wish everyone would just stop looking at me.
She buzzes the door open. The TV’s already on. I can hear two commentators rehashing the day’s event.
“Hey, Redd,” she calls out as I hurry in.
“Yeah?”
A crooked smile lights up her face. “I always collect.”
When I nod, she leaves, and the anthem booms out of the stereo in time with the door banging shut.
“Welcome ba-ack!” Dominic singsongs. He’s holding his mic so close to his lips that it looks as though he’s French-kissing it. “Tonight is an unusual night, because, usually, there’s a vote among the judges and among the audience to decide who gets the boot. Tonight, we didn’t have to deliberate. Performance art wasn’t Maria’s forte. Or maybe it was the knitting…”
Laughter warbles out of the dark pit of people seated around the raised stone platform. It’s scornful, which makes me angry, but my anger recedes when I spot my sister. Her face resembles burnished copper, and her lips have been painted a bright red. When they curve into a smile, I feel an overwhelming sense of pride.
“That’s my sister,” I say to no one, but Ivy must hear me because she winks. I wink back, and then settle down to watch.
Chapter Ten
Ivy
“You’re late,” Leila says when I arrive at my station the next morning, yawning and stretching.
I didn’t fall asleep until really late—or maybe really early. With no windows and no clock, I couldn’t tell what time it was.
“Get in the chair. We have forty minutes left. Amy!” Leila’s shaking, even her slick-straight hair is vibrating.
“Herrick just arrived,” I point out.
“I don’t give a shit about Herrick. I give a shit about you. Why are your eyes so puffy? Didn’t you sleep?” From the way she mutters this, I take it she’s not asking. She pulls a little tube from her makeup trunk and rubs a dollop of its content across both my lids. It burns like ice.
“What the hell is that?” I exclaim.
“Hopefully, a miracle,” she says. “Now don’t move until I’m done.”
While Leila brushes and stabs my face with crayons and mascara wands, Amy blasts my locks with hot air. No one talks. Chase is at the next station getting primped. Although his gaze is locked on the mirror, the line of his shoulders tightens as though he senses I’m looking. Last night, over dinner, I was tempted to ask him what his problem was, but that would exhibit insecurities, and New York Ivy has no insecurities. Powder wafts into my right eye and it tears up. I blink, but it still waters.
Leila grumbles as she swabs my lash line with a Q-tip. “Look up.”
Finally, I’m ready. My hair has been slicked down. It reaches far below my shoulder blades and shines like spun gold. The amethyst powder on my lids makes my eyes appear bluer and hooded instead of swollen from lack of sleep.
“Tonight, six-thirty sharp. Not a minute later.” And then she’s gone.
“What’s her problem?” I ask Amy, who’s masticating her lip.
She gathers my hair in a high ponytail and wraps a ribbon around it. “Leila’s a perfectionist.”
“So am I. It doesn’t mean you have to be nasty with people.”
“Why aren’t you dressed yet?” Cara exclaims, stopping by my station.
“She’ll be ready in five minutes,” Amy tells her.
“Just hurry. I put your clothes in the dressing area.”
On the purple velvet pouf, my assistant has laid out a pair of light jeans, a pearl-colored shirt, and white sneakers. I pull on the jeans while Amy helps me with the blouse,
“Fine,” I finally say.
She smiles. “Kim!”
A short woman with a long, coarse braid trots over.
“Gotta escort a prisoner. Take over.”
The walk to the dayroom is quick and quiet in spite of the pointed looks the guard keeps firing my way. I wish she’d stop. I wish everyone would just stop looking at me.
She buzzes the door open. The TV’s already on. I can hear two commentators rehashing the day’s event.
“Hey, Redd,” she calls out as I hurry in.
“Yeah?”
A crooked smile lights up her face. “I always collect.”
When I nod, she leaves, and the anthem booms out of the stereo in time with the door banging shut.
“Welcome ba-ack!” Dominic singsongs. He’s holding his mic so close to his lips that it looks as though he’s French-kissing it. “Tonight is an unusual night, because, usually, there’s a vote among the judges and among the audience to decide who gets the boot. Tonight, we didn’t have to deliberate. Performance art wasn’t Maria’s forte. Or maybe it was the knitting…”
Laughter warbles out of the dark pit of people seated around the raised stone platform. It’s scornful, which makes me angry, but my anger recedes when I spot my sister. Her face resembles burnished copper, and her lips have been painted a bright red. When they curve into a smile, I feel an overwhelming sense of pride.
“That’s my sister,” I say to no one, but Ivy must hear me because she winks. I wink back, and then settle down to watch.
Chapter Ten
Ivy
“You’re late,” Leila says when I arrive at my station the next morning, yawning and stretching.
I didn’t fall asleep until really late—or maybe really early. With no windows and no clock, I couldn’t tell what time it was.
“Get in the chair. We have forty minutes left. Amy!” Leila’s shaking, even her slick-straight hair is vibrating.
“Herrick just arrived,” I point out.
“I don’t give a shit about Herrick. I give a shit about you. Why are your eyes so puffy? Didn’t you sleep?” From the way she mutters this, I take it she’s not asking. She pulls a little tube from her makeup trunk and rubs a dollop of its content across both my lids. It burns like ice.
“What the hell is that?” I exclaim.
“Hopefully, a miracle,” she says. “Now don’t move until I’m done.”
While Leila brushes and stabs my face with crayons and mascara wands, Amy blasts my locks with hot air. No one talks. Chase is at the next station getting primped. Although his gaze is locked on the mirror, the line of his shoulders tightens as though he senses I’m looking. Last night, over dinner, I was tempted to ask him what his problem was, but that would exhibit insecurities, and New York Ivy has no insecurities. Powder wafts into my right eye and it tears up. I blink, but it still waters.
Leila grumbles as she swabs my lash line with a Q-tip. “Look up.”
Finally, I’m ready. My hair has been slicked down. It reaches far below my shoulder blades and shines like spun gold. The amethyst powder on my lids makes my eyes appear bluer and hooded instead of swollen from lack of sleep.
“Tonight, six-thirty sharp. Not a minute later.” And then she’s gone.
“What’s her problem?” I ask Amy, who’s masticating her lip.
She gathers my hair in a high ponytail and wraps a ribbon around it. “Leila’s a perfectionist.”
“So am I. It doesn’t mean you have to be nasty with people.”
“Why aren’t you dressed yet?” Cara exclaims, stopping by my station.
“She’ll be ready in five minutes,” Amy tells her.
“Just hurry. I put your clothes in the dressing area.”
On the purple velvet pouf, my assistant has laid out a pair of light jeans, a pearl-colored shirt, and white sneakers. I pull on the jeans while Amy helps me with the blouse,
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