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Authors: Amy Lukavics
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bleeding, I count all of my cuts, over and over and over again, until my heart stops beating in my ears and I can sit fully upright without wanting to sink the razor into my wrists and draw downward as hard as I possibly can.
I DONâT SEE Margaret until the night of the dinner party.
In our world, the world of trust funds and property estates and children who either go to private boarding schools or have paid tutors come to their homes, the reputation that is tied to your familyâs name means everything, especially within a hypersocial group like the country club.
Now that my mother and Penelope are both gone, my father has to work especially hard to uphold the family name. He is the one who changed his name to my motherâs, Acosta , not the other way around. It was the Acostas who kept this historical estate in the family for generations, which is part of why Penelope was so angry when she wasnât the one to inherit, despite being the older sister. It was the Acostas who always kept to the top of the brutal socialite food chain, the most impressive family, the prettiest and wealthiest and most well involved. And now my father has inherited that burden, until it can be passed on to Margaret and me.
The evening of the party, when Iâm done with my shower and am walking back to my bedroom, towel-wrapped and dripping onto the carpet, I hear my father bellow to Miranda from downstairs to use the plates with the real gold trim, not the china. After I step into my room and close the door, I go through my closet looking for a dress, wishing more than anything that I could pretend I was ill and skip out on this entire thing.
I wonder how Margaret is feeling tonight. Sheâs been avoiding me since we got back from the woods, although the few times Iâve passed her in the hallways or the dining room she looked fine enough. No more dark circles, no more dirty clothes. Iâm desperate to know if she still thinks she can hear Penelope in the walls. If she does, itâs not like sheâs going to tell me about it. Iâll need to keep an eye on her.
I take as long as I possibly can to get ready. By the time Iâm finishing up on my hair, I can already hear the buzz of mass chatter coming from the usually silent downstairs area. I spray my pinned-up curls with hair spray, then carefully slip into my black party dress. A pair of matching pumps completes the outfit that feels much more like a uniform than anything else. When I was little, I loved dressing up. Now itâs just a hassle that happens all too often.
Iâm about to head downstairs when I spot the bejeweled rose hair ornament on my vanity, just as beautiful as itâs always been. It used to belong to Penelope, but after I kept asking to borrow it for events like this, she just gave in and let me have it, despite Margaretâs hard expression as she watched from the doorway.
I stand over the vanity and run my fingertips over the ruby petals of the piece for a moment. I get that awful feeling in my stomach again, the feeling that Margaret knows something about Penelopeâs disappearance that she never told me. She never denied it when I asked her in my room; she only got defensive. I donât know what to believe anymore.
In the hallway, I can hear the sound of jazz playing from the record player in the dining room, hardly audible over the bursts of laughter and waves of voices all trying to talk over one another. I pause at the staircase, looking below to the sea of suits and fur shawls and hands holding glasses with cocktails or champagne. There appear to be about twenty of them in total: ten vainglorious men with their giggling, diamond-studded wives.
âHere comes our Lucy!â one of the more longtime members, Gregory Shaw, says as I step off the last stair and onto the polished floor. âHave a drink and chat with us, my dear!â Standing behind him is his wife, Nancy, the woman Margaret and I were
I DONâT SEE Margaret until the night of the dinner party.
In our world, the world of trust funds and property estates and children who either go to private boarding schools or have paid tutors come to their homes, the reputation that is tied to your familyâs name means everything, especially within a hypersocial group like the country club.
Now that my mother and Penelope are both gone, my father has to work especially hard to uphold the family name. He is the one who changed his name to my motherâs, Acosta , not the other way around. It was the Acostas who kept this historical estate in the family for generations, which is part of why Penelope was so angry when she wasnât the one to inherit, despite being the older sister. It was the Acostas who always kept to the top of the brutal socialite food chain, the most impressive family, the prettiest and wealthiest and most well involved. And now my father has inherited that burden, until it can be passed on to Margaret and me.
The evening of the party, when Iâm done with my shower and am walking back to my bedroom, towel-wrapped and dripping onto the carpet, I hear my father bellow to Miranda from downstairs to use the plates with the real gold trim, not the china. After I step into my room and close the door, I go through my closet looking for a dress, wishing more than anything that I could pretend I was ill and skip out on this entire thing.
I wonder how Margaret is feeling tonight. Sheâs been avoiding me since we got back from the woods, although the few times Iâve passed her in the hallways or the dining room she looked fine enough. No more dark circles, no more dirty clothes. Iâm desperate to know if she still thinks she can hear Penelope in the walls. If she does, itâs not like sheâs going to tell me about it. Iâll need to keep an eye on her.
I take as long as I possibly can to get ready. By the time Iâm finishing up on my hair, I can already hear the buzz of mass chatter coming from the usually silent downstairs area. I spray my pinned-up curls with hair spray, then carefully slip into my black party dress. A pair of matching pumps completes the outfit that feels much more like a uniform than anything else. When I was little, I loved dressing up. Now itâs just a hassle that happens all too often.
Iâm about to head downstairs when I spot the bejeweled rose hair ornament on my vanity, just as beautiful as itâs always been. It used to belong to Penelope, but after I kept asking to borrow it for events like this, she just gave in and let me have it, despite Margaretâs hard expression as she watched from the doorway.
I stand over the vanity and run my fingertips over the ruby petals of the piece for a moment. I get that awful feeling in my stomach again, the feeling that Margaret knows something about Penelopeâs disappearance that she never told me. She never denied it when I asked her in my room; she only got defensive. I donât know what to believe anymore.
In the hallway, I can hear the sound of jazz playing from the record player in the dining room, hardly audible over the bursts of laughter and waves of voices all trying to talk over one another. I pause at the staircase, looking below to the sea of suits and fur shawls and hands holding glasses with cocktails or champagne. There appear to be about twenty of them in total: ten vainglorious men with their giggling, diamond-studded wives.
âHere comes our Lucy!â one of the more longtime members, Gregory Shaw, says as I step off the last stair and onto the polished floor. âHave a drink and chat with us, my dear!â Standing behind him is his wife, Nancy, the woman Margaret and I were
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