The Weight of Feathers

Birds of a feather, fly together.

“Have you made me beautiful?” the woman asked.

Lace added a last dusting of loose powder. “You’re done.”

The woman turned to the mirror. Lace had evened out her skin tone, flushed her cheeks, painted her eyes mint green to match her dress.

“Magnifique.” The woman tried to put her cheek to Lace’s. Lace’s pulling away didn’t discourage her. The woman kept little more than an inch of space between their faces, and kissed the air.

Lace flinched away. She shook off the scent of the flower crown, the clean smell of wet marjoram.

Cluck stood in front of them both, arms crossed. “Clémentine.” He looked at the pale-haired woman.

“She’s very good, non?” the woman said.

He looked at Lace.

Clémentine got up and crossed the yard, her feet imprinting the damp earth. She was almost as tall as Cluck. When she was sitting, Lace couldn’t tell. Now that she was walking, Lace saw her wide, rounded shoulders supporting those wings. She looked made of white sand clay, the statue of some lost goddess.

The hollow space in Lace’s stomach grew hot and tight. She didn’t like how many forms this family took. The boy her cousins called chucho. One woman, red-haired and small, and another, solid and pretty as a vinyl-bodied doll. All growing those black feathers.

Her mother had warned her about that. “You can never tell,” she said. “None of them look the same because they mate with anything.”

“Do you want a job?” Cluck asked.

That snapped her away from watching Clémentine. “What?” she asked.

“Do you already have a job?” he asked. “Or school? Some of the schools here run year-round, right?”

“No. I mean, no, I’m not in school, but…”

“Then do you want a job?”

“Doing what?”

“What you just did,” he said. “Six nights and weekend afternoons. Eight shows a week. Replace my flake cousin.”

“I’m not part of your family,” Lace said.

“And?” He dropped his hands, slid them into his pockets.

She studied the shape of his fingers in the pocket lining. In this light, standing like he was, he looked like an old sepia photograph, with his brown hair and eyes, his white shirt and brown pants. It made him seem printed instead of real, like Lace could reach out and crumple him, let the wind take him. But then she’d wear his mark forever.

“I thought you only hired family,” she said.

“Who told you that?”

She stopped herself. The Palomas knew more about the Corbeaus than anyone except the Corbeaus themselves. If Lace wanted to pass herself off as a local, she’d have to forget anything she knew that an Almendro girl wouldn’t.

“You come through every summer,” she said. “People talk.”

“It’s mostly family, but not everybody. There’s Théo. He fixes the trailers. And Yvette. She homeschools the kids.” Cluck looked over his shoulder. “And Alexander’s around here somewhere.” He looked back at Lace. “So what do you say?”

This was what he wanted? Her apology wasn’t enough, so he wanted her hands for Corbeau work?

“We’re not as unforgiving as I seem right now,” he said. “This is probably the tenth time my cousin’s bailed in two seasons.”

If she did this for him, he’d have to take the mark off her. If she stayed long enough, maybe she could make this boy owe her a little more than she owed him, make the Corbeaus owe the Palomas. Maybe it would be enough to demand they stay out of her family’s way. Abuela would have to let her back then. Lace could come back clean, safe to touch.

All she had to do was keep brushes and sponge pads between her fingers and the Corbeaus. If her skin did not touch theirs, she would survive this.

“Okay,” Lace said.

“Great.” He shoved makeup brushes into her hands. “You start now.”

“Then sit down,” she said.

“Excuse me?” he asked.

“You’re here. I might as well start with you.”

“Huh?”