Rouge

I know.

I’m supposed to pluck thirteen petals, Tom said. From the bed of roses in the farthest corner, whose throats are the most open. So very pretty this place is where I’m not supposed to be. Where Mother sat drinking alcoholic tea with the woman who thinks I’m godless. Who looks at me with eyes of ice. I’m creeping toward the roses and my hands are closing and opening at my sides. Don’t even need the light of the low red moon to lead me there. The smell would lead me, like the most alive perfume. What Mother calls heavenly, though never about roses. It opens something inside me, the scent. The same thing Tom opens whenever he looks at me. Don’t wake anyone, Belle, he said. Be quieter than quiet. As quiet as a mouse, my mouse. Remember, it’s a secret. Our secret. And the universe of his eyes was shining in the black. In my head now, I can feel Tom smiling at how quiet I’m being. My footsteps are nothing. I’m barely breathing. My heart’s hammering inside me, but hearts don’t make noise, do they? I remember Stacey has a white cat, Luba, that’s always slinking around out here, hissing. God I wish Tom were with me. But Tom’s gone. He’s smoke. The only way back to him is through these roses. Why roses, Tom?

Oh, you’ll see, Tom said.

I see a bed of them growing by the basement window, glowing under the moon just like he said they would be. Sharp and red and shining in the dark. Long snaking stems. Petals that curl open prettily like bells. And inside, a tight swirl like a secret, the secret of Beauty itself. I hear them breathing quietly in the soil. The same cold, damp soil I’m standing in with my bare feet. They look like the word no. Don’t touch. Don’t pluck. They look like the word forbidden. These are the words I said to Tom in the dark about these flowers. And he smiled his white smile and said, All the more reason. His eyes like the sky the roses were trying to reach, his face glowing like the sun that made them bloom.

I look back up at the dark house of brick. The windows are still black. No light but the moon’s. Stacey’s in there somewhere, dreaming.

Tom, which rose, which rose? I asked him.

You’ll know the one when you see it, mouse.

And I do know the one. Growing in the very center of the bed, shining with thorns. The tallest, the most beautiful. The queen. Its throat of swirling petals seems the most open, an open secret. Its scent the most alive perfume. It puts Mother’s violets and smoke to shame. Fills me with something so happy and sad all at once. Like how Tom’s eyes are the sky and the sea all at once. Beauty is a spell, isn’t that what Tom Cruise said? I’m reaching my hand out to the rose like I’m in a spell, I’m in a dream. My heart’s beating so hard, surely it makes a noise now. I have to really lean forward, dance my hand through the thorns. As I reach, I feel something drop from me. Oh god, what dropped? Before I can look, a light goes on in the dark house. I feel it before I see it, a square of yellow light falling on me, freezing me in the mud. I remember the eyes of ice, imagine a white arm gripping me—What are you doing here?!—and I lose my balance. Fall into the thorny bed. My skin sings with pain, the thorns cutting me all over—oh god—but I don’t cry out. Quickly I gather as many petals as I can. Stuff them into the black silk bag Tom gave me.

Luba the cat slinks out of the dark, hissing.

“Please,” I whisper to her shape. “I’m just here to get some roses.”

But she knows I’m lying. She knows I’m Tom’s dark mouse. She looks at me with Alla’s eyes of ice. She presses her paws into the soil, arching her back.

“Please,” I whisper.

She lunges into the air and she’s on me, scratching my arms and face, and I scream. Another yellow square in the dark house. “Who’s there?” says a soft voice.

The little cat runs away, shrieking. I run too. I’m running through the garden on the damp, sinking grass. Running back to the gate I left open, still open. Bare feet running so fast through the flowers while I hear the voice calling louder, sounding afraid and excited: “Who’s there? Who’s there?”

I don’t stop running until I’m back home, until I’ve climbed back through my window, back to my bedroom. Still night. The longest night of my life. I’m alone now, standing in the middle of the room with the bag of rose petals in my hand. No Tom anywhere. Mother still asleep in the bedroom. My heart. Beating so hard, it’s going to break through my skin. But I’m still not breathing, still quiet as a mouse, Tom’s mouse. The police are going to call, any minute, any minute. They’re going to bang on the door, break it open. Point their guns at me. Deny everything, Tom said. First thing, hide the bag of flowers. Not in the closet, too noisy to open a closet now. Under the bed, then. Shove it way down into the dark under. As under as it can go. Then get back into bed like nothing. Nothing ever happened. Close your eyes like you’re sleeping, that’s what Tom said.

I tell myself I can still feel the shape of him there. I can still smell him like oceans, the cold breeze over oceans. But what I really smell is my crime. What I smell is the word forbidden, red and sharp and bittersweet, rising up like crushed roses under the bed. And even as I lie there all night with my eyes closed like I’m sleeping, it’s not until morning that I feel it missing on my wrist. My gold bracelet. I slipped it back on after Tom left, feeling bad about Father’s eye sad and alone in the sea of dolls. Stupid. Where it is now is so much worse. More alone than ever before. Gleaming in the dark soil of Alla’s rose beds.



* * *




12:01 on the Snow White clock. Bright light of day floods my bedroom. Mother thinks she’s letting me sleep in, but I’m not sleeping. I’m standing in front of Mother’s mirror that I stole last night, staring. Because in the light of day, it’s so much worse than I thought. My face, my arms and legs, my whole body’s covered. So many scratches and cuts, I can’t even count them. The bruise on my forehead from Tom’s kiss is darker, bigger than it was before, how is that possible? I hear Mother singing to herself in the living room, some Sting song about beating hearts being still. I wish my heart could be still, but how can it ever be now? Mother will know. She’ll take one look at me and she’ll know everything. All I have to do is look at your face to know you’re lying, Mother always says. And she’ll drag me in front of a mirror to show me. My face, whatever it’s telling Mother. I never had any idea what I was supposed to see there, apart from what I always saw. Until now.

A knock on my bedroom door. “Sunshine?” A happy singing still in Mother’s voice. So Stacey’s mother hasn’t called yet.

“Yes?” Tears in my eyes right away at Mother’s voice that is so sweet and gentle this morning.

“Someone slept in today.” I feel her smiling on the other side of the door.

“Yes.”

“We’re going out for the day. But Grand-Maman’s coming to stay with you. She’ll be here later this afternoon, okay?”

“Okay. See you.”

“Come out and say hello before we go. Bryce’s here.”

In the mirror, I’m still looking at my scratched-up face. My bruised and cut body still smelling of the word forbidden. Bittersweet. Tom, what do I do? And I hear his voice inside like a whisper of a whisper. You’re tired today.

“I’m tired today,” I tell Mother, staring at myself in the glass. I can almost feel Tom nodding on the other side.

“Belle,” Mother says, and this time, there’s no more singing. “You slept all morning, how could you be tired? Come out and say hello. You were very rude to Bryce yesterday. Today, I want you to be nice. Shake his hand, okay? Apologize. Oh, and wear the little white sundress I bought you from work.”

That one has spaghetti straps that tie at each shoulder. A bow tie at the back. Wearing that will show all the cuts. “Do I have to?”