Despite the hurricane that had passed through our house, the punishment remained the same. There wasn’t really anything more Belén could inflict on me, within reasonable levels of human decency, anyway. I imagined her feeling smug and justified in her previous assessment of me. Tatum Elsea was trouble and Belén Castillo-Elsea knew it all along. I wondered if this confirmation helped her sleep at night.
Because Belén was all about keeping commitments, she didn’t tell me to quit my “babysitting” of the Schmidt girls. I think she’d considered it, I’m sure she had, but knowing how her brain worked, she probably assumed that it would stir up more dirt than she was willing to deal with. She probably thought it was stressful enough to keep me in the house and away from respectable friends for a school-related project. Same song, different day.
For the next few days, I didn’t even come out of my room to watch TV Land with Blanche or exchange chilly silences with Tilly. I read books, occasionally flipped through the SAT study guide that had mysteriously appeared on my bed, worked while listening to SK play his cello on repeat, and usually cried myself to sleep. Sometimes I was ragey. Sometimes I wallowed. Most of the time, though, I felt defeated.
On the mornings I wasn’t doing my community service, when I became too restless to lie in bed anymore, I’d roll lazily out from under the covers, wrap myself in a Henderson hoodie, and sit at my desk to open my laptop. I usually craved a cup of peppermint tea and hoped Blanche might psychically connect with my thoughts and bring me one, but she never did. I scanned through my email inboxes, sifting through spam, college mailing list blasts, and coupons, hoping a new potential client would seek me out.
One Saturday morning at the beginning of August, someone did.
Dear TLC Design,
My name is Matilda Castillo, and I am currently a rising senior at McIntosh High School for the Performing Arts in Arlington, VA.
Wait, what? My evil stepsister was trying to hire me? This was too precious.
This summer, I was selected to take part in a unique opportunity for elite dancers with the District Ballet Company’s summer intensive program.
She was more of Belén’s clone than I’d realized. Unique opportunity? Elite? I didn’t know anyone else my age who would say those things. I couldn’t believe that she and I had lived in the same house for ten years and grown up worlds apart.
As a result of this program, I’ve discovered a passion for contemporary dance, and want to create a personal website that highlights the work I’ve done this summer to hone this skill.
My eyes bugged out of my head. Hold the phone—contemporary dance? I reread the sentence several times to make sure that’s what she’d actually written. As far as anyone at home knew, Tilly was dancing the perfect pas de deux in her black leotard, pink tights, shiny toe shoes, and expertly crafted bun, vying for the title of queen of the ballet. I called up my knowledge of a very popular reality TV show that involved prima ballerinas competing against breakdancers for some insane amount of money and a contract for a music video that wouldn’t ever see the light of day; I’d seen it a time or two with Ashlyn. Or ten or fifteen, but who’s counting. I remember really feeling invested for about three episodes in this one girl who danced like her life depended on getting through the next motion, the next leap or thrust. She chose painfully emotional songs, and her choreography always mimicked whatever feeling the music was conveying. Her movements were jerky and sharp, her toes were flexed instead of pointed, she rolled and writhed, and sometimes there was an ugliness to her body, but her face always told a story. She was a contemporary dancer. That’s what Tilly had a passion for? I would never have put the ice queen and passion in the same sentence. Or zip code. Who was this person?
I’d like to make a site I can send to colleges that would serve as an art supplement, so it would need to be created using the standards set forth by the selective universities I’ll be applying to in the fall.
Ah, there she was again.
I’ve taken a look at your portfolio, and the idea of a personalized questionnaire used to determine the best fit for me and my needs is appealing.
I aim to please. You’re welcome. Glad I could meet your needs.
If you could please send whatever forms or paperwork you need me to complete to get started, I would greatly appreciate it. I look forward to working with you.
V/R,
Matilda
What the heck was V/R? A quick google told me it was an abbreviation for “very respectfully.”
“How is that respectful?” I muttered to myself. I thought that maybe writing out the words you intended the recipient to see, instead of using an acronym, might actually send a message of respect, but what did I know. Maybe discovering new passions with elite dancers and honing your skills made you an expert on respect.
I stared at the screen wondering how to handle this. I could treat it like a burden, just one more opportunity to bask in Tilly’s superior achievements and life choices, or I could treat Tilly’s request like a gift. A chance to get a peek inside her head. Or maybe, just maybe, a shot at melting some of the ice wedged between us. I wasn’t going to hold my breath on that one, but you never knew. Not a difficult decision after all.
I smiled to myself, printed out a copy of my client preferences survey—complete with the TLC Design logo right smack at the top—and took myself down the hall to Tilly’s bedroom. I realized that giving Tilly my survey, blowing my cover and revealing that I had a secret business, was a risky move, but I was banking on the fact that she wanted her secret kept quiet even more than I did mine. Plus, I really wanted to see how she would react when she figured out I was TLC. Giddiness practically leaking out my ears, I raised my fist to knock just as she opened the door and slammed right into me.
“What are you doing?” she spat, and rubbed her forehead, which was turning bright pink where we’d collided.
“I just wanted to give you something you asked me for.” I held the client questionnaire out to her with both hands and smiled sweetly.
I wish I’d thought to bring a camera and record the moment for posterity. Tilly was always the kind of girl who, even though she was reserved and introverted and unfailingly polite, you knew had a lot going on under the surface. If you took a look inside her head, you’d probably see five mice running overtime on their little treadmill wheels just to keep up with all the thoughts she had.
When she saw what I was offering her, it was like those mice didn’t just stop running, they fell off the wheels altogether, rendered immobile from shock. Her face blanched with fear. Fear of disappointing her mother, perhaps? Nope. It was the pure fear of being caught. The same look that jerkface Chase Massey had for a millisecond when the security guard approached my car at Mason’s, right before he turned into a sad, skinny version of the not-so-incredible Hulk. I would never forget it.