“For writing down all your fancy thoughts,” Daddy said.
“Oh, Daddy, it’s perfect,” Sylvie exclaimed, throwing her arms around Daddy’s neck and kissing his cheek.
“This one’s from me,” Fenton said, pulling a large, flat package from behind the couch. Sylvie tore at the paper. It was a framed poster for North by Northwest—Cary Grant, an intense, determined look on his handsome face, running from the biplane bearing down on him from behind.
“Oh, Fenton,” Sylvie said. “Thank you!”
He smiled sheepishly. “My buddy at the Paramount saved it for me.”
“Mine next,” said Mama, and she came forward and handed Sylvie a much smaller box.
Rose had a sick feeling in her stomach as Sylvie opened the gift, all eyes fixed on her.
“Oh, Mother!” Sylvie gasped as she pulled out a string of pearls—Oma’s pearls.
Rose felt a scream building inside her, but her throat was too tight to let it escape. Her face burned; her whole body surged with furious heat.
It couldn’t be! Sylvie had the earrings. The pearls were Rose’s. But now Sylvie had both.
“It isn’t fair,” Rose choked out.
“What’s that, Rosie?” Daddy asked.
“That necklace was meant to be mine,” she said. “Oma would have wanted me to have it. Sylvie didn’t even like her.”
She loved me best.
The room was silent, everyone looking her way. Sylvie’s three friends looked uncomfortable, Fenton chewed his lip, and Mama was staring at Rose as if she were a stray dog soiling her living room. Sylvie looked down at the pearls. And Rose was sure that, just for an instant, she could see through her sister’s disguise: there, holding the pearls, stood a terrible insect with bulging round eyes, shimmering green wings, and mouth parts that clicked as they rubbed together.
“I hate you,” Rose spat at her sister. “I see what you are, even if no one else does!”
She stormed out of the room and back toward the kitchen, choking back sobs. There, in the center of the kitchen table, was the three-layer devil’s-food cake with white icing that Mama had made. Happy 18th Sylvie was written across it in careful cursive.
Rose heaved out a sob. The music came back on in the living room. The Marcels singing “Blue Moon.”
…you saw me standing alone
Without a dream in my heart
It was no good and Rose knew it. No one was ever going to see Sylvie for what she really was. Not until Rose showed them. It was all up to her.
And she knew just what to do.
“There’s only one way to catch a mare,” Oma had said. Now she was glad that she’d paid such careful attention as a little girl.
Rose raised her arm and drove her fist into the cake so hard that she heard the plate beneath it crack. Then she lifted her fingers to her mouth, coated with cake and icing. She licked off her hand as she moved to the kitchen door and outside, her teeth aching from the sweetness.
Mr. Alfred Hitchcock
Universal Studios
Hollywood, California
September 16, 1961
Dear Mr. Hitchcock,
I am eighteen today.
And I am a wicked, wicked girl.
Yours, as always,
Miss Sylvia A. Slater
The Tower Motel
328 Route 6
London, Vermont
Rose
Later that night, Rose found herself back down in the living room, watching Sylvie dance; her sister was doing the twist, pivoting like a screw that couldn’t decide which way to turn, the top half of her body going one way, the bottom the other. Then, as Rose watched, Sylvie’s head turned completely around, so that the back of it faced forward. She reached up and parted her hair to show that her skull had split, forming a second mouth. A grotesque mouth with red lipstick.
“Come dance with me,” the new mouth said, the hair around it writhing like tentacles. Around Sylvie’s neck—twisted like horrid, flesh-colored licorice—was the pearl necklace.
The Night Sister
Jennifer McMahon's books
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