ETHEL

Years Ago

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Ethel, you have barely touched your meal.”

Ethel peered at the glistening hunk of bone and meat upon her plate. What was the point? Every bite she took drove her that much further from the appearance she wished to have. How it was that her mother could eat seemingly whatever she fancied, never to gain an ounce, was puzzling and above all unjust. Ethel had never desired to meet her birth father for any reason but to punch him in what must have been his enormous gut—a thank you for what he’d passed down to her. And it was evermore reason to wish Alther had been her real father. The lissome frame he’d passed to Stephon could have been her own, had her mother simply waited for a proper husband. Whatever had possessed her to play the part of harlot at such a young age, Ethel could not guess, nor could she ever recall having seen that side of her mother.

“If you are trying to starve yourself into a slender figure, I assure you, that is not a proper way to do it. Do as I, and eat a bit of all that is served, stopping before you’ve had your fill. Then, if you must, allow yourself just a taste of dessert—that is your biggest issue. Perhaps skip dessert altogether if you don’t have the control—”

“Mother, enough!” Ethel had heard this speech so many times she could repeat it verbatim, and each time she heard it only made her want to do the opposite that much more. And doing so was worth it, but not for the look of anger on her mother’s face when Ethel labored theatrically to consume the final bite of yellow cake, declared her fullness, then kindly asked a servant for a second. No, it was her father’s reaction that made her repeat the performance. Watching him struggle to hide his amusement was reward enough for any action, no matter what it may cost her.

“You should listen to Mother,” said Stephon.

Should I? Quarreling with her brother had become a pastime, but she tried to avoid doing so at supper as it turned her father somber. Even now he had a look on his face that pleaded that she not engage her brother.

“Thank you, Stephon. Now that I have your input, I do believe I will finally heed Mother’s words.”

Stephon nodded his approval while chewing the last of his second or third serving of braised oxtail, a meat so rich it coated her teeth with a disgusting film. Yes, Stephon, by all means—I’ll take advice from a boy who could eat nothing but butter and see no ill-effect. It mystified her—not her brother’s eating habits as that seemed to be the norm for boys his age—but his intelligence. Most often he would seem the dullest of knives, unable to slice through the supple irony she served him. But other times he astounded her, coming to conclusions that seemed so far from his reach, if not her own, that she made a note to analyze even his most foolish assertions in the off chance he’d stumbled blindly onto some elusory truth.

“Good,” continued Stephon, seemingly unaffected by her sarcasm as usual. “It would be a great shame for you to stop eating, given that you lost your only other friend so recently.”

He delivered the words with such utter lack of emotion Ethel paused to look at him, trying to discern whether he was truly attempting to hurt her or merely stating a fact. Stephon did not smirk, or smile. He did not even look to her for response. He had engaged a servant, asking for another plate.

Had Griffin told the other boys? It was one thing for him to have crushed her, but it would be another for him to revel in it with others. She had to know, but she had to proceed carefully so Stephon would not know she was hurt or angry.

“What is that supposed to mean?”

Not only had she failed in self-restraint, she feared she now scowled at Stephon in the very way her mother scowled at her father—a reviling look that Ethel had resolved never to imitate.

Stephon looked at her, seeming perplexed by the fury he’d stirred.

“I just assumed the way you’ve been locking yourself in your room lately instead of sneaking off to the buttery with him that he’d finally told you he can’t be seen with you anymore. It was bound to happen. Everyone made fun of him for it.” Stephon’s plate of cake had arrived and was placed in front of him. He picked up his fork and stuffed a third of the slice into his mouth without a care.

Ethel had fantasized about running off—to where exactly she did not know. The realm seemed so small, or at least the portion of it that had the potential to be pleasant. She’d never wanted to run off quite so badly as she did now, however. In her books there was no end to the places she could escape to, the only problem being she always had to return. She would leave for good though, some day. Alone if she had to, but she would not remain here. It was unthinkable.

“I hope you choke on that cake and die.” Ethel no longer cared if she scowled like her mother. “The day the realm is passed to you will be a day mourned by all.” With that, Ethel pushed from the table and stormed off to her room, ignoring her mother’s chiding.