Her luggage takes a while to unpack. She then puts the backpack and the tote inside the now-empty suitcase, zips it up, and stows it at the bottom of the freestanding wardrobe. The thing is huge; it reminds Jessie of those silly stories Mom used to read to them when they were kids.
Jessie selects K-Pop on her phone, adjusts the volume, and putters around the room until everything is just so. The place is too old-fashioned and wooden for her liking, but it’ll do. The en suite bathroom is perfect. Her brother is a little shit most of the time, but she’s very thankful he didn’t fight her too hard on this.
She checks the toilet—it’s spotless. She places a can of extra-strength air freshener on the tank lid. Just to be safe.
Vomiting is gross, she knows it. She wishes there was another way. There isn’t.
From under the bed, Jessie slides out a digital scale she brought with her, hidden at the bottom of the suitcase like a dirty secret. Undresses, exhales deeply, and weighs herself. The number she notices with a self-satisfied smile is the same as last time. And she’s feeling only slightly faint.
Perhaps, she can eat something. Something light. If her mom’s cooking, it’s a solid possibility.
The rare few times her dad’s in charge, it’s greasy takeout, unfailingly. Chinese or pizza. Jessie starves. Or gives in and suffers the indignities of regurgitated cheese and MSG.
There’s a lake somewhere here, her mom told her. Jessie can’t recall if she’s ever swam in a lake. She isn’t as good of a swimmer as her brother, but she knows she looks good in a bathing suit, so she enjoys going to the beach.
She brought three swimsuits with her. Credible knockoffs of the brand a popular InstaStar is pimping. Jessie dreams of affording the real deal. Or sometimes, vividly and excitedly, about having a brand of her own.
As is she doesn’t have enough followers; she checked this morning, and the number is still pitifully low. Doesn’t have enough money either. Her parents’ allowance is an embarrassment. They said if she wants more, she could get a job, but unless she wants to work in a local strip mall—and she really doesn’t, wouldn’t be caught dead there—she would need a car. And she can’t buy a car because she doesn’t have enough money, and her parents won’t buy her one because they suck. Ugh. It’s like that Catch-22 thing from the book she was made to read for English. She didn’t read the entire thing—yawn—but got the basic idea. Enough for a passing grade essay, anyway.
When she makes it, when she’s famous and loaded, she’ll remember her parents’ stinginess and act accordingly. She likes the notion, the bittersweetness of spite tastes much like vomit’s aftertaste.
Jessie thought she brought three swimsuits, but she can’t find one, the teeny tiny number with a sequined logo. That was the most expensive one she owned, too. She should look again.
She changes into a skimpy romper in cute yellow and heads downstairs.
The house is large enough and convoluted enough to get lost in. She doesn’t like it. Makes her think of houses from scary movies.
Jessie hates being frightened, but everyone seems to love it, especially boys. Like they get a thrill out of watching her jump. Like it’s not enough that she has to sit there, enduring their greasy, groping fingers, pretending to but not really eating the popcorn, the fake butteriness of which almost makes her swoon with want. Like her discomfort has to be highlighted by fear in order for them to have a good time with her.
Those movies always give her nightmares too.
Once, in her nightmare, she was trapped in a haunted house with Ainsley Grant, and they were both running away from something they couldn’t see, only hear. It was terrifying but exciting at the same time. The most time they spent together, the two of them, and it wasn’t even real.
Dreams are meaningless anyway. Jessie has a dream dictionary book someone gave her as a birthday gift once, and it’s always wrong.
She passes the living room. Or what did that man with a funny accent call it? Ah, yes, the parlor.
Her father has made himself at home on one of the leather couches. Jessie abhors leather on principle. No one should use the skin of innocent animals for furniture. And yes, she does have a nice leather belt, but it’s a thin thing, virtually harmless.
A basket of muffins is resting on her father’s soft gut, and Jessie’s feet carry her to it before she can course correct.
“Hey, kiddo,” he says, crumbs in his stubble. “Want one?”
“No, thanks,” she replies automatically. Then forces herself to look away. “Who’s that?”
“That is our munificent benefactor, Aunt Gussie.”
“Oh.” Aunt Gussie isn’t at all how Jessie pictured her. She isn’t an old crone or an old biddy or any of those old women clichés. She’s actually kind of . . . good-looking. In a weird, aged way.
She looks like she has secrets. Like she has stories. She looks fascinating.
“What do you think?”
“She isn’t how I imagined,” Jessie admits. “She’s nothing like this weird house. I mean, you know . . .”
“No, I get it. She looks like someone who’d sooner have a pied-à-terre in Montmartre, Paris.”
Jessie doesn’t know what or where that is, but it sounds right. She nods.
“Sure you don’t want one?” her father asks again. “That Angus can really bake.”
“Angus? I thought his name was Ansel.”
“Angus. Ansel. The man knows his way around a muffin.”
That sounds weirdly dirty, Jessie thinks, or maybe the muffins are making her woozy. “I’m going to the kitchen to find some real food.”
If her father gives her a look, she doesn’t see it. So long as he doesn’t voice his opinions on her diet, she doesn’t care.
Her mother is in a chopping frenzy. The knife is going up and down like she’s a contestant on one of those stupid cooking shows she loves.
Jessie steals a few cut-up veggies and eats them raw. Her stomach sighs in gratitude.
She doesn’t offer help, and Jenna doesn’t ask. They have long accepted certain aspects of each other.
Jessie eats another piece of carrot and contemplates the portrait in the parlor.
All of her uncles or granduncles or whatever they are supposed to be are such a crude bunch of politically incorrect drunks and cranky old men. But Aunt Gussie looks classy. If she were on social media, Jessie would follow her. She wishes they could meet. Talk.
They say a picture is worth a thousand words, but she finds it frustratingly silent. Secrets firmly locked behind their owner’s eyes. It isn’t fair. Finally, someone interesting in this family and they’re dead. Ugh.
Carelessly, Jessie reaches for a thin crust of bread, slathers it with brie her mother has set out, and crams it into her mouth. For a moment it tastes like pure happiness. Then it’s gone, a memory, soon to be a waste. Jessie can already taste the sourness of it on the way out.
Nothing perfect lasts, she thinks. Nothing.