CHAPTER

Eighteen

CLAIRE

Claire and Audrey spill into Grammy’s house, carrying bags of makeup and costume jewelry from their trip to the drugstore in downtown Indianola. The Stargazer’s Masquerade is in just a few hours, and Claire still isn’t sure she wants to go. The sky is heavy and threatening rain, as it has been all afternoon. She hopes the storm will be bad enough to give her an excuse.

She switches on the foyer light in Grammy’s house, trying to drown out the darkness from the upcoming storm.

“We’re back!” Audrey calls out. “You don’t mind if we get ready here, do you?”

Claire rankles at the way Audrey makes herself at home so easily. She doesn’t like feeling as if Audrey’s her best friend here, instead of Julie.

Is Julie my best friend here? Anymore?

She shoves the thought aside.

In the living room, the TV clicks off, and a few moments later, Grammy comes around the corner. She takes in Claire and Audrey and their stacks of packages.

“Looks like you found everything you need,” she says.

Audrey beams at her. “Everything!”

Claire presses up against the wall, trying to squeeze past Grammy to get to her bedroom. “We need to get dressed,” she says.

“Oh, of course, of course.” Grammy claps her hands together and gazes down at Claire with a melancholy, faraway expression. “I do hope you have fun tonight. Your mother always enjoyed the Stargazer’s Masquerade. I did too, when I was your age.”

“It’ll be a delight,” Audrey says.

Claire nods. She just wants to get into her room, get dressed, go to the dance, get this whole night over with. She shouldn’t have agreed to go. The fact that Abigail’s dress miraculously fit isn’t a good enough reason.

Grammy steps aside to let Audrey pass. Claire can feel her watching as she and Audrey make their way into her room. She shuts the door, imagining that she’s shutting out Grammy’s prying eyes too.

Audrey tosses the packages on the bed and puts her hands on her hips. “Where to start?” she says.

Claire shrugs.

“I usually do hair and makeup first.”

“That’s fine.” Normally, Claire loves makeup, but she can’t conjure an ounce of enthusiasm.

“Great!” Audrey goes over to the window and twists open the blinds. “Natural light is the best light,” she explains, even though the light seeping through the window is an unusual, sickly green-yellow. It must be from the storm. “Here, I’ll do you first. Sit, sit!”

Claire perches on the vanity seat. Audrey rustles around in their bags. When they were at the drugstore, Audrey bought three different shades of foundation, claiming she needed to blend them so as to match Claire’s exact skin tone. The foundations were paid for with a handful of twenty-dollar bills that Grammy slipped into Claire’s hand on the way out the door. Another oddity about today.

Audrey kneels down beside Claire and spreads out a pile of their purchased makeup—not only the foundations, but the powder and the brushes and the blusher and the eye shadow too. All of it. She grabs Claire’s hand and flips it over so she can dab a bit of foundation on Claire’s wrist.

“Mmmm, not quite. Let’s see what happens when I—” She doesn’t finish her sentence, only squeezes out a line from the paler foundation. She rubs the two together. “That’s better, don’t you think?”

Claire nods, although she can’t tell the difference between this and her usual makeup. Her head feels foggy. The lights in the vanity dim and glow brighter like the beat of a heart—but only when she’s not looking at them head-on. It’s probably just her imagination.

“Here, turn this way so I can see you.” Audrey tilts Claire’s face away from the mirror. The room swims. “You’re going to look beautiful.”

Audrey sweeps Claire’s hair back and holds it in place with a clip. She streaks makeup across Claire’s face. It’s cold against Claire’s skin.

I miss Julie, Claire thinks.

It’s the clearest thing in her head right now. Last night she thought about the kiss on the beach, the damp wind and the roar of the waves and the dunes rising up around them like a fortress. Julie’s lips brushing against hers and that brief half moment when she kissed back.

I kissed back.

Of course she kissed back. It’s what she wanted, all this time. To kiss Julie.

Heat rises up in Claire’s cheeks. Fortunately Audrey is turned away, selecting a powder compact from the collection on the counter. Claire looks out the window. The clouds are crowding in, thick and dark and heavy.

“Here, I think this color will work.” Audrey brushes powder all over Claire’s face. There’s something hypnotizing about her movement, something hypnotizing about the vanity lights and the encroaching storm outside. Somnolence washes over Claire. Complacency. Audrey steps back and smiles, admiring her work.

“Perfect,” she says.

The rest of the dance preparations go by in a blur. Claire leans up against the vanity as Audrey applies blush and lipstick and eyeliner, her movements quick and practiced. When she finishes the makeup, Claire tries to peek in the mirror, but Audrey shrieks and covers it with one hand.

“Not yet!” she says. “I need to do your hair! Here, let’s go sit at the desk.”

Claire obeys, standing up by rote. She catches a glimpse of herself in the mirror and isn’t sure what she sees.

Audrey plugs in a curling iron and rests it on the desk. Claire takes a seat, and Audrey spins the chair around until Claire is facing the exact place where the picture of Julie’s house used to be. Claire stares at the pale rectangle on the wall, the photo’s ghost, as Audrey tugs and brushes and teases out her hair. The hot iron singes her scalp, and bobby pins prick like tiny, dulled needles. Hairspray fogs up the air. Heat. Pain at the temples. The strangest sense that Claire is being remolded.

She lets it all happen. It’s become an obligation, like being here in Indianola in the first place. She has to.

“All done!” Audrey chirps. “You ready to see?”

Claire looks over her shoulder at her. Audrey beams. Claire’s head feels heavy.

“I guess,” she says.

Audrey grabs Claire’s hand and pulls her to her feet and leads her over to the vanity mirror with a flourish.

“The new and improved Claire!” she cries.

Claire does not recognize herself.

The makeup has softened her features, plumping out her cheeks and smoothing over her jawline. Her eyes look bigger, brighter; her mouth is a perfect round bow. She doesn’t look bad, she just doesn’t look the way she’s used to looking. She looks—

Old-fashioned. That’s the word. Like a Victorian photograph.

Something niggles at the back of Claire’s mind, something about Victorian photographs, but she can’t catch on to it, and it disappears.

It’s her hair too. Audrey has piled it up on Claire’s head in a wispy, Victorian-style bun, a few tendrils of hair curling around her jawline.

“This is such a fantastic costume,” Audrey says. “Now, put on the dress so we can see the finished product!”

“Right.” Claire watches that unfamiliar mouth speak with her voice. “I’ll do that.”

“I’ll start getting myself ready while you do.”

Claire nods, still staring at the reflection in the mirror. It’s so disconcerting, seeing this stranger stare back at her. She jerks her gaze away and glances at Audrey, who has moved over by the window. Behind her, the clouds have grown thicker.

“It’s going to rain soon,” Claire says. “Hopefully we make it to the dance okay.”

“Nothing to worry about.” Audrey gives a big grin. “Try on the dress! I want to see everything.”

Claire nods and drags herself over to her closet. Audrey settles into the vanity chair, leans forward, tugs at the skin around her eyes. She selects a bottle of foundation and begins the makeup process for herself.

Claire pulls the dress from its place in the closet and turns around, facing the window, to change. She steps out of her clothes and pulls on the dress, careful not to smear makeup on the fabric or mess up her hair. In the darkness of the storm, she can make out the ghost of her reflection in the window’s glass.

“Oh, you need me to do up the buttons, don’t you?”

Claire twists around. Audrey’s smiling at her from the vanity, one of her eyes made up, the other painfully bare.

“Yeah.” Claire nods.

Audrey leaps up and runs over and does up the buttons. Claire stares at the window. Her heart pounds. She presses her hands against her stomach, feeling herself underneath the cool gray silk of the dress.

“There, all done!” Audrey gasps with delight. “You look amazing. Christopher is going to love it.” She reaches over and adjusts the neckline. “Perfect,” she says. She looks around the bedroom. “Don’t you have a full-length mirror?”

“There’s one in the bathroom.”

“Oh my God, you have to look at yourself. Go, go!” Audrey makes shooing motions with her hands, and Claire obliges, slipping out into the dark hallway. The air crackles with electricity, and the hairs on Claire’s arm stand straight up. She ducks into the bathroom and switches on the light.

Her reflection stares back at her.

She looks like a stranger. In the dress, she could be a person from another place, another time. Claire turns to the side, looking at her silhouette. Her waist cinches, wasp-like, as if she’s wearing a corset. God, it just isn’t her.

A perfect dress for a masquerade, then. But that doesn’t mean Claire wants to look in any more mirrors.

Claire goes back to the bedroom, not wanting to be alone with her reflection. Audrey’s teasing up her hair and spraying it with hairspray. She’s finished her makeup, too, smoky eyes and wine-colored lipstick. Very modern. Claire wonders how she got it on so quickly.

“You look nice,” Claire says. She picks her way over to the bed so she can avoid the mirror.

Audrey blasts her hair with one last burst of spray. “Almost done!” she says. “Then I can change and we can head out.” She claps her hands together. “I’m so excited!”

She looks at Claire like she expects a response. “Me too,” Claire says, even though she doesn’t feel it. To try and make up for her lack of enthusiasm, she adds, “So what are you dressing up as?”

“What? Oh, Cindy Crawford.” She points at a dark spot near her lip. “See? It’s the mole.”

Claire frowns. “Weren’t you going as a hippie? So we could be girls through the ages?”

Audrey’s eyes are as big as saucers. “No,” she says. “Maybe you talked about doing something like that with Julie?”

Julie. Her name echoes in Claire’s head.

“Yeah. Maybe.”

Audrey walks over to the bed and digs around in the bags, pulling out a slinky, sequin-covered black dress that flashes in the lights. Claire sits down at the vanity, her skirts pooling around her feet.

When Audrey pulls off her top, Claire immediately looks the other way, her face hot. Julie’s face flashes in her mind, and Julie’s bare shoulders and tanned legs. Claire squeezes her eyes shut. Julie’s laugh. Julie’s tangled hair blowing in the wind. Julie sing-shouting along to the songs on her cassette tapes.

Julie.

“All done!” Audrey’s voice rings out like a bell. Claire turns around and Audrey poses for her, lifting her hands over her head. She doesn’t look so much like Cindy Crawford as she does the black storm clouds amassing outside.

“Okay, where’s that full-length mirror?” Audrey asks. “I want us to look at ourselves.”

Looking at herself is the last thing that Claire wants, but she leads Audrey into the bathroom anyway. The fluorescent light buzzes. The bathroom feels small and claustrophobic. Audrey flings her arm around Claire’s shoulder and they stand side by side, each of them partially cut off by the mirrors’ sides.

“Best friends,” Audrey says.

A jolt goes through Claire. No. They are not best friends. If Julie had said that—

That wouldn’t be true either, not really. Julie isn’t a best friend. She’s more than that. She’s something Claire can’t put into words.

“You ready to go?” Audrey pulls away and goes out into the hallway. “I’d like to get out of here before the rain starts.”

“Fine with me.” Definitely fine by Claire. The sooner they get to the dance, the sooner she can leave. This whole thing has been a huge mistake.

“Awesome!” Another dazzling smile. “I’m so excited.”

They go back into Claire’s room and slip into their shoes and grab their purses. The sky has darkened so much that it almost looks like nighttime. As Claire peers out the window, a crack of lightning slices the horizon in half. For a heartbeat the clouds are illuminated, and Clare thinks she sees faces in them.

“You girls be careful.”

Claire whirls around, caught unawares by Grammy’s voice, the faces in the clouds fading from her memory.

“Oh, we will,” says Audrey.

Grammy glances at her, takes in the formfitting dress, the billowing hair, and says nothing. She looks back at Claire.

“You look lovely, my dear,” she says.

It’s perhaps the kindest thing Grammy has said all summer. Claire feels herself hardening up, and she wraps her arms around herself like a shield.

“I hope you have a wonderful time,” Grammy says. She holds up a clunky old Polaroid, her sickly fingers crawling over it like a spider. “Let me get your picture.”

“Ooh, a picture!” Audrey bounds over beside Claire and wraps her arm around Claire’s waist. Claire feels caught in a riptide. Grammy holds the camera up. Flash-click-whir. A photo shoots out of the slot at the bottom, and Grammy grabs it and waves it back and forth.

“To remember this day,” she says, her voice old and worn.

She slips the photograph inside her dress pocket without letting Claire or Audrey see the result.

Outside, the hot wind sweeps in violent gray gusts across the front yard. The trees slope and twist and the clouds press down on the landscape as if to smother the entire town. Claire smells rain in the distance. Normally she likes the scent of rain, but tonight it’s tinged with something harsh and astringent.

“Hurry up, before the wind messes up your hair!” Audrey’s already running to her car. Claire takes a deep breath and follows, diving into the passenger seat. The wind slams the door shut for her.

“Wow!” Audrey says. “That’s going to be quite the storm.” She starts the engine. Claire arranges the fabric of her skirt, piling it on top of her lap. Quite the storm. Who talks like that?

“Are you sure the dance is still happening?” Claire asks. “I mean, this storm seems pretty bad—”

Audrey pulls out of the driveway. The car shakes from the wind. “I’m sure it’s fine,” she says. “It hasn’t even started raining yet.”

An uneasy feeling has followed Claire out of the house, and she pulls on her skirts, trying to calm herself. The silk no longer feels slick and cool, but hot and constricting. The lace at the neckline itches her skin.

Something hangs on the air. Something is woven through that storm.

They cruise along the neighborhood and turn onto the main street. Audrey switches on the radio. They get a Victoria station, the music crackling with static. “That’s the Way Love Goes.” All summer long Claire has heard this song, Janet Jackson’s whispered chorus ringing in her head. Especially when she thinks about Julie.

Audrey sings along, drumming her hands on the steering wheel. “C’mon!” she says. “Sing with me.”

Claire looks out the window, into the storm-cloud darkness of the town. Audrey has pulled into a neighborhood lined with oak trees, their branches shaking ominously overhead. A few windows are lit up, little yellow squares floating in the distance.

“Stay here,” she says, turning into the driveway of one of the houses and putting the car in park. “I’m gonna go grab Lawrence.”

The porch light flicks on. Lawrence steps out of the house. Claire doesn’t quite recognize him. He’s wearing a suit and a long black cape, and he swings a cane around as Audrey drags him out to the car.

He crawls into the back seat. Claire twists around to look at him. He looks uncomfortable in his black suit.

“What are you?” she asks.

“A vampire,” he answers.

“Don’t you just love his costume?” Audrey gushes. “The cane’s a nice touch, don’t you think? It’s been in his family for years.”

“My father gave it to me.” Lawrence stares out the car window. The brake lights turn his face crimson.

Claire shivers, balling her hands up in the fabric of her dress. A cane from his family, a dress from hers.

Claire sees a flash of Julie, smiling at her in the bright sunlight, her hair blowing across her face.

“Are we going to pick up Christopher?” Claire asks quickly, and tries to imagine his face instead. She can’t.

“Oh, didn’t I tell you?” Audrey looks over at her. “He’s meeting us there.”

“You didn’t tell me that,” Claire says. She glances back at Lawrence. He’s still staring out the window.

“I’m sure I did.” Audrey pulls out of the neighborhood. Claire isn’t convinced, but she lets it drop. She doesn’t feel like arguing with Audrey.

They drive down the main street of town. The streetlights cast great yellow spheres across the asphalt, and the signs in the shop windows glow. They pass Alvarez Video, then the Pirate’s Den. Audrey turns the radio up, but this time Claire doesn’t recognize the song. Audrey starts singing again, louder than before they picked up Lawrence, her voice sweet and clear, until Claire can’t hear the radio anymore. Just Audrey’s voice.

Then, with a jolt, she realizes where they are.

“We’re going to the beach,” she says.

Audrey falls silent. The song kicks back in, a faint whine in the background.

Claire looks over at her. “The signs all say it’s at the VFW hall,” she says. “Is that on the beach?”

A half second of hesitation. Then Audrey says, “Of course it is. Right, Lawrence?”

His voice from the back of the car is small and far away. “Yeah. The beach.”

The radio DJ comes on, yammering about a flash flood warning.

“Are you sure the dance is still going on?” Claire gestures at the radio. “It’s probably not safe to be on the beach—”

Audrey switches the radio off. “I’m sure.”

“I really don’t mind heading home. I mean, I’m kind of tired anyway, it’s not a big deal. You two can still go out.” She gestures back at Lawrence. “Probably don’t want me intruding on your date anyway.”

“I’m sure.” Audrey swings the car violently off the road and they bounce along the sandy road, through the dunes. The car’s headlights illuminate patches of sand and dune vines, leeching them of their color.

And then they’re at the shore. Audrey puts the car in park, and the headlights shine across the water. The waves are huge, towering, like walls of glass.

Claire feels light-headed. She clutches the door handle, a sick feeling rolling around in her stomach. “What are we doing here?” she asks. “This isn’t safe, this storm is going to wash us away—”

Audrey shuts off the engine and climbs out of the car. The wind sweeping in through the open door smells like rain and the sea and something burning.

“What are you doing?” Claire asks. She turns back to Lawrence. “What is she doing?”

Lawrence looks at her. His eyes are glassy in the darkness. “I don’t know.”

The back passenger door flies open. “Lawrence, sweetie,” says Audrey. “I need you for a minute.” She leans in and drapes her arms over his shoulders and kisses him, a kiss so intense that Claire has to turn away, flushing. A rustle of clothes from the back seat.

“Don’t forget your cane!” calls out Audrey in a singsong voice.

The door slams again. Claire twists around in time to see Audrey and Lawrence walking toward the dunes.

“Hey!” she shouts. “What the hell!?” And then, because the confusion is too much, “This isn’t the VFW hall!”

Claire fumbles for the latch to open the door. Her fingers close on it, and she tugs, but nothing happens. She tugs again, over and over. The door doesn’t open. She double-checks, but the lock is up.

The door is unlocked, but it won’t open.

“Audrey!” Claire screams. “Come back!” She leans across the driver’s seat. There’s a safety lock in these kind of cars, isn’t there? To keep children from opening the door? Where is it?

“You can stop that now.”

Claire jolts at the sound of Audrey’s voice. She lifts her head, her hand hovering over the driver’s-side door handle. Audrey looms outside.

“What do you mean?” Behind Audrey, all Claire can see is darkness. “Where’s Lawrence?”

“Exactly where he needs to be.” Audrey stares through the window. The wind blows her hair around like a flame. Her face is almost unrecognizable. Eyes too big, teeth too sharp, her features like they’re carved out of bone.

She almost looks like a monster.

“Audrey! What are you doing?” Panic sharpens the edges of Claire’s voice. “Why aren’t we at the dance?”

Lightning flashes out on the Gulf, and in the sudden flare of the light Claire swears she can see Audrey’s skeleton. It doesn’t look like a human skeleton at all. Too long, too distorted.

“It’s nothing personal,” Audrey says. “Sorry.”

Claire pulls on the driver’s door handle, but the door won’t budge. How is that possible? There are no safety locks on the driver’s door!

A cold panic shudders through her.

“What’s going on!” She bangs on the window, her vision blurring. Tears streak down her cheeks. “What the hell! Let me out, Audrey! I don’t know how you have the doors locked, but this isn’t funny anymore!” She wonders if Lawrence is in on this, if he’s laughing up in the dunes. “I thought we were friends! Audrey!”

“I told you,” Audrey says. “It’s nothing personal.”

She turns away from the car. Lightning flickers again, and through the windshield Claire can see the storm clouds, illuminated: But
they’re not clouds—they’re inky black swirls, galaxies collapsing in on themselves.

Claire screams and slaps her hands against the windows as Audrey walks away, her dress flapping around her ankles and her pumps dangling from one hand. Claire yanks on the door handles again, snapping them up and down. She tries to roll down the windows. Nothing.

Audrey doesn’t turn around. Just strides off into the dunes, disappearing into the darkness. Lawrence is nowhere to be seen.

Claire chokes back a sob. The wind shrieks as it blows around the car. Her thoughts a wild, anxious blur, she pulls off one of her shoes and bangs it against the window. It makes a soft, hollow sound, and she hurls it against the windshield in frustration. Nothing happens. She tries the door again, then crawls into the back seat, her dress tangling up around her legs, and tries the back doors and the back windows. Nothing.

Somehow, Audrey has sealed the car shut.

Claire slumps down. Her skirt pushes up around her waist. The car is hot and airless. The waves roar out in the Gulf, and every time lightning flashes she sees them surging, white-tipped and terrifying beneath that eerie, ink-soaked sky. Seawater sprays across the front windshield every minute or two, a fine, faint mist that leaves a dull feeling in Claire’s stomach.

She sits in the back seat of Audrey’s car, in her stupid costume, weeping. When the first raindrops dot the windows, she screams and yanks on the door handles again—but nothing happens. Because this isn’t just a car, this isn’t just a storm.

As Claire listens to the pinging sound of rain on the car roof, she thinks of a hundred-year-old hurricane, of her ancestor who’d been out on the middle of the beach as it rolled into shore.

The ancestor whose dress she is wearing, in the present.