For Z. King
Winter
My ballet slipper brushes the hardwood floor as I slowly step down the long hallway. The glow of the candles on their pedestals line the dark walls, and I fidget with my fingers as I glance left to right at every closed door I pass.
I don’t like this house. I’ve never liked it here.
But at least the parties are only twice a year—after summer recitals in June and following the premiere of the annual Nutcracker performance in December. Madame Delova loves ballet, and as my school’s benefactress she considers it a ‘gift to the masses to descend from her tower once in a while to entertain the villagers and allow us into her home.’
Or so I overheard my mom say once.
The house is so big that I don’t think I’ll ever see all of it, and it’s filled with things that everyone is always gushing over and whispering about, but it makes me nervous. I feel like I’ll break something every time I turn around.
And it’s too dark. Even worse today with the house only lit by candlelight. I suppose it’s Madame’s way of making everything look like a dream the way she kind of looks herself: surreal, too perfect, and porcelain. Not exactly real.
I press my lips together, pausing before I call out, “Mom?”
Where is she?
I step softly, not sure where I am or how I get back to the party, but I know I saw my mom come upstairs. I think there’s a third floor, too, but I’m not sure where the next stairwell is to get to it. Why would she come up here? Everyone is downstairs.
I clench my jaw harder with every step away from the party I take. The lights, voices, and music fade, and the silent darkness of the hallway slowly swallows me up.
I should go back. She’ll get mad that I followed her anyway.
“Mom?” I call again, itching at the tights on my legs as the costume I’d been wearing since this morning chafes my skin. “Mom?”
“What the fuck is the matter with you?” someone yells.
I jump.
“Everyone is uncomfortable around you,” the man continues. “All you do is stand there! We talked about this.”
I spot a sliver of light peeking through a cracked doorway and creep closer. I doubt my mom is in there. People don’t yell at her.
But maybe she is in there?
“What is going on in that head of yours?” the man bellows. “Can’t you speak? At all? Ever?”
There’s no response, though. Who is he mad at?
Leaning into the door frame, I peer into the crack, trying to see who’s in the room.
At first, all I can make out is gold. The golden glow of the golden lamp shining onto the golden desk set. But then I shift to the left, my pulse hammering in my chest, as I see Madame’s husband, Mr. Torrance, cross into my view from behind his desk. He stands, breathing hard with his jaw set, as he looks down at whoever is on the other side.
“Jesus Christ,” he spits out with disdain. “My son. My heir… Can anything come out of that fucking mouth of yours? All you’ve gotta say is ‘Hello’ and ‘Thank you for coming’. You can’t even answer a simple question when someone asks you. What the hell is wrong with you?”
My son. My heir.
I inch down and then up, trying to see around the edge of the door, but I can’t see the other person. Madame and Mr. Torrance have a son. I rarely see him, though. He’s my sister’s age but goes to Catholic school.
“Speak!” his
father bursts out again.
I suck in a breath, and on reflex, take a step. But I accidentally go forward instead of backward and hit the door. The hinges creak, the door creeps open another inch, and I rear back.
Oh, no.
I scurry back, away from the door, and whirl around, ready to bolt. But before I can escape, the door opens, light spills across the dark hardwood floors, and a tall shadow looms over me.
I clench my thighs, the silvery ache burning like I’m about to pee my pants. Slowly, I turn my head and see Mr. Torrance standing there in a dark suit. The scowl on his face softens, and he lets out a sigh.
“Hi,” he says, his lips curl in a slight smile as he gazes down at me.
On instinct, I retreat a step. “I…I got lost.” I swallow, looking up at his dark eyes. “Do you know where my mom is? I can’t find her.”
But just then, the room’s other occupant swings the door open even more, letting the knob hit the wall, and charges around his father and out of the room. Black hair hanging in his eyes, head down, and necktie draped untied around his neck, he rushes past me without a look and barrels down the stairs.
His footsteps disappear, and I turn back to Mr. Torrance.
He smiles, coming down and squatting at my level. I rear back a little.