Page 53 of Secret Brother

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“He’s not a war victim. There’s no war here.”

“There are different kinds of wars, Clara Sue,” she said. “Family wars.”

“Right. Like right here, right now.”

“Oh, it’s not that bad,” she said. “Everyone is concerned for you as much as they are for the little boy.”

“Says you.”

“Is it that you don’t want to believe it?” she asked softly. “Because if that’s true, it’s understandable,” she added quickly. “You are not at fault here for anything. And I want you to believe me when I say that I don’t believe you have anything wrong with you that would require me to examine and treat you. If anything, what you’re feeling is understandable, normal.”

“Good. Tell my grandfather.”

“But you are also feeling threatened, and that’s a little paranoid, too.”

“A little paranoid? What’s that, like being a little pregnant?”

She widened her smile and nearly laughed. “Maybe. Look, Clara Sue, you’re a very important part of this effort to bring him back, if you will. You will be far happier if you accept that. It’s easy to see you’re not happy now.”

“Yes, everyone says that, but I lost my little brother, and this . . . weird kid is living in his room, wearing his clothes, taking everything that was his, even his name!”

“Why don’t we think of it more in terms of borrowing it, sort of like hitching a ride from the darkness into the light? You’d give someone in desperate need a ride, wouldn’t you?”

“I don’t believe my grandfather simply wants to give him a ride. I think he’s . . .”

“He’s what?”

“Replacing my brother,” I said. “And that’s not a little paranoid. He’s the one who needs your help, not me.”

“I’ve been helping him,” she said. It stunned me for a moment. My grandfather was going to a psychiatrist? “He’s seeing me twice a week now.”

“Good for him. He might need to see you five times a week,” I replied.

“I’m sure you don’t mean to sound this way, Clara Sue. Don’t you think he’s suffering with the loss of your brother, too?”

I looked away. “Not enough,” I muttered. “Not when he has this weird boy in Willie’s room.”

“What if it was the other way around? What if it was Willie who had been poisoned and who was helped by someone like your grandfather? Would you be happy for him or angry?”

“It’s not the other way around! I’m not going to play mind games with you about it, either,” I said, standing. Tears were starting to burn under my eyelids, but I was determined not to give her the satisfaction of seeing me cry. I scooped up my books. “Do whatever you want. I’ll stay away from him. You can tell my grandfather that I promise I won’t hurt him. I won’t spoil anything for him. I won’t even look at him.”

“But no one wants you to stay away from him. It’s exactly the opposite. Everyone wants you to work with us to help him. I think deep down, you want that, too.”

“I don’t. I don’t care. I just want to be left alone.”

“Can we talk about this again?”

“No,” I said, and I walked out of the room and up the stairs. As I passed Willie’s room, I saw Mrs. Camden turn away from the boy, who was sitting up in bed, to look toward me. Before she could say a word, I was in my room. And so she’d understand how I felt about it all, I slammed my door closed.

I flopped onto my bed, pressed my clenched fists against each other, and looked up at the ceiling. Why was I the only one who saw the injustice? My Faith, Myra, Mrs. Camden, and now Aaron all thought I was being unfair. In their minds, I was the one who needed to change, not my grandfather. The only ally I had was what Grandpa Arnold called a “weak sister,” Lila Stewart, who probably said one thing to my face and another to our girlfriends, anyway. And now this psychiatrist . . . she infuriated me, and yet I couldn’t deny that she had planted some doubt in my mind. Maybe I was being a little paranoid.

I turned over and pressed my face into the pillow, wishing I could smother myself. That would teach them all. Nothing seemed more important than spiting them, getting even, making them regret every word they had uttered against me, every critical syllable. I fantasized about what it would be like. The house would be a morgue again; only this time, there would be reason for someone in it to feel guilty—actually, everyone in it. They’d all be sitting there moaning and groaning, wishing they had been different and kinder to me. Most of them would look at my grandfather angrily now. Why did you have to bring this boy here at this time? And when you saw how it disturbed Clara Sue, why didn’t you remove him? Uncle Bobby would actually stand up and ask these things out loud. Grandpa Arnold would stammer and stutter and then get up and run into his office. He wouldn’t be able to look at the picture of my grandmother, and the pictures of my parents would be like thorns in his heart.

All these images made me feel better. I took a deep breath and sat up, wiping my face to be sure there wasn’t a single tear of self-pity trickling down my cheek. Then I went to my stereo and turned it on, deliberately making it louder than ever. I started to change my clothes and then got a new idea. On the floor of my closet, I had my mother’s personal makeup kit. It was old, and most of it was dried out, but with a little water, I might revive the mascara and the eye shadow. Certainly, I could use the lipsticks. Maybe the makeup foundation and the blush were fine. I brought the case into the bathroom and sat before the vanity mirror table in my bra and panties and began. I’ll show them, I thought. I’ll go down to dinner all made up.

In a frenzy, I began. My memories of watching my mother do it were vague, but I did recall how easily and confidently she put on her makeup, and when she was finished, she looked like a movie star to me. Grandma Arnold was not fond of using much makeup, so I learned practically nothing from her. My girlfriends and I did experiment with it, of course, but the school rules kept us from using it frequently. I wasn’t in quite the mood to be careful about it. Actually, anyone watching would think I was attacking my face. I added too much water to the mascara and the eye shadow. They began to run. The foundation didn’t seem to be the right shade, and the blush, if anything, looked too pale. Adding more seemed to compound the clownish appearance I was building. I knew I had put on too much lipstick, and in wiping it off, I smeared some on my cheek.

The sound of heavy knocking on my door finally caught my attention. I rose and went to it. “What?”


Tags: V.C. Andrews Young Adult