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I’m logging off now and going back to my room. And I am going to ask them to up my meds. I like it here, nice and safe, with no sharp things and everyone all locked up. It is, as Gerard would say, better than the alternative.
The Mirror House
CASSANDRA CLARE
The two hours of washboard dirt road between the airport in Kingston and the tiny town of Black River would be bad enough even if I wasn’t hung over from all that wedding champagne. As it is, I spend most of the time staring out the window and trying not to throw up. It isn’t easy, especially since we keep passing dead animals on the side of the road and sometimes piles of burning garbage that stink like hot plastic.
My mom said Jamaica was going to be a paradise. But then again, this is the same woman who insisted that she and Phillip needed to leave for their honeymoon the morning after the wedding. Why they decided they had to bring me and Evan, Phillip’s son, along with them on their trip, I’m not sure. They explained it to me—or at least my mom had, with Phillip sitting there glowering like he always did—as something about “family togetherness.” But with Phillip dead silent as always and Evan scrunched up as far away from me as he can get on the van’s sticky bench seat, I’m not sure how much togetherness we’re really going to achieve. Of course, given what happened in the garden last night after the reception, togetherness is probably the last thing that Evan and I need.
The villa my mother has rented is much more beautiful than it looked in the online photos. The floors are shiny, dark as the polished outside of a walnut shell; the walls are blue, sponge-painted with a wash of green, calling up the colors of the sea and sky. One whole wall is missing, just open to the deck outside, the turquoise swimming pool and the cliff falling away to the white sand and dark sea beyond. The sun has just begun to set, casting widening rings of red, gold, and bronze over the water.
My mother stands in the arch of the doorway, her hand against her throat. “Oh, Phillip…look!”
But Phillip isn’t looking. He’s over by the front door with the pile of bags, speaking to Damon, the bellboy, in a low, gruff voice. Something about how Damon shouldn’t be expecting a tip and anyway he could have carried his own damn luggage. Damon shrugs his white-shirted shoulders, philosophical, and leaves, stepping past Evan, who is leaning against the wall, staring down at his shoes. I can tell he’s embarrassed by his father, but when I try to smile at him, his glance away from me looks like a flinch.
Phillip looks over at me. Maybe he sees the expression on my face—I’m not sure—but either way he still reads me all wrong. “Evan,” he says, “take Violet’s bags to her room.”
Evan starts to protest. His father shoots him a look of disgust.
“Now, Evan.”
Evan hoists the duffel over his shoulder and follows me to the room marked 3. It has louvered windows that look out over the deck, a skylight, and a huge white bed canopied with drifts of mosquito netting. Evan sets the bag on the floor with a bang and straightens up, his blue eyes flashing.
“Thanks,” I say.
He shrugs. “Not a problem.” I watch him as he glances around, watch the way the muscles in his shoulders move as he turns. “Nice room.”
“I know.” I laugh nervously. “The bed is huge.”
The moment the words are out of my mouth, I freeze. I shouldn’t have said that. I shouldn’t even have said the word bed around Evan, not after what happened in the rose garden. He’ll think I’m joking, being stupid, or he’ll think I’m asking him—
“Guys! Dinnertime!” My mom pops her head around the door, smiling brightly. I’ve never been so glad to see her.
“I’ll be right there—I just need to wash my hands.” I duck into the small bathroom while Evan skulks out on my mom’s heels. The walls of the bathroom are tiled with ocean-washed glass in soft and dull blues, greens, and reds. I run the water in the bronze basin and splash some up on my face. When I glance into the mirror, I see that my cheeks are red as roses.
Dinner is served out on the deck, with our family sitting at a long, low table and the villa’s staff bringing us bowls of food: heaping piles of potato salad, sharp vinegary slaw, fish cooked with garlic and Scotch bonnets, and a bowl of dark, fragrant curry full of lumps of simmering meat.
I try to turn as the bowls are passed to me to smile at the villa staff, but no one will meet my eyes. The staff is a blur of dark faces and hands, the gleam of a coral-and-gold bracelet as a hand retracts the salad bowl I’m done eating from. “Thanks,” I say, but there is no response.
Phillip is forking up curry like it’s going out of style. “What is this?” he says abruptly, spearing a chunk of meat on his fork and shoving it in his mouth.
The tallest of the cooks, a woman with a sharp-boned face and a white kerchief tied around her hair, says, “It is goat curry, sir.”
Phillip spits the meat back onto his plate and grabs for a napkin, staring at the cook with accusing eyes.
I look down at the table, trying not to laugh.
The next day the heat is stunning, like a drug. I lie out on a lounger by the pool, the straps of my blue suit pushed down over my arms to avoid tan lines. My mom won’t let me buy a bikini. Phillip is sitting over in the shade reading a book called Empire of Blue Water. Evan is sitting with his feet in the pool, staring into space.
I attempt to catch his eye, but he won’t look at me, so I go back to my book. I try to read, but the words dance on the page like the sunlight dances over the pool water. This kind of weather makes everything dance.
Finally I put the book down and wander into the kitchen to get a Coke. The woman from last night, the tall cook who told Phillip he was eating goat, is standing by the sink washing up our dishes from breakfast. Today her headscarf is bright red, the color of a tropical bird.
She turns when she sees me. “What can I help you with, miss?” Her accent is as soft as flower petals.
“I just wanted a Coke.” I get the feeling I shouldn’t be in here, that the kitchen is the domain of the staff, even if all I want is a can of soda. Sure enough, instead of directing me toward the fridge, she retrieves the bottle herself, pops it open, and pours it into a glass for me.
“Thanks.” I take it, the cool glass feeling good against my fingers. “What’s your name?”
