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I stare into his eyes, my heart racing, and for a moment, I want to listen to him. I want to believe he’s right. But everything I’ve been told since the day I was born makes me pull away and slip past him, moving toward the house, my glass of iced tea left behind on the ground beside my chair.
He says nothing, only watches me walk off.
He’s wrong about that. There’s no growth, there’s no coming back. I am what I am—a product of my family, subservient to the family’s will, submissive to its needs. I’ll do what I have to because that’s what a good daughter is supposed to do, and without that, I don’t know what I’d be, and that terrifies me more than anything.
Chapter15
Brice
With everything going on, I decide to throw myself into the one thing I feel like I have real control over: decorating the house.
“You know you don’t have to clean, yes?” Haleena stands in the doorway to the music room as I dust and straighten up.
“It looks like this hasn’t been used in ages. Do you think the previous owners ever touched this thing?” I run a finger over the piano and make a face. “Seriously, Haleena, it’s like an inch thick.”
She laughs and shrugs. “I do not know if they ever played, but you know how the rich can be sometimes.”
I raise my eyebrows. “No, I don’t think I do. Why don’t you tell me?”
“They like to gather these things to show off to their friends, like yes, see, I am cultured and sophisticated, I have the right things, I make the right gestures. Like people singing words in English songs without knowing what they mean, yes?”
I laugh lightly and sit down on the piano bench. She’s totally right—my family has more than a few “heirlooms” that sit on shelves and do nothing but take up space and are only there to be impressive. “I don’t want that for my house.”
“Do you play?”
“No, I don’t. Does Carmine?”
She makes a face. “No, Carmine doesn’t play.”
“Then I should get rid of this stuff.” I gesture at the piano, at the guitars hanging on the walls, at the drum kit and the saxophone and the other random instruments on shelves. “I mean, it’s a bit absurd.”
“Burn it all down for all I care.” She pauses and frowns. “Actually, no, please don’t burn anything. I’d have to fix it.”
I laugh and she leaves me alone again. I start cataloguing everything and when I’m done, I start taking stuff down and shoving it into boxes. I make sure to keep it all organized and clean, and when I’m done, the room looks neater than it was before, except emptied out, like a blank canvas.
I stand back, hands on my hips, and try to picture what this room wants to be. What would beuseful? Not only as something impressive, but what could be truly functional? It’s a random room off the main wing and it doesn’t get much foot traffic, which means I doubt I should turn it into another guest room. Maybe exercise? Maybe my own office? I like the idea of my own office.
As I go over ideas, I hear footsteps. I figure it’s Haleena, back to complain some more about me doing her job for her, but instead I find Carmine lingering nearby, head tilted to the side.
“What are you doing here? I thought you were in Philly.”
“I got home an hour ago,” he says and steps up beside me to look at the perfectly organized mess I made. “Haleena told me you were dismantling all this stuff, but it looks like you’re only rearranging it instead.”
“Rearranging? Look, I’ve taken everything off the shelves. It’s total chaos in here.”
He laughs and walks over to a box. “No, this isn’t chaos, filthy girl.” He turns the box over and spills out a dozen little instruments all over the floor.
My hands come up to my mouth. “Stop that!”
“It’s only stuff, Brice.” He makes a real mess then and laughs at the look on my face. “We have staff to clean it all up if you’re so upset.”
“That’s not the point.” I clench my jaw and glare at him. “I’m organizing all this. I’m taking care of it.”
“You’re obsessing. Why do you need this to be nice and neat and clean if you’re just going to get rid of it all anyway?”
I open my mouth to answer but he’s got a point. I really do plan on just donating this stuff once it’s all boxed up and set aside. I have no use for tambourines and triangles, and yet the thought of leaving it all jumbled up randomly in a box without any underlying organizing principle drives me insane.
He walks over to me, still smirking. “This is what I mean,” he says gesturing back at the boxes. “Even when you’remaking a mess,you can’t help but be perfect and clean.”
