Blizzard Girl ©

Chapter Twenty-Seven

I'm not going to tell you about Madama Butterfly. Except that it's not a great play to bring any date on and it makes Americans look like complete jackasses. "Well that play was...intense?" I said to Jillian, who sat by me for the last two acts. 

Since you know, I was stood up and all (surprise, surprise). 

"To my father, it's considered a timeless classic," she said, clearly unimpressed. 

"What's the play really mean to your father?" I asked her. She giggled and nudged her shoulder with mine.

"What the play really means to my father is a moral. To show me what really happens when you become romantically involved with an American." Jillian shrugs as she mumbled, "Like I didn't already know that."

"Were you in love with an American once?" I felt bad for touching a nerve. "You don't have to talk about it if you don't--"

"Yes. Yes, I wasn't madly in love. I did have a crush on him, but then--he died."

"Oh. I'm sorry for asking," I said softly. "As an American though, I only partly agree with your dad. You see, every American boy is an asshole at some point. It comes with being born believing and living in freedom, you know. Some grow out of their asshole state and others don't. My little brother is starting to become an asshole but I hope he'll have the strength to outgrow it."

"Ventisca, you're so refreshing! Anyone else I've ever met around our ages has been afraid to speak with me. Some don't even bother and the others that do sensor themselves. As if -- as if by being nice to me means it will bring them one step closer to my father's ear." Jillian shook her head as she added, "I doubt I even have my father's heart. And my mother--well, you've seen them both already." 

Back then, I had two impressions of Jillian Dumont. One was that she felt like an outsider in her own family. And two....that she wanted, no...she needed a friend. 

***

"You suck," were the first words I said to Percival when he picked me up from the theater's back entrance and brought me back to his mirror world. 

He smirked as he said, "What? I told you the story had a cliffhanger and you're still upset."

"Not about the play! Although that sucked too." Kicking off my glitzy flats I added, "I'm talking about me getting closer to Jillian Dumont." Percival's face took on an unreadable expression.

"What about her?" he asked.

"She's not a chess piece, Percival. She's a human being and I have a feeling in my gut that she's not like--"

"And who asked you how you and your gut feels!" Percival spat out. Suddenly his eyes lost their mirth and became flat and cold. "Ventisca, Jillian is not as innocent as she seems. Even she has blood on her hands. Or have you already forgotten?" Out of thin air, Percival has a tabloid in his hand which he tosses at my bare feet. 

Picking it up I said, "Real mature, Percival." He gestured at the tabloid again. "Yeah, yeah. I know what this is. She was cleared from suspicion of those double suicides. Which mean, she didn't do it!"

"She did, Ventisca," Percival replied so matter of factually that I flinched. "Would you like to see what was reflected that day from the rooftop across from the school's? Or should I spare you from those atrocious images, hmm?"

Slowly, I turned to see why Percival was looking behind my shoulder. I shouldn't have fallen for it. But there it was, plain as day. 

Percival was right about the point of view being from the rooftop opposite Jillian's hoity-toity private school. I saw two young men stumble away from Jillian as she gave them a murderous look. The only words I heard her shriek was, "Juste mourir!"