The Dollhouse

Chapter 41

Before my stepmother even turned her back, I helped myself to the wine.

"I brought dips and celery!"

Joyce hugged me again. She was carrying a wobbling plate with flourish. A least she knew the customs of a suburban gathering, but then again she was too stupid to notice how unassertive I was acting.

"Where's your stepbrother?"

Would it kill her to keep her voice down?  "I don't really know. Where's yours?"

Although he didn't deserve my concern, there was no indication of Marcus's swagger among the well-dressed strangers. Just Joyce, in a neon pink cocktail dress.

"Oh, he's come down with tonsillitis. He's sorry he couldn't make it."

No less than he deserved! There was a great giddy feeling whoosh inside of me, so strong that it was a miracle I didn't drop to the floor. If I could dodge Marcus tomorrow during the Harvest, there would be no reason to see him again! I could handle Joyce - even though her personality was annoying, she wasn't a malicious creature.

In lighter spirits now, I was reminded how innocent we used to be together. Before I learned about sex and cigarettes, there was only Joyce. In appearance, I was the same girl with the same vanilla clothing and big brown eyes, but now there was a sourness inside me.

I saw Violet struggling to fit the new trash bag over the bin. That was the cherry on top - we had to escape the boring pastel setting, even though my stomach rumbled with hunger.

Whether Marcus really had tonsillitis or not, it didn't matter anymore.

Under no obligation to hang around the socialites, we grabbed a handful of hummus-covered celery and went to find the rest of my friends. The clock read eight o'clock, and the pot luck was now buzzing. 

Suddenly, the urge to brag overcame me. It was the first instance Joyce and I were able to enjoy a private chat, and by observing the awkward way she bopped her head to the music, it would've been rude not to forewarn her.

Nick, Betsy and Samuel were perched on the outside step, passing a joint between them between two fingers. The unmistakable stink of cannabis lingered in the air, so I made a point to open the front windows. The curtains billowed out in clouds, the white satin engulfing the freshness of the twilight.

One trait about Joyce - she was someone who was easily impressed. And I saw my gang through my eyes in that moment.

"How modern of you to be friends with a Negro," she breathed, because she knew they weren't in earshot yet. "He's not one of the revolutionary types, is he?"

"Betsy's the political one," I said. The way she said it made me feel a flash of anger. "And Betsy's the political one. But it's not political. He's my friend."

I was living for the roundness of Joyce's eyes. She really was still living in her cotton candy world where nothing mattered but the nuclear family and holding hands before marriage declared you a whore.

Sam cupped his hands around the lighter, and a puff of smoke floated above their heads. He was dressed like he was a guest to the monsters behind masks; namely, the punishment-inflicting man of the cloth, and the perfect hostess catering to every whim. I didn't like the light sweater he was wearing, but he really did fit the image of the college student he wanted to be.

Betsy was wrapped in a leopard-print coat, whereas Nick, to my relief, was dressed no more unusually than normal. When I saw him, I experienced a feeling I couldn't describe, but I knew very badly I wanted to kiss him again.