The Pretty Ones Page 2

  She dropped her keys into a little bowl on a side table next to the door, slid her purse off her shoulder, and shrugged out of her sweater, then folded it into fourths. When she peeked into his bedroom, Barrett was nowhere to be found. Nell frowned at that, picturing him wandering the streets of Sheepshead Bay, looking for someone more exciting than her. If that was what Barrett wanted, he was likely to find it anywhere but here, in their sorry excuse of a home.

  “You’ll be back.” She murmured the reassurance to herself. Peeling the wet back of her shirt away from her skin, she stepped into the kitchenette and tied on her ruffle-trimmed apron with a sigh. Barrett would be back. He never strayed for long. Men were predictable. As soon as they got hungry, they came scratching at the door.

  . . .

  She tried to wait up for Barrett the night before. But after an hour of reading C. S. Lewis’s Screwtape Letters with Beary—her teddy bear—she couldn’t keep her eyes open. Barrett had always hated Beary’s name. Even as a boy he’d complained that it was uncreative, that it sounded too much like his name, but Nell hadn’t cared. She liked that it sounded like her big brother’s moniker. And so Beary had stayed Beary, now her only surviving childhood memento. Sometimes, it seemed, her only friend.

  Hours later, she woke with her favorite book strewn across the floor. Beary was stuffed beneath her pillow, and the apartment was silent. Her brother’s absence hung like a storm cloud over her head.

  When Nell woke for work, Barrett’s empty dinner plate was on the kitchen table, the only sign she had of his return. But when she searched the rooms for him, he was still missing.

  She stood in the kitchenette with her arms wound across her chest, staring at his dirty dishes with a sense of doom. There was an early morning argument happening in front of the building. A drunk woman screaming don’t touch me at her stumbling boyfriend. The yelling did little to soothe Nell’s frayed nerves.

  She twisted away from the kitchen table—a sorry old thing that looked like it had been salvaged from a down-and-out diner. Its rounded corners and chrome trim made her think of I Love Lucy and Leave It to Beaver, of retro soda fountains and perfect families living in perfect neighborhoods inside their mother’s old black-and-white TV. That memory was the reason Nell had splurged on the red-topped table in the first place. It didn’t match a thing in the apartment, and it was overpriced for what it was, especially because it was missing its matching chairs. But she had bought it with a fleeting hope. Maybe if she stuck that bit of Americana in the center of her apartment, a bit of that vintage happiness would transpose itself into her own life. It was why she kept the little vase of carnations in perpetual bloom, why she fixed dinner every evening despite her long workday. The whole thing had been a stupid idea, a ridiculous childlike notion.

  Nell didn’t want to accept it, but the reality of it was becoming harder to shake. They could have moved into a pastel-painted house on Magnolia Lane in a perfect little town a million miles from Brooklyn, but things would stay the same. Barrett would always hate their mother. He’d always wander and never speak. Nothing would ever be perfect, no matter how hard Nell tried. Not after what Faye Sullivan had done.

  Pressing her hands to her face, Nell took a deep breath, familiar pain blooming at the back of her brain. She tried not to imagine her sibling, carousing in the seedy streets of New York City or living it up while “You Should Be Dancing” pumped through club speakers. She tried not to picture him as one of the men who took women behind staircases of unlocked buildings, pressing them up against the wall. Most days, Nell thanked God she had a brother like Barrett, but there were the occasional moments . . . moments when she wished they were only friends.

  Roommates that could fall in love.

  Fall into bed.

  Fall into a life beyond what they had.

  It was a temptation she had repressed for years. A desire she didn’t dare put into words. When she heard those couples behind the stairwell, her stomach soured and twisted into a fist. But not before she saw a flash of her own face pulled into a grimace of lust. Not before she imagined his hands, his hands, drawing across the naked flesh of her well-rounded hips.

  She squeezed her eyes shut against the thought, gritted her teeth, and exhaled a quiet, abhorrent bleat deep in her throat. When her hands fell away from her face, Barrett stood not three feet from the apartment door. He had a way of sneaking up on her. Nell may have been a mouse in appearance, but Barrett had her beat when it came to silence.

  “B-Barrett.” His name was a faltering greeting. “You scared me.”

  He raised his eyebrows at her, but didn’t speak. Of course not. Had he said a word, Nell would have fallen right over, maybe even fainted from shock.

  That was the thing about Barrett.

  He hadn’t spoken since he was six years old.

  “Where were you?” Nell asked. She tightened the belt of her robe, scowled at his dirty dishes. “I waited all night. I was worried. You could have at least cleaned up after yourself, instead of leaving it for me.”

  Barrett gave her a level look, one that suggested that she had far more pressing issues to worry about. He reached for one of the many pads of paper strewn about the apartment and scribbled something down.

  What time is it?

  “Oh, damn,” she hissed. “I’m going to miss the train!” She rushed past him fast enough to catch her shoulder on the doorframe. When she appeared from the bathroom smelling of soap, her hair still sopping wet, Barrett was lounging in his tattered wingback. He was reading Robert Louis Stevenson again. Barrett was a little rock-and-roll with his surfer-like Leif Garrett hair, a little intellectual with his forever-pensive expression. Far too cool to be her biological sibling. Way too smart to stick around. He didn’t raise his eyes from his book to acknowledge her exit, only lifted an arm with two fingers held aloft in a lazy peace sign.

  Later, dude.

  She rolled her eyes and triple-locked the door behind her, hoping it would keep him from disappearing again.

  . . .

  She reached Rambert & Bertram a half hour late; a reason to panic for any employee, but an absolute nightmare for a girl who tried to blend into the beige carpet and potted plants. The elevator spit her out into an incessant ringing of telephones and chipper please holds. Mary Ann Thomas glanced up from her typewriter. Her upper lip curled over her teeth just enough to suggest a sneer, as though some unspoken hope of Nell quitting her job had been dashed onto the rocks of reality. Mary Ann shot a look at Adriana Esposito, who sat to her right, as if to say Are you seeing this? Adriana was a beautiful girl, but she wasn’t quite as pretty as Mary Ann. None of Mary Ann’s friends were. Nell was fairly certain that if Mary Ann ever crossed paths with a better-looking woman, that girl would be found dead in a gutter the next afternoon.

  A crime of passion.

  Jealousy.

  Maybe revenge.

  Adriana was Mary Ann’s best friend. Her right hand. A henchgirl if there ever was one. As soon as Mary Ann gave her a nod, Adriana lifted her hands from the keys of her typewriter. She rose from her seat and glided across the office floor as graceful as she’d seen Michael Jackson dance across Johnny Carson’s stage. A seed of panic bloomed in Nell’s stomach as she watched Adriana shimmy toward their supervisor’s door. Nell’s attention bounced back to Mary Ann’s desk, but Mary Ann had turned her back, busy transcribing handwritten notes onto official letterhead.

  Oh God.

  The words wheeled their way through Nell’s head.

  Oh God shit goddamnit oh God.

  A flash of pain. A wince between beats of her heart.

  She marched down the center aisle of desks as fast as she could, just short of falling into a full run. She shoved her purse into the little cabinet attached to her desk, tore off the Selectric’s cover and shoved it into the compartment along with her things. Snatching up her coffee mug, she pu
lled her sweater tight across her chest and made for the break room. It was against her better judgment. Logic said to sit down and get to work, but Barrett would have suggested otherwise. Act natural, he would have written. Maybe if she at least looked like she’d been there for a while, Misters Rambert and Bertram would let her tardiness slide—not that she’d ever met them. Men like those spent their days on the golf course, not in a city dying of heatstroke.

  No matter how many times Nell had considered quitting this job, she needed it to pay the rent. Without it, she and Barrett would be sleeping in the ground-floor hallway along with the drifters. Barrett would have to find a job—but how? No matter how smart or good-looking he was, he didn’t speak, only wrote notes on his little yellow pad. Maybe a night stocker at a grocery store or a mechanic at a tire shop . . . a job that didn’t require him to talk to anyone, to interact with customers. And once he did find a place to work, he wouldn’t have time for his writing. That was something Nell wasn’t sure he’d ever forgive her for. Her quitting this job would mean him quitting on his dreams. And then there was the fact that he’d be pulling an eight-hour shift—that was eight hours of him realizing how much better the world was without her in it. Without his sister. The girl who had cost him everything.

  Nell’s hands trembled as she reached for the coffeepot, splashing brew into her Mr. Topsy-Turvy mug. Only three minutes into her shift and she was already sweating beneath the wool knit of her sweater. She stared at the orange bean of a character as she chewed on her bottom lip, wondering what she’d do if the boss sent her home early with an empty Xerox box full of her things. She’d think up an excuse. Something that would make her supervisor, Harriet Lamont, think twice before terminating her. Something that Nell couldn’t have prevented. An accident. No, worse. Much worse. A death. Someone had thrown themselves in front of the B train, took a flying leap right off the platform and onto the rails. She’d seen it with her own two eyes. It was like something out of a nightmare. She doubted she’d ever sleep again.

  Someone stepped into the break room.

  Nell started, turned to see Adriana standing in the doorway. She shot Nell a smile, only making Nell want to scratch her eyes out that much more. She imagined Adriana sinking to her knees, her hands clasped over her bloodied face, crying out in agony while Nell casually walked back to her desk, took a seat, and began her day’s work with blood beneath her nails.

  A mauling. A vicious attack on the train. You should have seen it. I hardly made it in to work at all.

  “Lamont wants to see you,” Adriana said.

  Nell stood silent, picturing Adriana flattened against the third rail. Her body bloodied. Her arms severed. Her guts strewn across a subway platform. People standing around, laughing, laughing because, man, that Adriana Esposito was a bitch.

  Nell lifted her mug from the counter and ducked around Adriana on her way to the supervisor’s office, as though stepping into Lamont’s office was no big deal. She even murmured a “thanks” to the girl who’d turned her in. A criminal showing appreciation to her own executioner. A Salem witch filling her own pockets with stones.

  How many more for me to hit bottom?

  How many licks did it take for the Son of Sam to snap?

  “The world,” Nell whispered to herself, “may never know.” A ghost of a smile caught at the corner of her mouth, but it disappeared just as quickly as it came.

  Harriet Lamont was intimidating. She sat behind a large desk surrounded by so many plants that it made Nell think of Vietnam. And in that jungle, Harriet Lamont was the tiger, ready to pounce on any girl not pulling her weight. Nell hovered in the door while Lamont finished up a call.

  “Well, I don’t care what you have to do, Dan.” She spoke into the receiver. Powerful. Confident. “Just fix it.” It was the way an important person ended a phone call—with a demand and an aggravated hang up. Lamont shot a look toward the office door, steadied her eyes upon Nell, and cleared her throat. “Come in,” she said. “Close the door.”

  Nell did as she was told, certain she was going to burst into sloppy tears long before she managed to take a seat in front of the boss’s desk. She didn’t give a damn about Lamont, really. But if she got fired, what would Barrett think? What would Barrett do?

  “You know we don’t tolerate tardiness around here,” Lamont said, her tone flat. She retrieved a cigarette out of a little silver case, stuck it between her red lips, then lit it with the crystal Ronson tabletop lighter when a cheap gas-station Bic would have done just fine.

  Nell said nothing.

  “Right? ” Lamont was waiting for a response.

  “Yes,” Nell stammered.

  “Yes?” Lamont lowered her chin, giving Nell a look that, up until then, only Nell’s mother could have pulled off. It was stern, riddled with an impressive amount of impatience. Nurse Ratched. Cruella de Vil.

  “Yes,” Nell said, more quietly this time. “I’m sorry. I got stuck . . .”

  “Stuck.” Lamont seemed to grunt the word.

  “At the train station.”

  There was blood everywhere. Adriana was dead. I pushed her onto the—

  Lamont looked both unimpressed and unconvinced. She’d heard that line a million times. “And why should I care about that?” she asked. “If I cared every time one of my girls got stuck at the train station, there wouldn’t be anyone answering phones at R & B.”

  Nell peered down at her coffee mug. It was burning her hands, but she didn’t dare put it on Lamont’s desk. She sat there, clutching it as fiercely as she was clenching her teeth. Because how many Bics could Lamont have bought with the money she’d spent on that fancy lighter? Didn’t that giant varnished desk and having her name on the door make her feel important enough?

  “Look, Nell . . .” Lamont leaned back, took a puff of her cigarette. Sinner. “This is between you and me, okay? You aren’t like the other girls. I gotta say I appreciate that. Dare I say, I like it. God knows we need more girls like you around here. But I’m going to stop appreciating it if this happens again, you understand? If I let you slide, it makes me look bad, and I don’t like looking bad. I’ve got a job to do just like everyone else. Just like you.”

  What if Lamont said that, to keep her job, Nell had to smoke a cigarette? Had to light it with that fancy crystal thing too? What if, to keep her job, Nell had to compromise everything she stood for, everything she had promised Barrett she’d be? What if she had to become a Rambert & Bertram girl, like a Stepford Wife? Maybe that’s why all the girls were so goddamn cruel. Their hearts gone. Souls empty. Brains washed. Robots. Nothing but pretty, high heel–wearing, lipstick-smeared—

  “Hey.” Lamont snapped her fingers. “Earth to Nell.”

  Nell blinked.

  “Yes,” she murmured.

  “Yes,” Lamont echoed, dubious. She exhaled a stream of smoke while studying Nell from across her desk. “I know you don’t have many friends. None here, anyway.”

  Rub it in.

  “The girls here can be a little rough, but they aren’t all bad. Maybe reach out a bit more, try a little harder to make a connection.”

  A flash. A wince. Stress was bad for Nell’s headaches. She wouldn’t be surprised if she ended up nursing a migraine all night after this.

  “It would make things easier,” Lamont promised. “Don’t you think?”

  “Yes.” Nell wanted to disappear into the orange and brown weave of the chair beneath her. Disappear, but not before bringing her coffee cup down on top of Lamont’s skull first.

  Yes, she thought. I’ve thought of that. I think of that every day, you condescending—

  But she cut herself off mid-thought. Because Lamont was, in her own convoluted way, trying to be helpful. Lamont wasn’t going to fire her, which she had all the right in the world to do. She wasn’t going to force Nell and Barrett out onto the street. Pathetic as it was, at that
moment, Harriet Lamont was the closest thing Nell had to what might be considered a friend.

  Lamont sat quietly, as if waiting for Nell to say something, anything. When Nell failed to speak, Lamont shook her head and waved a hand at the door. “All right. Go on, get back to work,” she said. Nell rose, moved to the door. “But Nell . . .”

  She froze, the door ajar, the trill of telephones and the metallic clap of typewriter keys disrupting the hush that had fallen over the boss’s office.

  “I just want to make sure all my girls are happy here. I want you to be happy here.” Lamont gave her that stern, motherly look once more.

  Nell stared at her supervisor, her coffee mug continuing to scorch her hands.

  “All I’m saying is, if you don’t like the life you have, make the life you want.”

  Another zing of pain.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Nell whispered.

  “Don’t be late again.”

  “I won’t,” Nell said, her voice inaudible over the office din. She ducked out of Lamont’s office before the woman decided to say more. Nell knew she meant well, but all her advice had done was make Nell feel smaller than she already did. It had done little but make her want to rage.

  To tell Barrett and rage.

  . . .

  Nell couldn’t get Lamont’s hard-nosed advice out of her head. If you don’t like the life you have, make the life you want. There was no doubt in Nell’s mind that Harriet Lamont had done her share of clawing up the corporate ladder, and she’d made it. She was a big-time boss at Rambert & Bertram, keeping the place running while her bosses putted down a perfectly manicured green. Lamont was a woman who lived by her own advice, and she had a private office with a view of East 44th to prove it.

  Not that Nell wanted to be the boss of anyone. But the more Barrett went out, the lonelier and more desperate she felt. Barrett never revealed where he was going or where he had been. He never bothered to leave notes. Not even a simple Be back soon. He’d simply vanish like a ghost into the shadowed alleys of Brooklyn, then ignore her pointed questions when he returned.