City of Saints & Thieves(27)

Michael had said his parents would probably have breakfast and head straight to church. Maybe I can avoid them until they’re gone? But no, that might raise suspicion, and besides, if I’m really going to stay here, I have to face them sometime.

I tug my jeans and T-shirt on, and pat at my hair. As I walk toward the door, I pass a mirror and halt. Oh boy.

“You’re not fooling anyone, Tina,” I tell my reflection.

There are circles under my eyes. My short hair is clean, but flat on one side. My shapeless, black street clothes make me look exactly like the burglar I am, not anywhere close to being a boarding-school girl.

Michael said there were clothes in the closet—his sister Jenny’s spillover. With a sigh, and shedding my shirt and jeans again as I walk, I head for the closet and heave the doors open.

Spillover doesn’t quite cover it. More like explosion.

The closet is crammed with designer dresses, shirts, and jeans. Sparkles and flowers. Neon and leopard print. Gem-toned silk and virginal white cotton. A rainbow of traditional kanga-print dresses for social events. Shoes, dozens of them, litter the floor. Six-inch heels and strappy gold thong things. Some of them look like they’ve never even been worn.

Knowing full well I might never escape, I plunge in. Jenny is two years younger than me, and I remember her as a little kid with a sticky face who tagged after Michael and me and demanded to be included in our games, but this closet does not say child. I suppose at fourteen she’s already got the body I’ll never have. Swoops and curves are what these dresses require. I wrestle through the racks until I find a green blouse that will cover my tattoos and jeans that don’t have glitter on them. The clothes are way tighter than anything I’m used to, and I tug at the soft fabric, uncomfortable at how much of my body is now revealed. But they seem to be the most modest things Jenny owns, which is maybe why I find them in the back of the closet.

I’m at least already clean. I ran a bath for myself last night, and I have to admit, it was a luxury I could get used to. On my roof I collect rainwater for chilly bucket baths. It’s not so bad, but hot water out of the tap is a small miracle, and given what I’m about to walk into, I need a little miraculousness.

I used pretty much every bottle of smelly stuff I could find in the bathroom. Some of them twice. I realized as I soaked that this is why rich people smell different: They smell rich. Not like flowers; like botany. Washing and conditioning my hair was epic. The dirt under my nails turned out not to be dirt, but a stain, and I had to scrub until my fingers were raw. Only the thought of Mrs. Greyhill’s nose wrinkling if she smelled the street on me kept me going. After I got out, I saw that I’d left a ring of grime around the white porcelain.

Once I’m dressed I kick my old duds under the bed, where I hope the maid neglects to clean. Then I turn to the mirror and look at the effect. Not terrible, I admit. I pull my shoulders out of a slouch and pick through my hair until it looks okay. Braids would be better, but I’ll have to manage with a short ’fro. I check to make sure none of my ink is showing. I put on a perky smile.

I have manners. I gossip with my girlfriends about boys. Ask me where I want to go to university.

For a second, I despair. I can see the wild animal behind my eyes, frantic for a way out, all teeth and claws.

I pull the photo of my mother as a girl out of my pocket and stare at it. Then I look back in the mirror. I lean closer, searching for her in my reflection.

“You can do this,” I whisper. “You just have to lie and smile. Smile and lie.”

And with that rousing pep talk, I put the photo back in my pocket, open the door, and step out.

? ? ?

Hovering around the corner from the dining room, I listen to muted conversation and the refined clatter of silver on china. The voices make my heart thump.

Mrs. Greyhill is saying, “It would have been better, obviously, if Michael had asked permission before he brought her here, but . . .”

I hear footsteps behind me and swivel.

“You slept late,” Michael says.

“What time is it?” I ask, frowning and tugging at the cuffs of my blouse.

“Almost ten. Come on,” he says, forcing a smile. “They’re looking forward to seeing you.” He takes my elbow and without further ado steers me into the dining room. He clears his throat to announce me. And suddenly I’m standing before the Greyhills like a peasant being presented to the king and queen. For a second, no one moves.

Mr. G’s coffee cup hovers just before his lips. He wears a suit and tie. He stares at me like I have two heads. Mrs. G, straightened hair in a perfect twist, pearls in her ears, looks exactly like I remember her, beautiful and severe. Maybe a bit more pinched and pulled. Her face is a portrait of polite malice. The mahogany table spreads out under their elbows like a black pool. It is so shiny that the crystal and china reflect in it like little white boats.

I suddenly feel like my feet have grown two sizes larger. My neck prickles with sweat and I’m worried that my beating heart looks like a trapped frog under my shirt.

And then Mr. G is standing up and walking toward me. I am rooted to the spot. It seems to take forever for him to come around the table. Mrs. Greyhill watches him. He is very pale, tall and square. His shoulders, his jaw, his ears, all cut, strict angles. His eyes are deep set, sharply green, like Michael’s—almost alien. They bore into me.

He extends his hand for a formal handshake. I take it in my clammy palm, trying to remember to keep breathing. I am so close to him, so close to making him pay. He’s right here in front of me. My hand is touching his hand. I can smell his expensive cologne. I could pick up a knife off the table right now and plunge it into his chest. Michael tenses beside me like a stretched rubber band.