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Hi, my name is Orii
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 | Making Mistakes |
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 5 with 11 vote(s)
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| Created: 2009-10-03 13:34:10 |
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Making Mistakes
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Notes: Just a quick idea I needed to write before it got away. It still needs a lot of work.
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The afternoon after the dance I’m at Marie’s place. She’s standing in front of that full-length mirror that’s on the inside of the door of her wardrobe, nervously smoothing the front of a green dress that falls just above her knees. Her dark brown hair falls around her face, she’s wearing it down for once and I can see that it’s a little too thin to really be pretty. There’s something about Marie you notice when you look at her real close—everything about her appearance falls just short of being pretty.
She’s a bit short, and a little too plump for her height. Not fat, the girl isn’t really over weight, but her form is soft and rounded instead of lean and firm. She just looks like a girl who eats good, full meals instead of picking at a salad like those stick-thin models. Her brown eyes are lined shakily in black pencil. You’d think at sixteen she’d have some practice putting on make-up, but the nervous smudges are charming in their way—Marie doesn’t usually put much stock into her appearance. Today she is apparently going to extremes.
She notices my gaze and I lower my eyes and continue straightening her room half-mechanically. There are books to be put back on their shelves and some clothes strewn over the bed to hang back in the wardrobe once Marie moves away from it.
“How do I look?” she asks, turning away from the mirror to see how I, in turn, will reflect her.
“Pretty,” I tell her, half-smiling. “Where you going?”
She blushes and reflexively tucks strands of brown hair behind her ear. “Um,” she says. “I thought I would go to see Marc. Everyone else is and I thought I might be able to tell about the shoe.”
I shake my head. Dåmn that boy for stealing half my only pair of nice dress shoes. And then instead of giving it back he has to put on a dåmn show trying to find me. Never occurred to him that I don’t want to be found. I let Lucinda doll me up and drag me to that dance. I didn’t know how much trouble it would cause me at the time.
“Why are you going to see that boy?” I ask. “You know it wasn’t you he danced with last night.” I let the words drop softly, trying not to let them sting too much and also leaving off how I was the one with Marc last night.
And a lousy partner he was, too. He might have been rich, but he was also half-blind. Maybe he had glasses that he took off that night in hopes of enhancing his appearance, but all it did for him was intensify his inherent clumsiness. He stepped on my heel as I was leaving the dance, trying to convince me to stay longer with him, but I’d about had it with the so-called festivities that night. I didn’t even stop when I lost my shoe, just let it go and hopped back to my apartment to sleep and watch bad movies on the late night TV.
Marie’s face still crumples, as I knew it would. The girl cries far too easily. “I know,” she says softly, rubbing at her eye and smearing the already messy makeup. “I know it wasn’t me, but—well, he could make a mistake, couldn’t he?”
“I suppose,” I say. “From what I can tell he’s half-blind, so I expect you’ve got a good chance.”
She plucks a tissue from the box on the bedside table and wipes at her face, frowning when it comes away covered with eyeliner. “Ellen?” she asks. “Um, can you help?”
I motion to the bed, “Sit,” I say. “I’ve got to get these clothes put away first.”
She complies and I start to pick up the crumpled dresses and skirts from around her. All the outfits she had decided weren’t good enough for today. I smooth them out and put them back in their places.
“Don’t put on makeup much, do you?” I ask, that task finished, sitting beside Marie on the bed and wiping the mess off her face with a few more tissues.
“Father doesn’t like me to,” she mumbles.
Figures. The girl’s father was the sort who wouldn’t be happy until his daughter donned a nun’s habit.
“I’ll show you how, then,” I say.
Her eyes widen a bit, as if I’m offering to teach her a forbidden art.
“You already have the make-up,” I point out to her. “There’s no point in having it if you don’t know how to put it on properly. Go and get your make-up bag.”
I don’t know exactly why I do it, but as I’m helping Marie apply the make-up I start to softly tell her all the details Marc will be asking about. He’s questioning all the girls who show up at his house in hopes that one of them will be me, but I’ll be dåmned if I show up there again. I figure it can’t do any harm for him to think Marie was the one he danced with last night, she wants him to anyways, so it’s good for both of them and good for me because I’ll be off the hook.
I’m not the sort of person who should go to fancy dances like that one last night. Maybe it’s because I get bored easily with all the glitz and glamour or maybe it’s because I am decidedly lower class. I run a cleaning business around the rich section of town, doing menial chores for them what’s too good to do it themselves, and I also work a few shifts as a waitress downtown, anything I can do to earn the money I need. My tastes aren’t exactly for champagne and caviar or any of that crap. I like sitcoms and bad TV movies and stories where it ends happily for everybody.
So when Lucinda, this older lady I work for on the weekends, offered to get me dressed up so I could go with her to this huge dance Marc Gavols was holding, well, I didn’t say no exactly, but I wasn’t looking forwards to it. You can’t say no to Lucinda, though. She’s one of those people—you can tell she never really grew out of playing with dolls. Only now instead of brushing Barbie’s hair she wanted to do mine. It was a dress-up game for her, and I didn’t figure it could do any harm so I played along.
Then we got there and I caught Marc’s eye. Don’t ask me why, because I looked like I was some frumpy duchess or something. But after that he wouldn’t leave me alone. I bet Lucinda must feel so proud of herself for that. She hooked her cleaning lady up with some upper class jerk that walks into walls when you leave him to his own devices. He was younger than me, too. I’m nearly twenty-one and he was barely nineteen. He acted like a kid and dressed like an old man and couldn’t dance at all.
I left pretty soon after our fourth or fifth dance. There were loads of rich girls at the dance who wanted Marc’s attention because he had even more money than they did. At the time I thought he’d stumble into one of them and forget about me. Boy, was I wrong.
But I was fixing it all now, anyways, sending Marie over there. My shoe would fit her and the story would end happily.
Except I would have to get a new pair of heels.
Marie is eyeing me oddly as she applies a coating of pink gloss to her lips.
“You know a lot about Marc,” she says.
I shrug. “I get around,” I say. “Cleaning ladies know everything, don’t you know.”
“I’m not the one Marc danced with last night,” Marie says, leaving the words hanging in the air as if she’s biting back the rest of the sentence.
I brush her thin curls away from her face, pinning a section of them back. “I know,” I say. “But he could make a mistake.”
-The Ending-
Notes: My sister is rubbing off on me. I don't usually write Cinderella type stories, but like I said this one came to me and I had to get it down.
I don't know what I'm going to do with it now....
--0Rii |
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