Daily Fights With Myself

“Breakfast, Amé!”

Hearing her father shout from downstairs is like a wake-up call for Amy. She takes stock of the mess she’s made in her room, the clothes strewn in a hurricane between her wardrobe and mirror. The creak of the stairs makes her flinch.

“I’m getting dressed!” she yells.

The steps flinch and abate, but the countdown has begun. She has one minute before he comes rapping on her door and she’d rather not have that. Just a couple more adjustments are left, anyway. More hair goes under the bonnet, the buttons done tighter, the trousers loosen to conceal her legs and she pushes her glasses all the way up.

With a deep breath, Amy turns to leave only for the sight of her makeup purse on the bed to stop her. It’s never seen the light of day until now. If it weren’t her mother’s, she would’ve probably thrown it away. It’s not like she has anyone to doll herself up for and she’s already hiding plenty of things. Might as well keep one aspect of her genuine.

She opens and shuts the door, turning the key to an imaginary lock. Silly as it is, she likes the memories that come with this ritual. Maybe this time Princess Vanilla can keep the Bespectacled Wolf at bay. Or maybe he’ll force every secret out of her. Amy stomps down the stairs, announcing her presence to her father. The moment she enters the kitchen, he freezes her with his scrutiny. She waits, knees fidgety and breath shallow, but hopeful. With a wide smile, he returns to his frying pan.

Amy sits down at the table and pulls her phone out under the cloth. By muscle memory alone she goes to Mia’s texts. The whole thing has felt like a surreal dream and she’s had to check every waking moment that nothing’s changed and it’s not just part of a surreal joke. They’re still on for today at 10AM, the parking lot behind the Tower. She tightens her lips and pumps her fist.

“So, who is it?” Pierre asks, sliding her a plate of cheese omelette. She blanks out, but collects herself before her father reaches his seat. It’s fine. She can be nonchalant.

“W-what? Pshaw! What are you talking about?”

Amused, he shakes his head, “What’s her name?”

“There is no her. Ho ho ho, silly papa.”

Since she was young, lying to her father was almost impossible. But over the years, she’s discovered a fool-proof technique.

“So you’re blushing and dressing up for boys now, too?” he presses on.

She meets his triumphant grin and huffs, “Witch” then fills her mouth with eggs.

“If I were a witch, I’d know, not ask,” Pierre says, taking a sip of coffee. “Is she cute?”

“I’m not talking to demons!”

“So yes. Comme c’est drôle.”

“Stop speaking in tongues!”

“Will you ever learn French?”

“Ta boule!”

“Really?”

“It’s all the French I need in London!”

“What’s her name?”

“Mia –“

Almost slipped. The banter was meant to get her guard down, enough to sneak in a sucker punch. Unfortunately for him, Amy’s not that clueless. In turn, she was testing the waters. The tension in his brow is all she needs.

“–lyn,” she adds, expecting an unconvinced leer.

“Mialyn? Interesting…where is she from?”

“England.”

“Figures…” he says dejected, finally taking his first bite. Amy holds in a relieved sigh. Pierre only eats when he’s content. From then it’s just the basic drill, when she’ll be back, where they’re going, what they’ll be doing. He swallows his breakfast with a healthy dose of half-truths. Anything more and he’ll choke.

When he picks up the plates and loads the dishwasher, Amy slips into the hallway. The school’s quite a trip away and punctuality is critical. She browses her choice of shoes, Pierre passing through only to head towards the living room. Another conversation avoided. She puts her nicest boots on with a concealed smirk.

A jingle. Car keys. Amy winces. Pierre returns, fixing the collar on his shirt and flattening the bed from his hair.

“Where are you going? Amy asks, dread seeping through her composure.

“Giving you a ride. I’ve been waiting for a reason to drive when the traffic isn’t merde.”

“Can you… not? It’s embarrassing.”

A prepared excuse, but a weak one. He narrows his eyes.

“I’ll see her soon anyway. At that,” disgust sneaks in his tone, “festival thing.”

“Yeah, but… can’t you wait until then?”

A good lie is indistinguishable from truth. A great lie tells it without anyone noticing. Amy’s chin dips as she cracks the front door open.

“I’m… not sure about her. And she’s amazing so I’d rather not start things awkwardly. I know it’s every parent’s dream to make their child uncomfortable, but can you scratch that itch another day?”

She keeps her head down, hiding the thin, bitten line of her lips. Pierre approaches without a word, a menacing quiet. Amy expects another bout, but instead his arms coil around her. If possible, he’d keep her there forever, locked in his grasp. But even so, it’s a warm feeling. The rumble in his chest carries a note of approval.

“Oh, Amé… are you really that worried?”

She nods, no acting.

“Well, you shouldn’t. You’re a smart, funny and jolie girl.”

“What about pretty?”

“You are pretty… sweaty. Pretty despite sweaty?”

“I heard the ‘natural’ look is pretty chic.”

“Well, you won’t see pit stains on a cat walk. But who knows what these foux-riches will come up with next?”

They share a chuckle, before he lets her go. Amy pats her pockets for her phone and purse, then fishes her housekeys from the basket next to the front door.

“I’ll text you when I’m coming back.”

“Aren’t you hot wearing all that?”

Deny, don’t quip. “I’m fine,” she drawls all the way around the corner. Without his gaze on her, she reaches into her pocket and pulls out a couple tissues from her purse. She never leaves home without them. Hot flashes have been her thing for a long time now. In her heyday, she’d go on stage to collect awards and everyone thought she was just a cute, happy kid. Even Pierre saw just that ‘genuine’ joy, ignoring the red face it was set upon. The first time he clapped along instead of leering, she knew she had perfected her act.

But even the best actors have their weak spots.

She gets on the bus and at once, everyone turns to her. Watches her. They know everything about her and can’t help shooting daggers of disdain. She can put on music to hush their whispers and count the red post-boxes on the side of the road, the heat keeps building up. When she gets off, the mild autumn sun is scorching.

She’s never been to the academy in casual wear. Or on a Saturday. Or to meet up a friend. But it’s normal for people to do it, she’s heard plenty of weekend plans discussed in class and a lot of them start at Astella. She pokes her head over the fence, wondering if there’s anyone there, waiting for someone. No one in the main courtyard, nor any of the benches. Good, she’d rather not have to explain anything to anyone.

She doesn’t even want to imagine what people would do when they found out she’s gone to the Astellas. They’d probably shatter with jealousy, then pick their jaw off the floor and ask a tonne of questions. Is it this and that, is she the same at home as she is at school, what about her father? But why were you there? Did you beg her? Bribe her? Did you deserve to be there? Her stroll turns into a fast walk.

So what if she didn’t? Mia invited her and she had no reason to say no. She’s been taken with her for such a fruitless eternity that seeing her break character made her weak. Made her forget her place in the pecking order. It’s not like she’ll have to pay for her insolence. The birds perched on the powerlines aren’t craning their heads after her. The fence grates aren’t sawed through. That black car with tinted windows isn’t following her. It hasn’t slowed down to trail behind her only to pick up the slack when she’s started running and it’s not slowly overtaking her and pulling up in front and that stick-figured silhouette that came out isn’t chasing her. She’ll just pass by.

A hand touches her shoulder. Amy’s entire body quakes. She puts her hands over her ears and drops to a crouch.

“Please don’t kidnap me, my kidneys won’t sell on the black market!”

Her kidnapper chuckles. A clear, crystalline sound.

“But I wanted to keep you all for myself,” Mia says.

“L-like a slave?”

“More like a puppy.” Mia bows down, her hand running the length of the couple stands loosened from under Amy’s bonnet. It’s soothing, but does nothing to lower her pulse. “A very sweaty puppy.”

Amy looks up, finding the daily mask resting on Mia’s face. But there’s a clumsy feel to how she’s stroking her, a touch of nervousness or excitement. Amy squeezes her eyes shut, then opens them wide and determined. To think that Mia shares the tiniest fraction of her feelings is a precious rush of dopamine.

She leaps to her feet and Mia soon follows. For a while they look blankly at each other, neither willing to budge. Mia’s wearing a sundress, the white hem flowing free in the breeze while a network of sky-blue ribbons cages her chest. It’s the first time Amy’s been this close to her in broad daylight.

“You look cute,” Amy says, slapping her mouth. So cute that all her defences have lowered.

A glimmer passes through Mia’s eyes, but only there. “Thanks, you too!”

The driver’s door opens, then closes with a specific loudness. It’s like Mia changes gears from innocent to assertive. She grabs Amy’s wrist, “Come on!” and hauls her into the car. The locks click closed, the engine hums and the seat cushions swallow Amy as the limo peels into traffic. A procedure so well-rehearsed that Amy’s scared to secure her seatbelt. But it’s only natural someone like Mia would be adept at abductions.