The Storm Before The Storm

It’s just a car ride. Mia hopes repeating that mantra will keep her still, but it’s ineffective at best. Nothing she’s seen through the limo’s windows has excited her this much. The high-rise glass-paned buildings slowly level into quaint little squares. They’re cute, like old people; the walls have wrinkled paint and bald spots and the doors and signs creak in the wind. But, most importantly, it’s where Amy lives; it’s a trip to her world, her home.

When they veer off the main road, Amy yields an almost imperceptible sigh. Mia’s grin subsides. She gives Amy a subtle glance, confirming her concerns. The exterior is well-built, the quiet girl, lost in thought but alas, she can’t hide the worry behind her eyes. It makes her jaw twitch and leaves her lips half-parted, curling on silent words. When they stop, she squeezes them shut, then dashes out into the storm.

“Amy?”

Mia follows along, splashing through the puddles. Her skirt is wet and so is her hair, but she doesn’t care. She finds Amy in front of the door, key teasing the lock, both eager and afraid to go in.

“Amy!”

“Yeah?”

“What was that?”

A deceptive smile, “I’ve missed running through the rain.”

“Really?”

“It’s fun. Refreshing. A couple seconds and you feel like a new person.”

“You’re acting weird…”

“I’m a little goofy, a little –“

“Just weird.”

Amy relents a deep breath. She slots the key in, turning it as slowly as she can. The pins fall into place, thundering louder than gongs. She flinches, but Mia doubts it’s from the noise.

“Is something wrong?”

“I – have no clue.”

“I see,” Mia smiles, letting her head fall. “I’m… really happy you let me come.”

“I know.”

“I still wanted to say it. I –“

Amy jabs a finger in her face, silencing her. “You’re too honest,” she says, tapping her nose. It’s a shy touch, full of tenderness; it makes her blush, but only because Amy’s done the same. It could be she's embarrassed to be called out, but she can’t help it. Speaking her mind is so liberating and Amy’s the only one she feels comfortable to do it with.

“Is that bad?” Mia stutters.

“No. It’s – sweet. And helpful. Thanks.”

Amy pushes the door open, the house greeting them with its warm, savoury breath. Mia hears shuffling from the left and soon enough, another door opens with steam billowing out, draping around a thin silhouette. It’s a tall man with gaunt features and, after he wipes his foggy glasses, she sees his eyes, set in a seeking glint. He waves his hand, half to fan himself, half to beckon them in.

“There you are! Took you long enough,” he taunts.

“Yeah, have you looked outside?” Amy replies. She wipes her feet on the welcome mat, then toes off her boots.

“The weather doesn’t affect cars.”

“Cats and dogs slow them down.”

“As if. A monsoon wouldn’t impede that thing.”

Amy approaches, determined but slow, like a ram preparing to charge. He follows her intently, halfway between playful and sceptical.

“But traffic will. You know, like –“

“Parents picking up their children?”

“See, it’s your guys' fault!”

He brushes the hair off her forehead and gives her a kiss, “Not mine. I’m a stay-at-home dad.”

She recoils, but it’s all part of their little game. His hands wrap around her and she returns a long, sincere hug. Mia watches on, but only for a second. It’s an intimate moment and, much as she wants one of her own, she won’t steal theirs. Confused, she lingers in the doorway, waiting for –

His glare. It’s loaded, friendliness belying a hostile intensity. She was bred to detect and withstand ballrooms full of that but, coming from Amy’s father, it feels odd. Familiar and discomforting at the same time.

“And you must be the kidnapper!”

His tone says humour, but his gaze betrays threats. Amy slaps his side.

“Dad!”

“What? She stole my daughter!”

“Urgh! Ta boule!”

“And,” Mia interjects, “brought her home.”

“To claim your ransom, for sure.”

“It does smell amazing, sir.”

“Mr Arouet,” he corrects. “I’m not a knight.”

“Respect knows no title.”

He snorts, “Good one. You should tell that to your father.”

Mia blinks twice, keeping her eyes from shooting wide. Mr Arouet disappears into the kitchen, leaving Mia dazed and Amy a frozen statue. Mia starts towards her, but she only manages a step before his voice sounds again, a jovial chiding.

“Shoes, please! I’ve just wiped the floors.”

Polished them too. She slides off her boots, inspecting the hallway. No speck of dust and the shoes aligned with a ruler. The whole place is spotless, sterile even. It feels off and Amy notices it too. Too many unanswered questions rest on her face.

“What did you tell him about me?” Mia whispers.

“Nothing. Not even a name.”

“The food’s getting cold!” Mr Arouet shouts.

The same caution furrows both their brows, Amy the first to shake it off. She draws a false assurance on her lips, trying to pass it on with a tap on Mia’s shoulder. It helps, but it’s not enough. They enter the kitchen with slow, wary strides.

It’s an uneasy atmosphere, but Mia can’t say why. The lights are dimmed and heavy, while the smooth jazz coming from an invisible speaker sounds shrieking and abrasive. She sits opposite Mr Arouet, with Amy settling between them. The cushion is comfortable, but scratchy and well-worn and the flickering candle flame reveals old stains on the immaculate tablecloth. Their plates lie under silver lids, the same sheen as the cutlery.

It feels like déjà vu. A suspicion takes seed in Mia’s mind and, clutching the handle, she voices it.

“Chicken Tikka Masala?”

Mr Arouet lifts the lid with a smirk, “Good nose. I hope you like Indian.”

“It’s – my favourite.”

“But you hate it, dad.”

Mia could swear he shot his daughter a leer, but Amy looks unenthused. He takes a quick bite, the pleasured moans that follow carrying an exaggerated note, “What gave you that idea?" He turns to Mia, "Dig in, now. It's not poisoned."

A nervous chuckle spreads across the table. For a long while, they simply eat. The saxophone lilts in the background, interrupted by chewing and the scraping of metal on fine china. Mia peeks at Amy; her cheeks are close to bursting. It’s adorable; she shouldn’t grin, but her mouth curls against her will. As if on cue, Mr Arouet clears his throat.

“So, Mia. How do you like it?”

They lock stares, Mia’s guard raising straight away. There’s something about him that makes even the most inoffensive questions carry a hint of menace. Unwittingly, she switches gears. Her voice grows steady and methodical, taking on her father's business guise.

“It’s delicious. You’re a splendid cook, Mr Arouet.”

“Now, now, let’s not get ahead of ourselves. I’m sure you’ve had better.”

“That doesn’t make yours bad.”

“But it makes it worse. And if I’m not the best, then I might as well be last, correct?”

“Dad…”

“What?” he whines. “It’s what your school says.”

“That’s not – I don’t – what?”

“All the glamour around that fete, all the gaudy, insufferable displays. It’s all meant to prove something. That prestige is your blood and that puts you above all. Right, Mia?”

It's an obvious trap, but she triggers it anyway. It's the fastest way to make him play his cards, revealing his true colours.

“That’s… true.”

“But there’s a problem with that. Prestige,” he pouts, wide-eyed and innocent, “isn’t in my blood. It can’t be in yours either, Amé.”

“What are you saying?” Amy frowns.

“Nothing,” he marvels. “But I find it a bit dubious that you are the spearhead of that event. Feels like putting a beggar in charge of the treasury.”

“Is that… how you see me?”

“It’s how they see you. Right, Mia?”

“Wrong.”

“Your father would disagree.”

“Sure he would. But I’m better than him.”

“Hard not to run faster than a cripple.”

“He is rather stunted.”

“Umm, dad, what’s –“

“Still,” Mr Arouet presses. Amy winces, the strength of his voice commanding her silence. Funny how she envied their relationship only moments earlier. Turns out their similarities run deeper than expected. “Don’t you think it’s funny?” he continues, “How everything is unfolding?”

“It’s going fine.”

“Is it? We must not feel the same about sabotage.”

“How do you know about that?” Amy mumbles. “I never – did you –”

"It was my job, Amé. Until I met Edward Astella."

The venom dripping from that name makes it all clear. The sudden invitation, the warm reception, all to lull her in with a false sense of security. He knows every secret Amy's tried keeping from him and Mia understands why. The Astellas are his enemy and he'll stop at nothing to vanquish them.

“I’ll paint you a picture, Mia,” he says, his saccharine voice rife with contempt. “I want to fire an employee, but I'm a sadist. The easy way isn't enough. I want to humiliate them. What do I do?"

“You give them a promotion, knowing they’re unfit for it. They’ll struggle for a while, displaying their incompetence every step of the way,” Mia replies resigned.

"All the while making sure that everything that can go wrong will go wrong."

“So that when they fail, it’ll be spectacular.”

“Exactly. Rings a bell?”

“Bell?” Amy laughs, a laugh that’s not hers. “Ho ho ho, there are no bells.”

“It’s an idiom, Amé.”

“An idiot?”

“A saying.”

“Says who?”

“Says me. You were doomed from the start, chérie...”

Amy sits up with a start, her chair almost toppling behind her. She’s drenched, trembling and wearing a brittle smile.

“I don’t know what you’re t-talking about, haha.”

“Amé… you're a smart girl,” Mr Arouet offers. From fierce combatant to empathetic father, the change happens in a second. “But you're just a pawn in the grand scheme of things.”

“There is no scheme –“

“He’s using you.”

“Course he is. I’m his organiser, duh?”

“He wants to show everyone you’re not good enough, wake up!” he shouts. When calm once more, he slicks back his hair and faces off with Mia. “And she’s probably in on it.”

The music stops, allowing the full weight of his words to fall on them like a guillotine. If keeping her cool until now was easy, it’s unbearably difficult now. Mia can hold her clenched fists between her legs, but she can’t hide the vein popping on her temple. He loves seeing it, but hearing Amy’s hiccoughs wipes that joy clean off.

They both look at her, watching her struggle to speak the hurricane that’s on her mind, all the while working overtime to appear unfazed. But even she knows she’s failed. A shadow of reluctance crosses over her face, dragging out sparse tears. She flashes pleading eyes to Mia, then an attempt at stoicism to her father.

“Y-you’re wrong, haha! You and your silly conspiracies,” she hums, stumbling towards the exit.

“It’s the truth,” he retorts.

“But it can’t be!”

“Why not?”

“Because! Mia’s my f-friend, haha… She would never – never do something like this.”

“Amé…”

"You're just wrong! You'll see! In three days, the fete will run amazing and everything will be great. You'll come to the show and enjoy the food and you'll tell me what a good job I've done and how I've overcome the odds and how I'm not just a pathetic nobody who lucked out of every trouble and Mia will be there too! And you'll see she's cute and amazing and I struggle to appreciate that because she's not an evil, elitist megalomaniac! You'll see! You'll see when everything turns out great, good night!"

For once, Mia and Mr Arouet look the same. Perturbed and uncomfortable, they listen to the drumming of Amy’s footsteps, leading upstairs to her room. The door shuts weakly behind her. If they’re to keep talking, they’ll have to keep their voices low. But there’s little they have to say to each other. He hates her and she appreciates his sincerity. And how he takes accountability.

He sighs, rubbing at his eyes in hope to clear the thoughts behind them. It’s a hard ask when you’ve tried to keep your daughter safe and all you've managed is to make her cry. Mia cab appreciate that too. She gets up, tiptoeing out of the room; he needs some space and she wants – no, needs – to speak to Amy.

“Where are you going?” he rasps.

“To her.”

“It’s the first door to your right. You'll find it's raining. We're too poor for ceilings."

Even now, he won’t abandon the vitriol. It reminds Mia too much of Hana to ignore it.

“You’ve raised a lovely daughter, Mr Arouet.”

“She is naïve,” he coughs. “I don’t want her to suffer like I did.”

“She won’t. My father –”

"Save the proselytising," he mocks. "You're gonna tell me I'm wrong about him, right?"

"No. He's vile and loathsome. It hurts me to know your suppositions are right."

“Please. Don’t kid yourself. Fruit doesn’t fall far from the tree.”

"I don't want Amy to suffer either, Mr Arouet."

"Really? And all the 'assistance', all the 'perks' you've given her. Not used to mock a commoner, correct?" he hisses.

"I like her, Mr –"

“Get the fuck out of my house.”

His order is loud, but with no strength behind it. Mia's given him reason enough to doubt himself, doubt the convictions he's built a life on. He'll change, she's sure of that, but it'll take time. For now, he won't like her going to his daughter, but he won't stop her either.

“Mr Arouet?” she offers from the doorway.

“What?”

"For what it's worth, I'm sorry. For what my father has done to you."

“Spare me your platitudes.” Mia chuckles. "What's so funny?"

"I was just musing, sir. You hate my father so much, but you're two peas in a pod."

The little gasp following her wake ensures Mia she's hit him hard and deep. She takes no joy from it, though. Kicking a man at his lowest – she hates it, but sometimes it's the only way to make them rise again. She shakes her head of any trace of remorse and heads upstairs.

A soft melody guides her to a door left ajar. If she didn't know it was Amy, she wouldn't have recognised it; she sounds minuscule. For a while she ponders with her hand on the knob. Will she help or disturb? What will she say? But really, it doesn't matter. Selfish as it might be, she won't be a bystander to her sadness. She pushes the door open, careful not to make a sound.

“Amy?”

The song stops. Mia proceeds with caution, every step running the threat of her slipping on the multiple papers scattered across the floor. They're documents for the fete, charts, inventories, diagrams. All for something that's meant to go up in flames. The little guilt Mia feels, she uses to fuel her drive to help her out of that.

She plops on the bed next to a pile of clothes growing seamlessly from the blanket. Swimming among them is a shivering white skirt with a pair of pale legs poking out of the layers of tights, leggings and trousers. Mia thinks of pinching them, but decides against it. It's a little – much. She pats the pile instead.

“Amy?”

“Amy’s not here," comes a muffled reply. "She’s in hoodieville.”

“I’m sure there’s more than –“

The pile shivers and spits Amy out. She spills onto the floor, her face swallowed by a pink, puffy hoodie several sizes too big. Cute. Mia crouches next to her, fighting the urge to –

“C-can I hug you?”

It’s so sudden a request it surprises them both, more so when Amy whimpers and nods. It doesn’t take long for Mia to regret it, however. The closer she gets, the more nervous she becomes. Amy looks so fragile and she hasn’t hugged someone in forever. Her arms feel like noodles wrapping around her, then dangerous vices when she tightens her hold. What if she squeezes too hard? Is she suffocating? She’s breathing hard, is she crying again –

“Thanks,” Amy says. “And sorry my father’s such a fart.”

It's all good. They sit in silence, the storm beating against the window in a soothing rhythm, their heartbeats almost in sync. There’s really no need for words; it’s enough to just be. Slowly, they start rocking, back and forth, back and forth. It’s not too long before they each stifle yawns.

“It’s okay,” Mia replies after an eternity. “I know the feeling.”

“I’m sorry about that.”

“Stop apologising.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Amy!”

“I do that when I’m… broken.”

“You’re – a baby.”

“I am pretty small.”

“I could put you in my pocket.”

“That sounds like fun. Where would you take me?”

“Do you like the sea?”

“I sink.”

“I’ll keep you afloat.”

“I’ll flail.”

“I’m pretty strong.”

“What if I drown?”

“I know first aid.”

“Mia?”

“Yes?”

Suddenly, Amy emerges from her cocoon, eyes stuck between wish and wonder. She turns around to face Mia. She's not broken anymore. Her loose pieces have come together in a shy smile that gets nearer – and nearer. Until it kisses her cheek.

“I –" Amy stutters, "think I like you.”