Page 80 of What Happened on Roslyn Street?
“Caldwell,” he says.
“He’s a new friend of mine.” I’m fast to interject, not wanting her to know he and I may be more than friends. “We can’t stay for dinner, but…”
My mother’s expression drops into a look of disappointment. “You can’t? Are you sure?”
“Not dinner,” I say, “but… we can stay for a bit.”
It isn’t much, but it’s enough to make my mother perk up. “Oh, how wonderful!”
I hold my breath as she ushers us inside, half-expecting the garlic ward to keep Margaux at bay. Of course, it doesn’t. She walks into the place with so much confidence that you would think she’s the one living here.
The kitchen is still perfect—it’s a perfect fit for another decade. The walls are pale yellow, and the cabinets are the orange wood you only saw in the 90’s.
My mother keeps the place tidy enough, but it’s outdated and unloved. While she took pride in the home when I was younger, it’s now filled with reminders of my father—and of their messy divorce. The home is the only thing she won from it.
He gambled all our money away, leaving my mother and I to fend for ourselves.
“What about a drink?” My mother bustles around the kitchen with her back to us. “I have hot chocolate.”
I shrug at the others. “Hot chocolate would be fine.”
“We don’t have the good stuff,” my mother says, glancing briefly at Margaux. “Sorry.”
Margaux smiles tightly. “Anything you have is fine.”
“Make yourselves at home then,” my mother says.
The other two do, but Iremain standing.
“I’m going to get something from my room,” I say. “I’ll be quick.”
“Oh!” My mother is likely frowning, but I don’t linger to see it.
I run up to my room, hoping the other two can keep her distracted. The problem with the bird mask is that it’s huge, and the last thing I need is her asking what it is.
I don’t want my mother to be involved inanyof this. She would only get in the way—and put herself in danger while she’s at it.
My room is untouched, though I suspect she comes inside to dust now and then. My bed is perfectly made in plain white colors, and the posters from my teenage years still cover the walls.
I don’t have time to stop and smell the nostalgia. Downstairs, Margaux and my mother are probably having a tense conversation, and I would like to free my friend as quickly as possible.
The mask is hidden in the same spot I’ve always used to stow things away. It’s classic, a loose floorboard in the back of my closet. I move onto my knees and lift the floorboard to reveal the plague doctor’s mask. It’s big enough to take up my entire hiding spot.
I lift the white mask. It has to be the same as the one in the painting. My fingers run over the Strode crest engraved in the mask. After a moment of contemplation, I make my way downstairs.
My mother’s voice carries through the house. “How are those parents of yours, anyway? Your mother is always out of town.”
“She’s in Milan,” Margaux says evenly.
Margaux’s parental supervision, or lack thereof, was always a point of contention for my mother. She’s the typeto know the parents ofallmy friends, and having never met Margaux’s is what she considers a personal slight.
Margaux has always done a good job at deflecting my mother’s questioning, but now that I know the reason for her parent’s secretive nature, I have more to worry about than before.
She never liked any of my friends. They were all bad influences, in her eyes. I’m not sure she’ll approve ofanyonein my life. It only got worse after my father left, with her constantly reminding me I couldn’t trust anyone.
For a time, I believed her, but I know with certainty that I can trust these two.
There’s no saying how my mother would react to the news of Margaux being a vampire, but pitchforks would probably be involved.
