Page 50 of Velvet Cruelty

Chapter Nine

January Whitehall

People have always thought I was stupid. I’m the baby of my family. I couldn’t say ‘spaghetti’ properly until I was twelve. My grades have always been terrible, and I believed everything people told me. Santa’s real. Swallowed gum stays inside you for seven years. Storks deliver babies. Margot and Lachlan made sure kids were never mean to me, but they still laughed when I didn’t know what a ‘sausage party’ was or what ‘420’ meant. I read the wrong parts of the book out loud in English class. Bradley Fox made up a song about me in seventh grade. I still know all the words.

January White,

Can’t read or write.

She’s too dumb to play,

And eats dirt all day.

People have always thought I’m stupid, but after Bobby left my cage, I felt stupid. Bone-deep, soul-piercingly stupid.

I don’t have to question what Bobby told me. Mr. Parker is a bad man. The truth is like a spotlight, shining on years of evidence. Mr. Parker watching me carefully while I ate. Mr. Parker always asking about ballet. Mr. Parker begging mom to watch my classes. But more than that, I remember the fearful look in Zia Teresa’s eyes when she saw me in my wedding dress. Her St. Christopher medallion. A last-ditch attempt to protect me from an impossible situation.

I don’t know if Mr. Parker is a bad man the way the four men in this house are bad men. But he’s not who I thought he was. The marriage I imagined having with him, friendly and respectful if not romantic, was a fantasy. He made me do ballet. He controlled my weight through mom. Who knows what else he wanted to do?

I am exactly what Doc told me I was when I first woke up in this house. A stupid girl who can’t see what’s in front of her face.

Bobby’s visit drains the life out of me. I climb back into bed and doze until Mr. Gretzky appears again, banging on my cage door. “Do you want to wash and eat?”

I don’t want to go anywhere but I know I’ll feel better once I’ve had some food. “Sure.”

He throws me the cloth bag and I cover my face and allow Mr. Gretzky to lead me back upstairs to the bathroom. I have another shower and try not to think about the look on Bobby’s face when I told him I can’t be his wife.

There’s a new outfit beside the shower, a red sundress and black leather flats. Shoes that are barely shoes. What do they think I’d do with sneakers? Hit Mr. Gretzky on the head and try to escape? And where are these outfits coming from? Did Eli do a clothing haul when I got here or something?

The dress feels too small. It isn’t but my breasts are pushing over of the top and the waist is tight. I half expect Mr. Gretzky to tell me to change back into my T-shirt and shorts, but he barely looks at me before throwing the bag over my head and leading me to the food room. Scrambled eggs and buttered toast are waiting for me. At home I was never allowed bread unless Mom was away and even then, Zia Teresa bought expensive sourdough. My toast is plain old sandwich bread. The kind that comes in a bag. It’s incredible.

“Who cooks my food?” I ask Mr. Gretzky. “Can I thank them?”

He ignores me. Five minutes later I’m back in the cage. A week ago, if you’d told me my biggest issue with being kidnapped would be the boredom, I would have said you were crazy. But it is. With nothing to do, my problems cluster around me like mean birds, pecking and squawking.

“Zia,” I whisper. “Please help?”

I’m scared she won’t answer, that her voice has abandoned me like everything else, but then it comes.

Get up, bella.

I get to my feet, feeling clumsy and overexposed in my red dress. “What should I do?”

What do you usually do when you’re bored?

I smile. I know exactly what to do. I’m amazed I didn’t think of it before.

It takes twenty minutes to run through my warm-up scales and then I sing. I sing Adele. I sing The Beatles. I sing Kate Bush. I sing Edith Pilaf. I sing sitting down. I sing pacing the cage. I sing until my voice goes husky and then I keep going. As the hours pass, the sensation of being watched grows stronger, but I don’t care.

Singing is easier than talking. I find strength in the repetition of it, the rise and fall of my voice. The pull of my abdomen. The emotions you can pour into lyrics and behind them. Singing is the easiest way to be me.

Eventually my voice gives out, but it’s okay. I already know what to do next. I take off my flat shoes and practice ballet. There isn’t enough room to dance but using the cage bars as a handrail, I move from position to position, humming Swan Lake. Soon my skin is glowing, and my mind is blissfully empty. When bad thoughts push in, I push them back, re-focusing on the positions. Mr. Parker might have forced me into it, and I might have the wrong body and be stupid, but ballet has made me strong. I’m going to dance every day I’m down here.

I’m practicing dégagé combinations when the basement door bangs open. I freeze in place, one hand on the bars holding me prisoner. It’s not Mr. Gretzky. The silhouette in the doorway is too large.

A thrill runs down my spine. I know who it is. The only person I want to see even less than I want to be held in captivity. Boots pound on the metal stairs and the basement door melts back into darkness. His voice scrapes out from the shadows. “Keep going.”

I freeze. I didn’t realize I’d stopped dancing. I try to start again but my legs are melting into the floor, and I can taste my own teeth.

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