By late afternoon, the sun had shifted to the back lawn. That was my cue.
The door creaked when I opened it — I liked that. Sound told the truth.
The back field was still golden with summer. Yellow grass, a few lazy butterflies, the faint scent of mint from the garden patch Ami always forgot to weed. Somewhere near the edge, I could hear the low grunt of the tortoise.
"Racers!" I called, stretching both arms wide, "Prepare yourselves!"
Floof barked like a pistol shot and took off, legs flailing sideways as usual. Behind him, the rabbits skittered from their resting spots. The birds flapped low and wide across the lawn, dipping between hedges.
And the tortoise — bless him — moved precisely one toe forward.
"Floof!" I shouted, running barefoot through the grass, my braid flying like a whip behind me. "You're disqualified if you cheat again!"
He barked and cut left through the rose bushes. A cowardly move. Typical.
The grass tickled underfoot. I could tell by the air who was ahead — the heavy panting of Floof, the flitter-flutter of bird wings, the deep drag of the tortoise's shell against dirt.
I laughed — one loud, rare sound — as I sprinted across the field, chasing them all.
For a moment, the mansion was gone. The gate. The forest. My eyes. All of it. Just a girl, a field, and a race no one cared who won.
A drumbeat broke the silence — soft at first, then louder.
Duh-da-dum. Da-da-da-da-dum-dum.
I skidded to a stop. Floof stopped, too, tongue lolling.
"Arnold?" I called.
The beat came again. Congas.
We turned toward the porch, and there he was — barefoot like me, a dish towel over one shoulder and a set of wooden drums balanced on his lap.
"Miss Pecola!" he shouted with a grin. "You gonna let a dog win your championship?"
"He cheated!" I yelled back. "It's disqualification!"
"Well then," he said, rising slowly, his old joints cracking. "That means you and me are tied."
He started to play — rhythm pulsing like a heartbeat — and I stepped toward him with careful timing.
One step. A slap of drum. Two steps. My fingers snapped in rhythm.
He played faster. I matched.
The animals gathered at the edge of the lawn, confused or impressed. Possibly both.
Arnold spun, his feet barely grazing the grass, his apron flaring like a skirt.
"Teach me the stove-top shuffle!" I shouted, laughing again.
He nodded, serious now. "Only if you teach me the barefoot bookworm twist."
I jumped, twisted mid-air, and landed in a crouch. The beat followed me.
We spun.
We swayed.
We danced in a patch of dying sun while the wind whispered and the birds heckled us from their nests.
Then the drums slowed.
He was breathing heavier now. His hand tapped one final dum.
"I'll be sore in the morning," he muttered, chuckling.
"You're sore now," I said, and handed him a glass of water.
He drank half. "Smart as a whip," he said. "You ever think about performing, Pecola? Dancing? You've got rhythm in your bones."
"I'm not a performer," I said softly. "They'd want me to smile."
He looked at me. Really looked.
Then his smile dropped just slightly. "No... you're right. You're more of a... philosopher in motion."
I nodded. "And you're a poet with vegetables."
He laughed loud — from the belly.
Then he looked out across the yard, toward the edge of the tree line.
"Back when I was younger," he said, quieter now, "we used to have nights like this every week. My wife, my son, his cousins. We'd dance like fools."
He looked down at the congas, the smile softening.
"Been five years since I saw them."
I said nothing.
He reached out, touched the top of my head like a blessing. "You remind me of him. Of my boy. He didn't know how to stop asking questions, either."
"Is that why you came here?"
He looked up, the sunset reflected in his eyes.
"No. I came here because I couldn't afford to stay with them."
That silence again.
Heavy. Familiar.
But before it could swallow us, he clapped his hands once and pointed toward the house.
"Dinner. And you're setting the table, unless you wanna scrub the whole oven."
I turned toward the door. "You call that a threat?"
He grinned. "I call it a partnership."
Floof barked like he agreed.
Later, I sat cross-legged in the middle of my room, legs tucked under my white dress like a question folded in on itself.
The braid was getting messy again.
I pulled out the ribbon and began to unwind it — slowly, feeling each twist with deliberate care. My fingers moved the way Ami taught me. Firm but gentle. Don't pull the strands. Feel where they want to go. Let the curl tell you its story.
My braid was long now — past my shoulder, almost to the curve of my ribs. It used to scare me, the idea that something could grow without me seeing it. But now, I liked the sound it made when I swung it.
Swish.
I reached for the small hand mirror on my vanity. I didn't need it, but I always brought it close when I fixed my hair. Like a habit someone else left behind and I just... inherited.
I held it up.
My glowing eyes stared back. Or didn't. I'm not sure which.
There weren't any pupils. Just soft light, like moons behind a curtain. Ami once called them beautiful. Joy called them "unsettling." Mother said they were "the cost."
I traced the edge of the mirror's frame, fingertips gliding along the cool metal vines curling around the glass.
People said you could see yourself in a mirror. That seemed strange. I knew what my face felt like — the way my brows arched slightly, the shape of my nose, the curve of my jaw. That was more real to me.
I touched my lips — soft. Quiet. I didn't speak much unless it was necessary.
Sometimes I said things that made people uncomfortable. I didn't mean to.
Once, at dinner, Joy asked if I thought she looked fat in a photo.
I told her: "Fat is a measurement, not a judgment."
She threw her fork across the room.
People don't always want the truth. They want the sound of truth without the weight of it.
I re-braided my hair slowly. One section at a time, tight at the root. My fingers found the rhythm easily. Over-under. Over-under. I smoothed each strand, feeling the curl resist and then yield.
Then I said it.
"College."
Just one word. Quiet. Like I was afraid someone would hear.
I said it again, louder. "College."
No one answered. Just Floof shifting in the corner and the faint creak of the mansion's bones.
"I want to go," I told the mirror. "Not just pretend."
The mirror stayed silent.
"Not the pretend kind Mother likes. The one where you sit in books and the teachers are real and there are essays. And maybe I fail some. But not because someone made me."
I stared into the space where my reflection lived.
"I don't want to be a painting in a museum no one touches."
The wind outside pressed its face against the windowpane. A low howl. A question maybe.
I pressed the end of my braid flat and tied it off with the ribbon again. Tight. Neat.
Then I set the mirror down.
And for a long time, I just sat.
Not moving.
Just breathing, and listening, and letting the word "college" echo in my head until it became something sacred.
The bell rang.
Not the chime of morning carriages or Ami's quiet summons from the kitchen — the other one. The tall bell that echoed in the walls. That meant family.
Floof flinched before I did. He always did. The sound made his fur stand up in little ridges along his back, like static. He gave a low huff, then disappeared beneath the vanity.
I stood from the floor, wiped the dust from the back of my dress, and pressed my palm against the mirror one last time. The glass was cold. My reflection didn't change. It never did.
"Come on," I whispered, crouching near the vanity. "We practiced this."
Floof's nails tapped across the floor as he reluctantly padded out. His tail curled between his legs, already knowing what I would say. He hated the closet.
I opened it.
The smell of cedar and old shoes rushed out like a secret escaping. I hated the closet too. It was small. Too small for a dog who dreamed in wide fields.
He looked up at me with his mismatched eyes — one brown, one foggy white. The one that looked a little like mine. Like fate had been careless and left a matching mark.
"You'll be okay," I told him. "I'll leave it cracked."
He whimpered once. Then stepped in.
I closed the door until it clicked softly. Then pressed my forehead against the wood.
"I'll be fast," I said. "I promise."
Downstairs, Arnold's voice carried like honey in hot tea. Warm, sweet, too loud for the silence of the mansion.
"Miss Pecola!" he called, his voice light, with that jazz vibrato curling every syllable. "Tell me you're dressed — I made roast duck!"
I stepped into the kitchen. The heat greeted me first — rich, herby air that smelled like rosemary and browned butter.
Arnold stood over the stove, towel slung over one shoulder, stirring with theatrical precision.
"You like the shoes?" he asked, spinning on his heel to reveal a brand-new pair of polished black loafers. "Got 'em for the occasion."
"They squeak," I said plainly.
He paused.
"Ah, right." He chuckled. "That's how you noticed."
"They sound like rubber geese."
Arnold barked a laugh so loud it made a spoon clatter into the sink.
"Miss Ami!" he called over his shoulder. "She said my shoes sound like waterfowl again!"
Ami's voice came from the hallway — soft and measured. "Then perhaps don't wear them when trying to impress."
"I am always trying to impress," Arnold declared. Then he turned to me, dropping his voice low. "Now, darling — your mother and sister will arrive any moment. Let's pretend the house is happy."
I tilted my head.
"How do you pretend a house is happy?"
Arnold blinked. "Well. You clean it. You put on music. You smile."
"That's what people do when they're hiding something," I said.
Arnold gave me a long look. Then went back to basting the duck.
"Exactly."
Ami appeared in the doorway in her usual grey shawl and pale slippers. Her hands were clasped neatly.
"Pecola," she said gently. "They'll be here before the hour is out. Would you like to go light the lanterns?"
"Will they think we're mourning something?" I asked. "Lanterns are for vigils."
Ami blinked slowly. Then smiled. "That depends on what you're mourning."
Upstairs, I lit each oil lamp with shaking fingers. The house held its breath. Every creak under my heel sounded too loud. Every spark too bright.
I stood by the window when I heard the wheels crunching on gravel. Then voices.
Mother's voice — sharp, clipped, controlled. Joy's — sing-song, dripping sugar over venom.
Floof whimpered once behind the closet door.
I closed my eyes.
The door downstairs opened.
Dinner had begun.
I could tell it was them by the sound of their shoes.
My mother's heels were always sharp. Not in pitch — in rhythm. One-two, one-two. Like she was counting each step to prove something. Joy's were soft, like her shoes didn't fit properly. She never laced them all the way. Said she liked to "float."
I stood by the base of the stairs, waiting. My braid was freshly tied. My hands were still slightly sticky from the lantern oil. I didn't know what to do with them, so I folded them in front of me.
Arnold opened the door and let them in with a performer's flourish.
"Mrs. Ennui," he said, voice smooth like he practiced it. "And Miss Joy. A pleasure."
Mary brushed past him without replying. Her perfume struck first — lavender and vinegar. Joy offered a light "Hi, Arnie" that sounded more like a sigh.
Mary's presence moved like smoke into the room, invisible but heavy.
She stopped when she saw me.
"Well," she said. "You're tall now."
I wasn't. But I said, "Thank you."
Joy made a sound like a fake cough and kissed the air near my cheek. "Hey, Half-Blind."
"I'm all blind," I corrected. "Mostly."
Joy laughed. "Oh my god."
"Joy," Mother said tightly. "Let's try to be graceful."
We moved into the dining room.
The table had been set with the nice silverware — the ones that clinked too loudly and smelled faintly of lemon polish. I sat across from Joy. Mother sat at the head of the table. Ami stayed in the kitchen until called. Arnold served.
"Duck," he announced. "With citrus glaze and charred leek."
He bowed slightly at me, like I'd helped.
I could feel my mother watching me as he served my plate.
"You've... gained weight," she said.
"I haven't," I replied.
"You certainly feel heavier," she insisted, sipping wine. "You used to be featherlight."
"I'm older now," I said.
"Older doesn't mean dense."
Joy giggled into her napkin. "Maybe she's been eating Arnold's food. You know, secretly. She sneaks into the kitchen at night like a raccoon."
"I don't," I said. "And raccoons can see."
Mary set down her fork.
"Enough," she said. "Joy, don't tease. Pecola, don't be so serious."
"I'm always serious," I said.
A silence fell. The clinking stopped.
Then Arnold cleared his throat and changed the subject. "Miss Pecola's been painting again."
Mother lifted an eyebrow. "Is that so?"
"In the library," Arnold added.
Joy scoffed. "What's she paint? Black?"
"I painted a tree yesterday," I said.
Joy rolled her eyes. "Amazing."
Ami entered with a second course — carrots glazed in molasses, her steps soft. She gave me a small smile. I nodded back.
Joy stabbed her carrots. "This is sweet," she muttered.
"It's molasses," I said.
Joy's fork froze mid-air.
Mary turned her gaze to me fully now. Her tone changed. I felt the shift like wind behind a locked door.
"You've been... ambitious lately," she said slowly. "Ami tells me you spend much of your time reading."
"Yes."
"Why?"
I paused. "To prepare."
"For what?"
"College," I said simply.
Joy choked on her water.
Mary did not laugh.
"College," she repeated. "Darling."
I waited.
"That's... optimistic."
"I applied," I said.
Joy's jaw dropped. "What? You—?"
"I forged your signature. Arnold helped me scan it."
The air in the room thickened instantly.
Arnold dropped a spoon. "I—uh—"
"I only helped with the scanner," he muttered.
Mary leaned forward. "You forged—?"
"I can't write cursive," I admitted. "But I traced it. There was a sample in the hallway drawer."
Joy wheezed. "Oh my god."
Mary's voice turned to ice. "You applied without permission?"
"I needed a recommendation letter," I explained. "I wrote it myself and signed Ami's name."
Ami paled. "Pecola—"
"But I used good grammar," I added.
Mary stood.
The table jolted.
"You think you can just go off and have a life?" she snapped. "You think that's what this is?"
"I thought college was for people who learn," I said quietly.
"And who would pay for it?" she hissed.
"I would," I said. "I'd get a job."
"With what?" Joy barked. "You can't even see!"
"I can feel," I said. "And hear. And think."
Joy went silent.
Mary stepped toward me. I heard her heels click once.
Then a soft gasp — not from me.
Joy had stood up.
I heard the impact — palm to cheek. A slap.
But it hit Joy.
Not me.
Silence.
Mary's voice trembled. "You child."
Joy's voice cracked. "Don't you ever—"
"I'll be eighteen in a month," I said.
Mary turned to me, breathing hard. "You're not going."
"I already did," I said. "If they accept me, I'll leave."
Mary stared. Then walked out of the dining room.
Joy sat down again slowly.
Arnold cleared the dishes.
Ami stayed silent.
I left the table without dessert.