The Cursed Series, Parts 3 & 4 (Cursed #3-4) - Rebecca Donovan Page 0,142

it’s no big deal.

“Does Mom know?”

“Mom’s working tonight.”

I smirk and shake my head. “Be careful.”

“Mom!” Helen bellows from the hallway, her stomping footsteps heard from behind the closed door. “Mom!” she yells again when she enters the apartment.

“I’m in the kitchen!” our mother responds, her booming voice probably overheard by our neighbors across the street.

“Can I borrow the car?” Helen hollers from the front door, choosing to carry on the conversation at an obnoxious level instead of seeking out our mother in the kitchen a room away.

“No, I have to work tonight!”

“What if I drive you to work?”

“What do you need it for?”

“We’re having a sit-in protest at the college tomorrow, so we’re making signs tonight. And I’m the only one with a car to pick everyone up.”

“You don’t have a car. I do.”

“Whatever. Can I use it?”

“What are you protesting?”

“Why are you still yelling?” I interrupt, adding to the volume with my complaint.

“This doesn’t concern you, Aurora,” Helen yells to me.

I roll my eyes at the nickname she’s used for me since she went to her first female equality rally in high school. She claims I’m blind to female oppression and my sleepwalking is only exacerbating the problem by conforming to the submissive female stereotype. Like she can talk with her knockoff Dr. Martens and black-lined eyes. I always argue back that she tries so hard to be different, but she looks exactly like all of her other goth friends. Individuality has nothing to do with fashion.

It’s been an ongoing argument in our house since she refused to wear a bra freshman year, stating it was an article of clothing designed by a man to trap women in the most literal way possible. A tank top isn’t very supportive, or discreet, no matter how many she layers on. So I refuse to be seen with her in public.

I still haven’t forgiven her for when Christian Longfellow came to pick me up for Oaklawn’s junior prom—as a friend. I may attend Sherling High School, but the majority of my friends are in Oaklawn. Christian offered to take me, so I could be part of our group of friends’ prom weekend.

Right after Christian saw me for the first time in my blush slip dress, smiling appreciatively, Helen leaned over and whispered in my ear, “You’re destined to be a statistic, aren’t you?”

I was tempted to slap her, and I’m not a violent person, so that just accounts for how horrible she made me feel.

Thankfully, she lives upstairs in the converted attic apartment now that she’s “in college” at Sherling Technical Institute. I usually don’t have to listen to her go on about gender inequality. And how women will never be taken seriously as long as we’re slaves to fashions that men design. And that commercialism is another form of prostitution.

I can’t handle it. Mostly because I don’t believe it. I like looking pretty and wearing feminine clothes. I may not be able to buy the current trends from the mall stores like they do in the movies—or as my friends from Oaklawn do—but I’ve gotten pretty good at finding the hidden, unwanted gems at consignment shops. Some of the clothes I find still have the original tags on them, and even though they’re a season or two behind, with the right alterations and accessories, I could easily pass for an Oaklawn girl … if I wanted. It’s why I’m certain I’ll be voted Most Likely to Go Somewhere for our senior class superlatives.

Because I am.

But first, I need to get out of this house. I roll my suitcase into the living room where Helen is still standing within the doorframe, not committing to completely entering the apartment. Now that she’s moved out, it’s like she’s making a point to not come back. Even though she only lives up a flight of stairs.

“You’ll have to pick me up at seven when I get off in the morning,” my mother calls back, refusing to leave the dishes long enough to have a civil conversation in the same room as her daughter.

Helen grumbles something. “Fine.” She’s about to slam the door when she glances at me. Her lip curls up in a sneer of distaste. “Where are you going? Is there a Homemakers of America convention this weekend?”

I huff at her blatant objection of my pink pleated tweed skirt and floral satin blouse. I think I look cute with my knee-high socks and white patent leather Mary Janes. This is the last weekend I