house entirely. Daylight savings had arrived, and now when we got there in the midafternoon the house was still bathed in sunlight that filtered through the dappled pines. I could finally see the green lawn spreading like a blanket from the mansion to the lakefront, as it revived itself from its winter hibernation. Violets materialized along the paths, planted by an invisible gardener. Everything about the house felt less ominous, less oppressive.
Or maybe it was just that I felt more comfortable at Stonehaven now. I no longer felt intimidated when I walked up the steps of the mansion; I started flinging my backpack down next to Benny’s at the base of the stairs as if it belonged there. I even encountered Benny’s mother once, drifting like a pale ghost through the empty rooms with a vase in each hand. She was in a rearranging phase, Benny informed me, tugging the furniture from one side of the room to the other and back again. When I said hello, she just nodded and wiped her cheek with the back of her forearm, leaving a gray smear of dust.
One Sunday morning, at the beginning of spring break, my mother and I walked down to Syd’s to get bagels and coffee. As we waited for our order—my mother flirting with the genial bearded manager—I heard Benny’s voice lifting over the other customers’, calling my name. I turned and saw him behind me in line, standing with a girl I’d never seen before.
I walked toward him, studying the strange girl. She didn’t look like a local. She was as polished and golden as an Oscar statuette: hair, nails, makeup, everything buffed to a pale gleam. She wore only a Princeton sweatshirt and jeans, and yet I could still feel the money wafting off her in a way that it never did off Benny: something about the flattering cut of her denim, the bright flash of the diamond tennis bracelet under her sweatshirt cuff, the smell of the leather from her purse. She looked like a cover model for an Ivy League catalog, bright and clean and forward-looking.
She was studying the phone in her hand as I walked over, oblivious to the noise of the café. Benny flung an arm over my shoulder, his eyes flicking back and forth between us. “Nina, this is my sister. Vanessa, this is my friend Nina.”
The older sister, then. Of course. I felt conflicting emotions tug at me—wanting to be liked by her, wanting to be her; the knowledge that I never could be, and finally the knowledge that I shouldn’t want to be her and yet I did anyway. She looked like the Future that my mother imagined for me; and her presence made me realize how very far away that really was.
Vanessa glanced up then, finally noticing that her brother had his arm around someone. I saw something flash across her big green eyes at this realization—surprise, and maybe delight—and then all that fell away as she studied me further. She was well mannered, there was nothing so obvious as an up-and-down glance, and yet I could tell immediately that she was one of those girls who measure. Everything about her was deliberate and watching. I felt her adding up the sum of my parts, calculating my value, and finding it too low to be worthy of engagement.
“Charmed,” she said unconvincingly. And then, just like that, she was done with me. Her eyes slid back down to her phone. She took a step backward and away.
My face burned. I could see, maybe for the first time, that everything about my appearance was wrong: I wore too much makeup, poorly applied; I wore clothes that were supposed to conceal my hips and stomach but instead just looked baggy; my hair wasn’t edgy and cool, it was just fried from drugstore hair dye. I looked cheap.
“Is this a school friend of yours?” My mother was suddenly beside me. I was grateful for the distraction.
“I’m Benny,” he said, and gamely stuck out a hand to her. “Delighted to meet you, Mrs. Ross.” A sharp flicker of surprise on my mother’s face—I wondered if it was the first time anyone had ever addressed her as Mrs.—and then it was gone. She took his hand,