Page 16 of Mad Mabel

“Yes, okay, but let me just—”

“Of course, I’ll help you.”

And then they’d walk as one to the laundry, take baskets of wet clothes outside, and hang them out on the clothesline.

When I asked how they always seemed to know what the other was about to say, they looked just as puzzled as I was.

“A feeling?” Ness ventured.

“Experience,” Cess said, more confidently. “When you’ve been friends as long as we have, you start to notice the patterns. I always know what Ness is thinking.”

Ness chuckled. “Usually even before I do.”

“You’re bosom friends,” I said once. “Like Anne Shirley and Diana.”

They exchanged a glance, then a smile.

I don’t know exactly what it was about that moment—but it made my chest ache. I felt happy watching them, and at the same time, like I might cry. I wanted what they had—badly.

It was like spotting a beautiful car you knew you’d never be able to afford. You were glad it existed. But sad it would never be yours.

10

Even at seven or eight, I knew where I belonged at Rosehill—and it wasn’t in the ballroom. Particularly during one of my parents’ famous dinner parties. While the grown-ups drank sherry and waltzed beneath the chandeliers, I stayed tucked away in the kitchen with the caterers, who let me stir sauces and sprinkle herbs like I was part of the team. I spent hours there, apron tied over my party dress, happily invisible.

But my favorite part of the evening always came after the catering staff packed up and slipped out the side door. That’s when the stealth portion of the night began. I’d tiptoe through the house, observing the party from the shadows, crouched in nooks and behind curtains, tucked on stair landings or behind half-closed doors. I didn’t really need to hide. By that time of night, the guests were too drunk or too distracted to care.

I always carried my diary and pencil with me as I did myrounds, making notes about everything I saw, as if I were a journalist.

10:22PM:Lady in red dress laughs loudly, spills champagne down her dress. Man in blue suit licks her neck, her chest, and her tummy. People laugh and the man says: “What? I didn’t want good champagne to go to waste.”

11:13PM:Woman in green shoes tells man in shiny black shoes that he’s making a fool of himself. Man in shiny shoes slaps her. Woman cries.

I recorded the last entry from the floor of the coat closet, which was why I could only see the people’s feet. I was still in the closet writing up my notes when the door whooshed open and a hand dipped inside, retrieving a fur.

“What are you doing there, scallywag?”

Mum looked like a movie star. She was wearing a cream dress with a glittery cape and heels so high I worried for her ankles.

“To bed,” she said, as I scrambled to my feet. She dropped a kiss on my head. “Scoot.”

I scurried up the stairs. But as I started down the hallway toward my bedroom, I heard something. It sounded breathy and gruff and frightening—and close. I stopped, looked around.

I saw the blond Hollywood hair first—a beacon in the darkness at the end of the hallway against the wall. Next I saw shoes, glittery gold mules that were attached to creamy white legs that were suspended midair at an odd angle. For a moment, I thought I was seeing an angel. Then I realized the legs were wrapped around ablack-suited man. As my eyes adjusted I realized the man’s trousers were pooling around his ankles and his buttocks were visible, clenching and unclenching rhythmically against the woman.

In horror, my eyes fell to the man’s shiny black lace-ups, and that’s when I noticed. The man’s socks were pulled up to mid-calf. They were maroon. With gray diamonds. Pure wool.

11

NOW

Aweek passes. Then another.

More vitamins arrive at Ishaan’s porch and remain there. His curtains stay drawn. The screen door doesn’t open. One morning, a van pulls up and a cleaning company begins unloading supplies onto the curb. A few hours later, the boxes of vitamins are gone. Later that day, I hear Mr. Nguyen telling Dwayne—in a low voice, but not low enough—that Ishaan had died.

The next time I wheel my bin out to the curb, I pause at Ishaan’s now-empty porch. It looks strange without the clutter. Barren, almost. I’m suddenly overcome.

Maybe it’s the reminder that one day, all of us will stop receiving packages. That the world keeps spinning without ceremony. Or maybe I’m just coming down with something. I’ve often found that a jolt of emotion is the harbinger of a nasty cold or virus. Just whenI start to worry I’m depressed, I sneeze or vomit and think,Oh good. That’s what it was.