Roxy's Story (The Forbidden 2) - Page 50

“Maybe,” she said, smiling. “Good luck.”

She gave me a hug and hurried off to join the others.

I went up the stairs, wondering how I would read or learn anything after that dinner. All I wanted to do was crawl into that marvelous bed and soak myself in a good sleep, but when I opened the door, I was startled to find Sheena sitting in her robe at my vanity table, perusing the books and papers Randy had put there for me.

“Oh, hi,” she said. “I’ve got this figured out for you. I’ve gone through it and underlined what’s important and what’s not.”

I just continued to stand there in the doorway.

“Come in, silly. It is your suite,” she said.

“Sorry, you just surprised me. I thought you had said, ‘See you tomorrow.’?”

“Good. I love surprises. When they are good surprises, I mean.”

“You’re a good surprise,” I said quickly.

She smiled. “Why don’t you get into your pajamas or whatever and get comfortable?” she suggested. “It’s a pretty dress, but you look like you were in a spotlight or something and can’t wait to relax.”

I laughed. “That’s exactly the way I would put it, a spotlight.” I unzipped the dress, took out a pair of pajamas, and headed into the bathroom to wash off the makeup. She came in with me.

“My grandmother wouldn’t want you to tell me about your dinner, but you can if you want. I won’t tell her you told. I never had anyone I could share any secrets with, and I’ve never had a friend over, have you?”

I looked up at her. Here I was almost finished with my first day, and I was placed once more in what Mama would call a delicate situation. Sheena wanted me to hold her in my confidence. She wanted a friend, probably desperately, but if I was revealing and she slipped up and mentioned something I had told her, I’d surely get my walking papers. Nevertheless, I could see the need, almost the pleading, in her eyes. Because I was the youngest girl to be brought to the Brittany mansion for training, I would probably be most likely to befriend her.

“Actually, no,” I said, which obviously surprised her.

Ironically, even though I wasn’t put in the same situation by something as devastating as bone cancer, I had been and still was almost as much of a loner. The difference was that I never felt as much of a great need to have a close friend as she did. Maybe I simply didn’t want to trust anyone or believe in anyone. The girls I witnessed struggling to be liked or to have a close friend most often than not looked pathetic to me. Usually, I would tell one of them that she looked ridiculous and sounded pitiful and wretched. I drove them to tears. Maybe I was cruel; maybe it was wrong to expect any of them to be as strong as I was when it came to rejecting any groveling. The girls who wanted to talk to me usually did so to get something from me. More than half of the girls in my class were simply afraid of me.

But if there was any honesty in me, I would have to admit that there was a part of me that wanted to be liked, wanted to be like Sheena, and wanted to have the need for a close companion, someone to share secrets with and explore what this whole journey into womanhood meant. Looking at her standing in my bathroom doorway, waiting for some sign, some indication that I was ready and willing to be her friend, did get to me. Yes, I was hard, and my recent disgusting life in the bowels of the city had hardened me even more, but the softness and innocence in Sheena’s eyes brought me memories of Emmie and my mother whenever we could be . . . just friends.

“The food was fantastic.”

“Oh, was it?”

“I’ve got to tell you,” I said. “Your grandmother has a magnificent chef.”

“Yes. I know,” she said, welcoming my excitement.

I described the menu. She looked as if she was hanging on every word. I wondered if she knew Decker Farmingham, but I thought I shouldn’t mention his name.

“Was everyone stuffy? So many of my grandmother’s friends can be stuffy.”

“A little,” I said. “But I unstuffed them.”

She laughed. “I wish I could have seen that.”

“I had to be the wine taster,” I said.

She came farther in.

“Wine taster? You mean you had to drink it first and decide if it was good or not?”

“Exactly.”

“How did you know what to do, what to say? Did you learn all that today?”

“No, I knew all that. My mother taught me a lot about wine. She’s French, a Parisian,” I said.

Tags: V.C. Andrews The Forbidden Horror
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