Chapter 13
Esmeralda
Aunt Dinah didn’t talk to me the entire drive home. I told her what actually happened—as opposed to whatever version of the story she’d been told by the dean—and proceeded to rant about the injustice of small school politics until my throat hurt. Then I joined her in stony silence. Once we’d arrived at her mansion, we marched up to our respective bedrooms. I spent the next hour pacing, running my hands through my hair, cursing, and missing my afternoon smoke. It literally hurt my insides.
The more I paced, the warmer I felt. The more I thought about my cigarettes, the more my hands tingled, like they were falling asleep. I shook them out at my sides but it didn’t help. Suddenly, I was coughing. Once I started, I couldn’t seem to stop. I almost threw up. After yanking the window open, I leaned out. It would be easier to clean vomit off the shingles than my carpet. I stayed there, with half of my body hanging out the window, taking big gulps of city air, staring at the grassy front yard below. I wasn’t pissed at Charlie for not defending himself or at Dean Jackson for going so easy on the three douche bags.
I was furious with the nicotine for making me feel like shit. I had allowed myself to get addicted to it. And now I was paying the price. When I was sure I wasn’t going to throw up, I leaned back into the house. Then I left the room and went hunting for the cleaning supplies. Maybe chores could distract me from how terrible I felt.
Today’s assignment was the third and final guest bedroom. It had a pair of twin beds, a small closet with a sliding door, and a long dresser planted below the window. Unlike the other two, this room’s thick layer of dust seemed to have been disturbed. I could barely make out a series of footprints over the white carpet. They trailed around the room, leading to the rumpled blankets on the beds and the dresser—some of the drawers of which hadn’t been closed all the way—and to the closet’s door. Aunt Dinah must’ve been searching for abandoned family memorabilia so she could hide it somewhere else. Somewhere I wouldn’t find it.
I was tempted to be annoyed. She’d made it painfully clear that she wouldn’t be answering any of my questions. Did she think I was stupid enough to go to her again if I found anything that used to belong to a member of her family?
Mostly, though, I was intrigued. What was she trying so hard to hide? What happened between her and the rest of her family? Where was the rest of her family? How exactly had she ended up being the owner of this manor?
I came up with potential theories as I worked, each more far-fetched than the last. But they were distracting me from the horrible coughing and stomach cramps, so I rolled with it. Once the carpet had been vacuumed, the furniture surfaces dusted, and the window cleaned, I carted the bed sheets and curtains downstairs. Aunt Dinah sat in her chair, knitting and watching her show. That woman kept to her schedule like a drill sergeant.
I tiptoed past her, around the staircase, and into the laundry room without her noticing. I wasn’t so lucky on my way back.
“Esmeralda. A moment.”
Grimacing, I approached the sitting room.
My great aunt kept her narrowed eyes fixed on the half-constructed afghan in her lap. Her gnarled fingers wielded those metal needles with harsh, almost mechanical movements.
“I’ve decided against punishing you for the fight that broke out at school today,” she said after a pause. “Your story matched the dean’s so I know you told the truth. Besides, you’re already going to be subjected to community service. I don’t want anything else getting in the way of your chores.”
I blinked at her a few times before saying, “Thanks…?”
“I suppose I judged Charles a bit too harshly when I met him the other night.” Aunt Dinah sniffed up at me, as if I’d said something to annoy her. “It doesn’t happen often, but I’d be a proud fool if I said it never happened.” She waved a hand at me. “As you were.”
I backed away before she could change her mind and force me to sleep in the wine cellar or something. I froze at the foot of the stairs, having been struck with an idea. I peered down the hallway on the left side of the stairs, the one that ended with the door leading to the cellar. There was a padlock on it. I drummed my fingers against the mahogany railing, considering. What were the chances Aunt Dinah was keeping my cell phone in there?
“What are you doing?”
The question had me leaping up the first two steps. “Nothing.” Then I jogged the rest of the way to the second story.
Which would get me into more trouble: breaking into my aunt’s room or breaking into the wine cellar? Either way I was screwed if I was caught, but the old lady only went into the cellar once a week. She had a glass of red wine with dinner every night; it usually took her a week to finish a whole bottle. Trying the cellar first would probably be my safest bet.
I spent the rest of the evening on homework and devising the perfect plan to get past that padlocked door.
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School sucked the next day. Not only did I have a stomach ache and a killer cough because of the lack of nicotine in my system, but I had
