Free The Beautiful Between by Alyssa B. Sheinmel Page B

my bed. They never deal with emotional complexity in fairy tales. Like, how did Cinderella forgive her father—not for dying, but for not putting her first when he chose the woman he would marry? How did Snow White deal with knowing that her beauty led another woman to such madness? How did Rapunzel survive being locked in a tower, not only imprisoned but never able to set her feet on the ground, something that would drive most people crazy? Did she ever run her hands along the stone floor, wondering what dirt would feel like? Did she ever consider jumping out that window? Did she ever want to cut off her own hair, a fairy-tale version of cutting off your nose to spite your face? And, most intriguing and damaging of all, what about her relationship with that wicked witch? How do we even know she was wicked? The witch fed her and put a roof over her head, high and solitary though it might have been.
    I prop myself up on my pillows, twist my neck so I can see out the window. We’re twelve floors up, and my bedroom looks out onto Madison Avenue. Sometimes, from this window, I can see my mother coming home from one of her lunches, a walk, the supermarket. Sometimes we go to the market together, but whenever I’m not with her, she still picks up exactly the foods I want; I never have to tell her. She knew when I switched from regular Coke to Diet Coke, and started buying it for me. She notices when we’re running low on cereal, even though she doesn’t eat it, and always makes sure there’s a fresh box and non-expired milk. Maybe the witch thought she was protecting Rapunzel, not punishing her. Maybe she thought that if Rapunzel was locked away, no one could ever hurt her. Maybe the witch kept Rapunzel because she loved her, because she was scared that if other people could get to Rapunzel, they would hurt her. And maybe Rapunzel didn’t understand the witch; maybe she was angry at her—but maybe she loved her too.

10

    Jeremy rings the doorbell at eight exactly. He’s in general much more prompt than I would expect him to be.
    “Hey, the doorman didn’t buzz you.”
    “Nah, they know me by now.”
    “Yeah, I guess.” Of course, all those cigarettes.
    Jeremy whips out his physics textbook as soon as he gets to my room, so there’s no question of talking first. I’m relieved—I’d actually done the same thing: I’d laid out all my physics stuff so that it would be waiting when he got here. I’m still embarrassed by what happened at lunch, when I tried to talk about Kate and my father.
    “Where’s your mom?” he asks after an hour or so of working. We’re sitting on the floor by my bed, and Jeremy’s leaning back against it.
    I shrug. “Not sure. She wasn’t home when I got home from school.”
    “Don’t you wonder?”
    “Not really. I mean, it’s her private life, right? She’s entitled to it.”
    Jeremy looks at me strangely. “You mean, she’s on a date?”
    “I don’t know. She could be.”
    “But you wouldn’t ask?”
    I would never ask. I shrug to play it off like it’s nothing. “I guess not.”
    “Maybe she doesn’t want you to know if she’s dating someone. I mean, like, she’s worried you’ll feel bad about it.”
    “I don’t think I would. She’s never dated anyone seriously that I know of.”
    Jeremy tilts his neck so the back of his head rests on top of my bed, stares at my ceiling. I think of all the times I’ve spent lying there, looking at the ceiling above my bed, and I wonder if Jeremy’s noticing the things I see—the places where the paint is peeling, the watermark shaped like a dog’s tail.
    “But don’t you know how strange that sounds—that you ‘know of’? She’s your mother.”
    This is getting frustrating, someone attacking our carefully choreographed cohabitation. I know some mothers and daughters are closer. And yes, it makes me jealous, even at my age, when I see them out together, holding hands. But I know that we can’t be like that, not since