Free The Murderer's Daughters by Randy Susan Meyers Page B

no idea.”
    “Where’s she taking you?”
    “I don’t know. It’s a surprise.”
    Merry hopped up on my neat bed, folding her legs Indian style. I wanted to chase her off and smooth it down, but she seemed so pathetic. Poor Grandma tried to make Merry’s chopped-off hair look good, twirling it in Dippity-Do for hours, and only succeeded in making her look like a crazy poodle.
    “I hate it here.” Merry dug her heels back and forth along my blanket.
    “Stop messing up my bed. I know you hate it here. I hate it also.”
    “Everyone hates me.”
    “No one hates you.”
    “Reetha and Enid hate me. They cut up my shirt while I was gone. The one Grandma got me. With the tiny flowers.” Resignation colored Merry’s voice. “Or maybe someone else did it. Someone else who hates me.”
    “Grandma will get you another one.”
    “I can’t tell her,” Merry said. “It would scare her.”
    “I have some money saved. I’ll buy you a new shirt.”
    Merry lay on her belly, her cheek against my pillow. “Forget it,” she said in a muffled voice. “It doesn’t even matter. Everything turns ugly here. We’re just going to have an ugly-ugly life.”

    Hillary’s something great turned out to be having lunch with her parents. She kept it all a big secret, taking me on the subway, transferring a thousand times, and bouncing around as though we were going to see the president. I tried not to look disappointed. I’d allowed myself to get allexcited, imagining all sorts of things: Shopping trips! A Broadway play! Carnegie Hall! Places I’d read and dreamed about, like the top of the Empire State Building and the ice-skating rink in Rockefeller Plaza.
    “This is my parents’ place.” Hillary acted casual as she pointed to a pearly white building guarded by a line of dwarf evergreens. The brass door shone as though keeping it bright was someone’s only job. “They’re having us to lunch.”
    Hillary’s house seemed out of my imagination. I didn’t know homes like this existed in real life. My shirt, which had seemed fine in the Duffy mirror, now looked worn thin. At least the unusually warm November weather meant I could carry my pea jacket and not have to show off the torn pocket.
    I touched my hair, feeling for pieces that might have come loose from where I’d clipped it back. Four stories of faceted windows shot off sparks, black lines separating the panes into diamonds. “Which floor do you live on?”
    Hillary laughed. “All of them. This is our house.”
    “Wow,” I couldn’t help saying. Over on the left, water sparkled. “What’s that?”
    “The East River.” She smiled and tilted her head. “Haven’t you ever been to Manhattan?”
    I didn’t know how to tell her I wasn’t sure what Manhattan meant. I thought we were in New York City. “I guess so. Probably.”
    “This is Sutton Place.” Hillary took my hand.
    Hillary’s parents greeted me as though I were Anne of Green Gables. I had no plans to take the shine off their impression by telling the truth about me. Mr. and Mrs. Sachs wore the clothes I’d use if I designed a mother and father, he in a tweedy brown suit and tie, she in a sun-colored dress that flowed around her like a hug.
    They reminded me of Mayor Lindsay and his wife. Hillary’s parents were perfect people with perfect teeth and perfect hair.
    In the dining room, a world of glass shimmered. Impressions of white and blue flew at me, all soothing and wonderful. In my world, rooms were dingy beige. I sat at the table, ready to imitate Hillary. She shook out acloth napkin, so perfectly smooth it looked like our neighbor Teenie might have snuck in and ironed it, and laid it across her lap. I did the same, pressing the cloth to my shaking thighs.
    Mrs. Sachs tinkled a silver bell. A maid appeared by my shoulder. “Miss?” she asked.
    Mrs. Sachs nodded at me. “Lulu, Mary is asking if you’d like a roll.”
    I looked up. Mary held out a fluffy white roll in a silver holder. I