“The sun watches what I do,
but the moon knows all my secrets.”
—J.M. Wonderland
Ihad a dollhouse when I was seven. We got to keep it for three whole months before Mama found it. She labeled it a game of the devil and banished it from our trailer.
It was a hand-me-down from Batshit Crazy Betsy’s granddaughter, and its walls were bent and caving in. The tiny furniture pieces were so faded we couldn’t distinguish their color. Even the finger-sized dolls were chipped, their clothes torn.
Frankie had eyed the pieces when we first got them, picking them up one by one and inspecting their damage closely. Within seconds, she found a way to fix them. That’s one of the traits I’ve always admired about my big sister, how she takes things into her own hands.
She’d borrowed—and I use that term loosely—another neighbor’s makeup and fabrics then gave the dolls full makeovers, complete with posh dresses and eyelash extensions. She used the extra scraps of fabric to add rugs and curtains to the house’s interior.
“You see, Emmy,” Frankie said, modeling one of the dolls and having it do a full body spin. “Now no one has to know.”
“Know what?”
“About the damage, of course. You show people what they want to see, and they’ll never suspect what’s underneath.” She stroked the toy’s hair, which was now combed and tied back with a ribbon. Then she leaned forward, toward its ear. “You’ll be the perfect little doll now, won’t you?”
If dolls could feel, I imagine that one would have felt exactly as I do now. The black-walled corridor I follow Aubrey down is lined with small mirrors. Each one only serves to cement the odd, hollow sensation in my chest. If I took a moment to stare at my reflection, I might find myself on the surface eventually, but our brisk pace means that each step only teases me with fleeting glimpses of a stranger.
My hair is still straight, hanging to my waist, but the black strands are sleek and glossy, shining in a way I’ve never seen before. The extensions sealed to my already thick lashes feel heavy on my eyelids. Shimmery specks from the golden shadow create an unnatural sparkle in my sky-blue eyes. The concealer hides any trace of the light freckles sprinkled along my nose and cheekbones, making my fair skin look porcelain against the black of my hair and dress.
And all I see is another doll.
Aubrey stops so abruptly I almost crash into her. I glance around, seeing that we’ve reached a small sitting room with a single bench.
“Sit here,” she instructs. “I’m going to check if they’re ready for you.”
She disappears through an open doorway that leads into the dining room. I shift on the bench, craning my neck to try to catch a peek of the men who are to seal my fate in this house. The men who’ve likely already sealed Frankie’s.
A stab of unease pricks my spine, forcing me to sit straighter.The Matthews. Brothers, maybe? Family of some sort? Whoever these men are, they’re the only lead I have to Frankie’s disappearance. The last place I know she was headed before her letters stopped coming.
Mama could assume she’s still out chasing paper all she wants, but I know better. Since I’ve never had my own phone, and Mama didn’t make it easy for me to sneak over to Betsy’s trailer and use her computer, Frankie made sure to write me through snail mail at least once every month. Always. I knew something was wrong the instant that second month arrived with no mail. By month three, I called the police station and tried to file a missing person’s report. None of the officials took the claim seriously. When half the town, law enforcement included, has paid the woman in question for an ‘adult evening,’ it’s almost impressive how quickly she loses credibility.
The truth is I can’t say I blame them. Frankie left Mississippi the second she turned eighteen, off to pursue modeling in New York. It wasn’t unusual for long stretches of time to pass without anyone in our neighborhood seeing her. She liked to pop up without notice and surprise me, then disappear without a word until a letter would arrive in my mailbox the following month explaining whatever new dreams she was chasing at the time.
You and me, she’d always say.One day we’re gonna forget all this and be sipping rum off the coast of Hawaii.
At twenty-five now, her lifestyle choices—flirting with both the law and the boundaries of common sense—have always come with repercussions. She knows this as well as I do. Like me, her choices have left permanent marks imprinted on her life. But then, she’s always been larger than life.
Which is why when she showed up out of the blue eight months ago, shoving the few belongings she still had in our trailer home into a duffle bag, I didn’t blink. Her movements were wild, frantic, as she stuffed the bag till it overflowed, a nervous excitement radiating off her.
“This is it, Emmy,” she’d said as she pulled open the drawer of her nightstand and ruffled through some old photographs. “The real deal.”
I propped a hip on the side of our dresser and folded my arms over my chest. “You say that every time, Frankie.”
“No.” She paused, her hand frozen mid-search as she looked up at me. Her deep brown eyes went a shade darker, her expression shifting to something serious, thoughtful. “I mean it this time. If you had the chance to get away, and I meanreallyget away—forget Mama, forget it all. Would you take it?”
I frowned, parted my lips, but I didn’t know what to say. What I really wanted was to ask her not to leave me again, to beg my only friend in this world to stay just a little while, but I knew I could never voice those thoughts aloud.
I’m a bird trapped in a self-made cage. Frankie is as free as they come.
“If your honest to God answer is no, then I’ll call the whole thing off,” Frankie said, taking a slow step toward me. “I’ll stay home for a month. Maybe two.”
“Really?” Skepticism trickled into my voice.
She nodded once. “Really. But no bullshit, Emmy. Just truth. What if ... what if there was a place you could finally just,” she shrugged a shoulder, glanced sideways toward the box that hid my artwork, “be you.Allof you. Without consequence. Without judgment.” When she looked back at me, her eyes were wide, lips tilted downward. She wore all the innocence of a little girl depending on the honesty of my answer. “Would you do it, Emmy?”
