My Sweet Audrina (Audrina 1)

“Audrina … it’s only me … Vera.”

My heart pounded so fast from the fright she’d given me that my voice quivered when I asked what she wanted. Weak and faltering her words came to dumbfound me. “I want to be your friend … if you’ll have me. I’m tired of living in a house where everybody hates me, even my own mother. Audrina, I don’t have anybody. Teach me how to make people love me like they love you.”

“Your mother doesn’t love me,” I choked.

“Yes, she does. At least, she loves you more than she loves me. She trusts you with the best china and crystal—and that’s the real reason she lets you take on most of my chores. I’m not good enough to be a kitchen slave. Audrina, have you noticed how often she throws that into Papa’s face? It’s her weapon to beat him with, like she knows it hurts him when she says that. For that’s what he made your mother—his kitchen and bedroom slave.”

I didn’t like this kind of talk, it seemed disloyal. “My mother loved him,” I said defensively. “When you love I suppose you give up what you want for yourself.”

“Then give up something for me, Audrina. Love me as you are willing to love Sylvia, and she’s retarded and stupid, even if she is little and pitiful and kinda cute. I’ll be your best sister. I will. From now on, I swear never to be mean or hateful to you again. Please be my friend, Audrina. Please trust me.”

Vera had never come near me before without making some attempt to harm me or my possessions. She trembled as she stood near my bed, seeming pathetically vulnerable in her long white nightgown with her strange hair that rose straight up and made her look frightful. Yet I couldn’t help understanding. It was terrible to be unloved by your own mother … and if she wanted my love, I’d give it a try.

Less than eagerly I allowed her to crawl into my bed, and, locked in each other’s arms, we were soon fast asleep.

I never questioned why, on the very day that Sylvia came home, Vera decided she needed me. I was only grateful.

Soon Vera and I were very close and having so much fun together it seemed impossible that a short while ago I’d felt she was my worst enemy. Though she studied with Mr. Rensdale once a week, she began to come with me every day to my music classes. Very proper and subdued, she’d sit on his sofa and listen to me play. Arden whispered that he was happy that Vera and I were friends at last. “That’s the way it should be with sisters—or first cousins. Families should stick together.”

&nbs

p; “It’s all right to say she’s my sister. Everybody thinks she is anyway.”

Now that I was seeing Vera and my music teacher together, I thought I could judge from their behavior just what lies, or truths, Vera had told me. Were they really lovers? One hot summer afternoon Vera wore nothing but a brief white piqué bra with her bright green shorts. I had on a white blouse and skirt that Papa approved of for music lessons. The way Vera was dressed (or undressed) he’d think was indecent—for me.

As I earnestly tried to play with the sensitivity of a promising artist, Vera sprawled in one of Mr. Rensdale’s chairs, one leg thrown over an arm. Her fingers indolently traced circles over her breasts to define her nipples, which were already protruding. Mr. Rensdale couldn’t keep his eyes from wandering her way. No matter how beautifully I played, or how many mistakes I made, he didn’t notice. What good had eighteen hours of practice on one piece done when Vera was there to distract him? Thoughtlessly, Vera would hug herself, caress her thigh, her arms, jiggle her breasts as if to shake crumbs out of her bra. It was amazing how she kept so busy doing things to her body.

“Vera, for God’s sake, what’s wrong with you?” snapped Lamar Rensdale.

“A bee stung me in the most embarrassing place, and it hurts,” she wailed, looked at him beseechingly. “I need to pull out the stinger, but I can’t see it. It’s on the bottom side of my—”

“I know where it is,” he said shortly. “You’ve been trying to pull it out for half an hour. Audrina, go into my bathroom and help your sister pull out the stinger.”

Mr. Rensdale had his back turned to her and was looking at me pleadingly. Behind him Vera was violently shaking her head, telling me no, she didn’t want my help. I got up anyway and went into the bathroom to wait for Vera. Minutes passed. “Hurry up, Vera. Soon Arden will be coming back to take us home.”

“It’s all right,” sang out Vera cheerfully. “I just now managed to pull out the stinger myself.” As I came back into the living room, she smiled and tugged down her brief bra. “All I needed was a good magnifying mirror. Thank you for letting me use your tweezers, Mr. Rensdale.”

Why was he looking so red-faced? Then I saw Vera’s smug look and guessed she’d pulled up her bra, and in front of him had pulled out the stinger—if there had been one there in the first place.

From that day forward I began to notice the little exchanges between them. For my sake, it seemed, he wanted to show decorum, but for my sake, too, Vera wanted to reveal just what their relationship was. When it was her time to play at the piano, she struggled to produce some childish tune that made him wince … and yet her halter top would come untied, or her tennis dress would show her panties. She flirted with her eyes, with her gestures, with the way she sat carelessly, invitingly, telling him in all possible ways that she would be free with herself—if and when he wanted. I began to dislike her again. She told jokes that made me blush, and he sat with his eyes down cast, seemingly very tired. Always he looked so tired. “It’s the heat,” he explained when I questioned. “The mugginess drains me of energy.”

“Oh, save a little, Mr. Rensdale,” crooned Vera. “Save just enough for the sake of pleasure.”

He said nothing, only got up and handed me my assignments. “I hope your house isn’t as humid as this one.”

He didn’t assign anything to Vera, but they exchanged some secret message with their eyes.

“The downstairs rooms are wonderfully cool,” chimed up Vera, “but upstairs it’s just as hot and muggy as this. I’d go naked all the time if Papa and my aunt didn’t have a fit.”

I stared at Vera. Once in a great while, during a long hot spell, our upstairs was stuffy, but seldom so hot anyone would need to stay nude.

As the summer days stretched long and sultry, the beach was an occasional treat with Arden beside me and Papa keeping a watchful eye on what we did together. Vera refused to go anywhere with Papa, and my aunt had too much to do to have any time for fun. Sylvia toddled on the sand, looking pitifully different from other children her size and age. She couldn’t fill her sand bucket, though she tried diligently; she didn’t have enough sense to run from the waves that could have caught her in the undertow and carried her out to sea. It was Arden and I who ran to save her time and again. Papa sprawled under a huge, colorful umbrella, eyeing all the pretty girls.

Soon I learned that Sylvia would eat anything, even grass. She crawled outside the house, inside the house, got up to stumble around, bumping into things. Miraculously, after the first day she never broke anything. Left alone in the garden for only a few seconds, she meandered off and became lost. Once, after an hour of frantic searching and calling, I found her sitting under a tree eating wild strawberries, looking as innocent as a cherub without sense. She screamed during the nights, proving she did have active vocal cords and could one day speak if ever I could activate her dormant brain. She fed herself by clumsily picking up her food after many fruitless attempts, then shoving whatever it was in her hand toward her mouth. Unfortunately she never managed on the first try and would miss at least twice before she centered her hands on her mouth.

Each meal ended with Sylvia looking a dreadful mess, with food plastered all over her face, in her hair, in her nostrils. A bib did no good at all. She dropped, she spilled, she threw up often, especially after eating grass. Worst of all—worse than anything—she still had no control over her body’s elimination functions.

“She’s not three years old yet,” encouraged Papa when I put away an old potty seat in disgust. “Even you weren’t out of diapers at her age.”