The Dollhouse

Chapter 25

NEEDLESS to say, I shouldn't have done what I did next.

Barricading myself into my poky bedroom, it had been exactly a week since I discovered the hidden journal. School had started up again, dull as ever and dredged with dreary weather, the frost-bitten mornings steaming up the windows of the bus.

With my stepbrother at tutoring, my sister at work, and Arabella off grocery shopping - I planned to savor the brief solitude.

The book could be the key to the golden gates of every unanswered question I had. It put into perspective how little I truly knew about this family, save the whispers about the famous fortune.

What was Rudy like when he was a kid? Did he ever have any friends? How did he unearth the affair, and brood on it, knowing his mother would have her heart shattered?

The paper was dog-eared, slightly dated. A quick flick-through told me there were many entries - enough for a small novel, in fact. Hastily crammed away in that sinister dust-haven, the scruffy edges had suffered chaffing against the walls.

I picked a random page. Quelling my guilty thoughts, I started to read. My eyes settled on a date scribbled on the top of the page. 6th of February, 1957. 

I got my results this morning.

The letter came through the mailbox in such a shabby envelope, I thought Mother had handed me one of the electricity bills at first. The postman must have tried his best not to get the post soggy, but Father still complained, even with the storm bucketing down today.

So - I guess I have an I.Q of 125. Superior intelligence, the letter confirmed. I feel pleased, but Mother's over the moon - already crediting herself for all the extra-curricular activities she makes me pursue. I don't even have an interest in music, or tennis for that matter - it just fills the time.

She's always felt pressure from Father though, to make sure we had a good upbringing. Gran use to come 'round every week for a nose at the state of the house - she disapproves that Father wants to 'save our money for a rainy day', whatever that means.

It's not like we even go on holiday or anything, except that time we went to Miami when I was six. Sherri always whines it's like being stuck in a fishbowl here in Chicago.

Mother yelled at me the other day because overwatered the houseplant. It died. Thought somebody would have noticed it dripping leaves all over the floor, but I didn't dare bring it up in case it triggered another argument.

I flicked forward. The entries described some ordinary things: getting a new family car, winning the spelling bee at school, and a good three pages complaining about Irene - how she was constantly straightening shirt collars and barking at him to sit up straight. I couldn't help emitting a sound of amusement at one line - she could dish out the money though, if you played your cards right and endured the nonsense. 

Gran adores me, I think. She likes treating me with boiled sweets when I go to her house. I had to go there today after social club, and she gave me two pieces of brown bread with marg. She can be snobbish, Gran, but she took pity and didn't make me do extra math homework.

I thought the I.Q test would prove I could get away without studying, but now its backfired. Everyone's fixated on me doing even better. Mrs. Hagen reckons I could pass freshman year of high school, and sophomore come to that. I'm only eleven! But no one seems to care that I just want to stay in my grade and be normal.