No Ordinary Girl

Chapter Twenty

I nipped at her heels as we walked up the spiral staircase to the second floor landing. More pictures of their perfect family lined the walls, mixed with expensive looking art.

Weird. Her room was spotless. That was NOT normal. Was she a full grown mature adult in the body of a teenager?

Her bed was made. Her room looked like a furniture showroom; shades of whites and pinks. It brought back a sweet memory; Kylie jumping on one of the bed displays at Ikea. My mom was screaming at her to get off. It was pretty funny.

"My mother just tidied up," she said. "She does that when we have company. She tidies up the whole house."

Oh... that explains it.

She turned in the direction of a fuchsia pink chair in the corner. "Please sit down," she urged, plopping down on her bed.

"Can I just walk around for a bit," I asked, taking it all in; the dresser, topped with bottles of nail polish and makeup, the dresser mirror, necklaces draped over its curved edges. The whimsical posters on the wall, and more family pictures, of course. I traced my hand along the curves of the mannequin in the corner. A striking blue dress was displayed on it.

"It's my prom dress," she said.

"Oh, wow, you have it already." I realized that she was only about a year ahead of me, but she seemed so much older, so mature.

She laughed. "I know it's early. It used to be my mom's dress. It's a classic. She has great taste in clothes. It doesn't fit her anymore."

I closed my eyes and saw her mother. A younger, thinner Mrs. Anderson, having a blast at a ball with a blond man; not Mischa's father. I turned to her. "I love vintage, too."

"Really?! Too bad you need to wear a uniform for school."

I shrugged, looking down at my plaid skirt – it was growing on me.

"I do, too," she said, pointing to the black and blue uniform laid out on a chair in the corner. "It sucks."

I sat right next to her on her perfect cloud of a bed. "Who are you going to the prom with?" I asked, acting all girly-like – I was trying to gain her confidence. I really didn't care who she was going with.

She pouted. "No one at the moment."

I was shocked. I couldn't believe someone like her wouldn't have a boyfriend. "No one special in your life?"

Oops. Wrong question. A rush of contrasting emotions filled her; anger, hurt, and elation. I was confused and very curious. I needed to know more.

"Well, I had a boyfriend," she clarified. "But he broke up with me." She scowled. "He dumped me for Sandra Cook."

From her expression, I gathered that she wasn't a fan of hers. I shook my head. "Sandra Cook... don't you just hate girls like her?"

"Yes!!! She's so pretty and perfect... and popular."

You're pretty and perfect, I couldn't help thinking.

"And she's so damn skinny. Her waist is the size of my thigh."

"Skinny is overrated," I told her, gazing down at my own non-existent breasts.

"But..." she said with a playful smirk. "There was someone else I kind of liked..." Her smile quickly faded.

Oh... do tell.

Before she could say anything else, I saw him. Mr. Henderson. She had a crush on Mr. Henderson.

"It was nothing," she was quick to add. "It was a boy who already had a... girlfriend. He was a bit older than me. Just a silly crush."

A bit older? Try twice your age. A girlfriend... try a wife. And two kids. I almost laughed. I love it when people try to fib like that. It's rather amusing. But like she said, it was a silly crush. She knew that.

There was nothing serious going on there. Mr. Henderson already had his hands full with his mysterious redhead.

"I'm going to college soon, anyway," she added quietly. "I really want Haley to be found before then."

"You love Haley?"

Her face lit up like a Christmas tree. "I'm crazy about her. She's like the little sister I wished I had."

I smiled. "I have a little sister. She's bratty but pretty cute. I have to babysit her all the time, and I don't even get paid."

She laughed. "You're lucky. I can tell you love her."

"I'm crazy about her."

Her smile faded again. "Do you think you'll find her soon?"

"I hope so."

So it was clear how she felt about Haley and Mason, but what about Jenna? I still had that nagging feeling that it wasn't all rainbows and sunshine as far as they were concerned.

"So... how is your relationship with Mrs. Henderson?" I asked carefully. "Is she nice? She seems nice."

Her face fell and her shoulders visibly slumped. No mind reading skills required – it was obvious that there was something up, there. "She... she's okay, I guess."

"You don't like her?"

"Well... she's a little bossy, that's all."

"How so?"

"She always asks me to do other stuff like fold laundry, and clean up Haley's room."

I knew there was more to it. "I see."

She threw the fluffy pillow. "She's just so... she's like Sandra Cook."

I scowled. "Ugh... Sandra Cook."

"Jenna is so perfect and skinny," she whined.

And there it was. She was jealous of her. It broke my heart that Mischa didn't consider herself as pretty as Jenna, just because she had a few curves. I blamed the media.

"Her teeth are perfectly straight," she went on. "I wore braces for two years, and this damn tooth is still crooked," she complained with the tip of her finger pressed against her tooth.

"Me, too," I said, pointing to my own troublemaker tooth. "Same."

"She has the perfect house, and the perfect husband, and... I don't even think she realizes how perfect her life is... was," she quickly corrected herself.

I was taken aback by her point of view. Surely, Mrs. Henderson's life was far from perfect... she was living every mother's nightmare.

"And her hair and nails are always so perfect. And she has the tiniest feet."

I almost laughed – what an odd thing to say. Tiny feet. I thought back to Mrs. Henderson's shoe collection, and it suddenly hit me. I read the expression on Mischa's face. She was thinking about the shoes, too.

I ran to her walk-in closet, and sure enough, tucked in a pile in a corner, were Mrs. Henderson's missing heels; the red sandal, the black stiletto, and a few others. I turned to look up at Mischa, who was standing next to me, biting her bottom lip, guilt written all over her face.

"What the..."

Mischa just looked at me. She knew I had her. She knew there was no point in lying.

She twirled a strand of her hair like a petulant teenager. "She had it all," she said. "I just wanted to mess with her. Fucking with her precious shoe collection gave me a rush," she confessed.

Mischa Anderson: perfect daughter, student and babysitter. Not so much.

Her eyes grew wide. "But I swear," she squealed. "I stole her shoes, but I never touched her baby. I love that little girl."