Chapter 3
Early the next morning, the lock clicked open.
Patricia Smith, the housekeeper, walked in with a tray.
On it were delicate little sandwiches, a glass of milk, and some fresh fruit.
She stopped when she noticed the empty potato can in my hand, looking genuinely taken aback.
She said, "Ms. Allen, why are you eating this?"
I set the empty can down.
"It's not bad, actually," I said.
Patricia set the tray down on the floor, her face looking a little complicated.
She said, "Mr. and Mrs. Allen want you to come downstairs for breakfast. They're waiting for you."
She added, "And you need to apologize to Ms. Jocelyn Allen.
"Do that, and this can all be over."
I shook my head.
"I'm not hungry," I said. "Just take it back."
Patricia hesitated.
She said, "Ms. Allen, please don't make this harder.
"And Ms. Jocelyn Allen, she..."
I cut her off, "Patricia, the attic's fine, really.
"It's quiet up here.
"From now on, please don't bring me any more food.
"I'll manage on my own."
She sighed, a tired sound, and walked out with the tray.
The door closed behind her. The lock turned.
I lay back on the bed and looked at the small square of sky through the window.
This was real freedom.
*****
Days passed.
I made the attic my home.
Patricia quietly left a thick blanket for me, along with a few packs of candles.
I slept in every day, waking up whenever I felt like it.
When I was awake, I'd flip through the old books in the attic.
Most of them were James' old textbooks from when he was a kid.
There were also a few novels lying around.
I couldn't put them down.
When I got hungry, I'd just cook up some of those expired canned potatoes or snack on a cheap hot dog.
Once in a while, Patricia would slip inside and leave me a couple of cold dinner rolls, sometimes with a little jarred relish or pickles on the side.
I actually enjoyed my meals.
My skin grew paler, my face a bit rounder.
I didn't have to tiptoe around anyone anymore.
I didn't have to be anyone's measuring stick.
What a laid-back life.
I love it.
*****
Downstairs, Jocelyn's life was a whirl of activity.
Piano lessons, oil painting classes, parties.
Mom, Dad, and James orbited around her.
Her presents were stacked sky-high.
Laughter and happiness were everywhere.
Every now and then, Jocelyn would "happen" to pass by the attic door.
Her voice was sweet and crisp.
She would call out, "Ashley, are you still in there?"
She'd sigh softly, just loud enough to be heard. "It's all my fault you're locked in."
"Dad, can you please let her out?" she pleaded, her tone sweet and innocent.
"I'm not angry anymore," she added, sounding all gentle and forgiving.
Dad would just snort, unmoved.
He said, "Just let her stay up there.
"She's hopeless. She'll never change."
James jumped in to back him up.
He said, "Jocelyn, you're just way too soft.
"Just ignore her.
"She's not even worthy of being your sister."
Meanwhile, I was sprawled out on my narrow bed, my legs crossed in the air, my toes wiggling.
I took a bite of a cold dinner roll, chased it with a crunchy mouthful of pickles, and chewed slowly.
Now that was the perfect pairing.
*****
But one afternoon, the quiet finally broke.
It was Jocelyn's birthday.
The whole family was throwing a huge party.
Guests filled the rooms downstairs.
The attic door was unlocked.
Mom stood at the doorway, her expression tight.
She said, "Ashley, today's Jocelyn's birthday.
"Go put on something decent and come down.
"Don't give our guests something to gossip about."
I was sitting on the floor, carving a small piece of wood into an ashtray with a pocketknife.
Not like I smoked or anything.
I just needed to keep my hands busy.
"Not going," I replied. "I'm busy."
Mom frowned.
She snapped, "Ashley, we've got guests here!
"Look at you!
"Do you want our family to look bad?"
I didn't even bother to look up.
I said, "Me going down there?
"That would be the real joke.
"Look at you four, the picture-perfect family.
"All smiles and sunshine.
"Isn't that just perfect?"
Mom was totally caught off guard.
Her face turned livid.
"Fine!" she snapped. "Just stay in this hole for the rest of your life."
The door slammed shut behind her.
The lock clicked again.
I blew away the wood shavings and went right back to carving.
Downstairs, music pulsed through the floor.
Laughter swelled.
Happy Birthday was blasting.
Everyone cheered when they cut the cake.
It was wild down there.
None of it had anything to do with me.
Just as the party hit its peak, hurried footsteps sounded on the stairs. The lock rattled, and the door opened.
Jocelyn appeared at the doorway.
She wore a pink princess gown and a glittering tiara, looking like something out of a storybook—perfect, delicate, almost unreal.
Her face lit up with the sweetest smile.
She was holding out a piece of birthday cake.
"Ashley," she called out, "I brought you some cake."
"It's my birthday today," she chirped, her eyes sparkling.
"Come on, share the birthday sweetness," she added, her smile even brighter.
She walked right in.
The cake was piled high with thick, creamy frosting.
She held it out in front of me.
"Try some," she said, her voice all sweet and innocent.
"It's really sweet," she added, her eyes sparkling with excitement.
I just stared at her.
I didn't budge.
She stepped closer.
She said, "Go on, have a bite."
Then suddenly, she stumbled and lunged right at me.
The cake flew from her hand, straight toward my face, as if she'd aimed it.
I was supposed to end up with frosting smeared all over my face, looking like a mess.
Then she'd let out some dramatic scream.
That would get all the guests rushing over.
And I'd look like the jealous sister who couldn't even let her have her birthday.
Nice try.
But I was just too chill for that kind of drama.
Calm, but not stupid.
The second she lunged, I stepped aside.
And, without missing a beat, I set down the sharp-edged wooden ashtray I'd just finished carving—right on the floor, exactly where it needed to be.
With a thud, Jocelyn hit the ground hard, face-first into her own cake.
Frosting smeared across her tiara and hair.
Her pink dress was now a rainbow mess of cake and frosting.
She ended up sprawled next to my wooden ashtray, too stunned to scream, too hurt to even cry.
I crouched down, picked the ashtray up, and blew a bit of dust from its edge.
I said, "Damn, what a waste.
"I just finished this.
"You almost squashed it."
"Jocelyn," I added, my tone casual. "Next time, watch your step."
Then it hit her.
She started to wail—a loud, dramatic sob that sounded like it could shake the whole house.