First 8 pages of a short story I'm writing for my advanced fiction class. It's a bit dark. Enjoy.
There are some people that mess with other people just because they're good at it. Veronica belonged to this category. Bored easily and just intelligent enough to disdain the educated and the ignorant with equal prejudice, she managed to amuse herself by manipulating strangers into breaking whatever sacred rule they happened to live by. Clinically, Veronica was a psychopath. Practically, she was a force of nature, a nightmare, the devil. She accepted any of the three as accurate descriptions.
This, however, was a different sort of undertaking. She normally operated on individuals, culling the sick, the young, the weak (so to speak) at the edges of the herd. But she'd done that so long now that it began to bore her. This time, she was going to take down the whole pack.
Funny. Their name was Packer.
The Packers included other Denise, father Henry, daughter Isabelle, and son Marcus. The latter two were in college, home for the summer. Isabelle was a Performing Arts major, finally aware of her lithe body and beginning to test what it could get her if she tried to use it for some off-stage visual aesthetics directed at gullible (a.k.a. all ) members of the opposite sex. Marcus studied bio-chemical engineering and was about to graduate with honors for a pre-arranged job at a prestigious pharmaceutical company. That his father owned said pharmaceutical company had nothing at all to do with his candidacy for the mid-level position.
Veronica would use Isabelle as an entry point (she could dance, too, although her training wasn't what you'd call classical ), but she'd bring them down with Marcus.
Veronica was like a serial killer in that she didn’t really care much who the Packers were. They were a name in the phonebook, an idea. They were toys. She’d always connected strongly with Geppetto as a child, rather than his doll-son Pinocchio, even more so with Stromboli who made the boy dance. Everyone needed a role model.
For this family, Veronica decided to be 20, a junior home from college, exactly between Isabelle’s 19 and Marcus’ 21. Her parents would be on an extended vacation in Europe and she’d be taking dance lessons to pass the time. Those lessons would just happen to be at the same studio as Isabelle’s. And Isabelle would just have to invite Veronica over for dinner, it was the least she could do seeing as her parents were gone and she was all alone for three long months and they could both practice together for the end-of-season recital in the mirror-covered studio that Mr. Henry Packer had built for his daughter when she was three. And if Veronica happened to show Isabelle a few techniques she’d picked up in her non-traditional dance training and if Marcus happened to be watching, well then there was no harm in---but we’re not there yet.
Denise Packer wore white. That country-club white with the pleated suburban mommy shorts and the polo and visor and slim silver watch and designer Keds and the necessary pearls at throat and wrist. She arranged flowers when she was home, and pretended to work the garden. Mr. Henry Packer always made sure the landscaping crew fixed whatever vegetables and flowers she ravaged in her delusional botanical exploits. She also enjoyed writing down her dreams and sharing them while everyone ate the breakfast that she pretended to cook while their dietician-slash-chef cleaned up in the background.
Veronica didn’t like Denise Packer.
Of course, Veronica didn’t really like anyone.
Mr. Henry Packer was also a problem. Like a roach infestation, eradication was the only possible outcome. Since Veronica was not, actually, a serial killer, mere spirit-breaking would have to suffice. Mr. Packer was a businessman---he sailed yachts and made long-distance telephone calls to Asian girls with stunted English, but for what he wanted to talk to them about, a limited vocabulary would do. Veronica understood Mr. Henry Packer in the way that a scientist understands insects. Habits, probable life-span, mating rituals, and the weakness that every creature is born with so that balance can be achieved between the species. Veronica thought of herself as a scale—she weighed the Packers and found them enticingly wanting. Veronica would bring balance.
For now, though, she would go to her first dance lesson at Madame Lacy’s studio.
“Name?” asked the receptionist, an ascetic blonde 17-year-old.
“Veronica Day,” Veronica replied. Veronica always used a different last name. Some people would ask why. She would ask why not.
“You’re in the advanced class?” the girl asked, and Veronica detected a tone of blatant skepticism. She’d been dancing professionally before this girl could jump rope. Well, professionally in the sense that she got paid. In ones, generally, but paid nonetheless.
As is the way of such things, Isabelle Packer walked through the double glass doors just then and heaved her dance bag to the high counter, sighing with the effort. Veronica liked that. It meant Isabelle’s cardiovascular system was inferior to hers. She did so like having a better heart than everyone else. There was some irony in that statement which she accepted and promptly forgot about.
“Hey Chels,” Isabelle greeted the receptionist. “What’s up?”
“Just checking in Miss Day here, for the advanced class.”
Isabelle looked at Veronica for the first time with a face so neutral it could only be hiding a primordial instinct to kill the competition. She smiled.
“You’re new?”
“I’m Veronica.”
Veronica explained, amidst the stack of papers that Chelsea kept handing her, about her parents being away and trying to see how far she could take her dancing and was she good enough to audition at Julliard, and how lonely the big house was all to herself and by the time she was finished ingratiating herself to Isabelle, they had completed their warm-ups and Madame Lacy herself had entered the room.
Isabelle was relaxed by the conversation. Veronica was careful to make her steps just clumsy enough to be slightly less excellent than Isabelle. Whenever Madame Lacy praised her on good form, she quickly and subtly did the next turn a bit off, made her movements less graceful. By the time class was over, Isabelle firmly believed she was better than Veronica and therefore had a potential new friend.
Veronica went to her motel that night satisfied. But she was also very good at her calling, and was patient with the girl. She smiled and fumbled her way through another week of classes before asking Isabelle to stay late, just a little bit, to help her with a tricky jump. She consented easily, with a genuine willingness to help, as long as it made her feel physically superior in the act of charity.
She asked for help again the next night. Isabelle now felt comfortable enough to call Veronica friend, and suggested they practice at her home studio, the studio her father built for her when she was three, because he knew his little girl would grow up to be a famous ballerina some day. Veronica, of course, said that she did not want to intrude. Isabelle said it was no problem. Veronica protested again, Isabelle reassured, and they left.
Unfortunately, Marcus wasn’t home that night. Mr. Packer was, however, and Veronica wondered how Isabelle didn’t notice the lecherous quality to the smile he gave his daughter’s new friend. Isabelle and Veronica scurried away to her not-so-humble studio toting bags of baby carrots and bottles of Vitamin Water. After an hour or two of hard work, they turned the radio on and lay on the floor, talking about dance and recitals and auditions. Isabelle drove her back to the studio and watched her get into a brand new Ferrari that Veronica had lifted just for the occasion. They waved goodbye and Veronica headed back to her motel.
They came back the next night, and the next. Veronica met Mrs. Packer, but Marcus was apparently hard at work on a project with his science buddies, and who knew when he’d be back? Intelligent men keep such odd hours.
Veronica’s car “broke down” the next night so Isabelle offered to take her home. When they arrived, Veronica suggested a tour so that Isabelle could see how much bigger Veronica’s house was. It was not, of course, her real house (on account of how much traveling she did keeping the world in balance), but it was true that the occupants were taking an extended vacation in Europe, and Veronica had picked up some home-security-disabling skills amid her adventures and planned to use the empty mansion to her advantage.
She’d set up a pole the day before in one of the many living rooms and when Isabelle asked what it was for, she said it was obvious that if a dancer was going to get anywhere these days, they had to know all kinds of dancing. Isabelle looked skeptical, but curious, and so Veronica offered to give a little demonstration. While Isabelle bumped the latest hit from her top-of-the-line iPhone, Veronica let the tousled red waves of her hair out of the staid dancer’s bun it had hitherto always been in, and slithered up to the pole. There was a light in Isabelle’s eyes that had never been quite this bright before as she watched Veronica dance in ways that she had dreamt about, but had never honestly imagined doing herself.
When she was finished, Veronica laughed and shook off the mood as easily as she’d shaken out her hair. She pinned her curls back into their proper place as if she were stitching reality back together after the foundation-shattering dance, the first in a series of initiations to come. When Veronica suggested that they go clubbing the next night since they’d been working so hard, Isabelle immediately agreed, having been saved the humiliating task of asking Veronica to teach her what she’d just witnessed.
During Madame Lacy’s classes, Veronica leveled her performance to equal Isabelle’s. Isabelle didn’t notice. Things were proceeding beautifully.
Veronica picked up Isabelle in the Ferrari after class, drove to the mansion, and spent the next few hours doing her hair and make up as well as providing her with a club-appropriate outfit and a fake I.D. stating she was over twenty-one. Veronica could tell that despite her excitement, she was nervous. She used her powers of persuasion and a shot of whiskey to calm the girl down. They got into the club without a problem and Veronica threaded them into the center of the crowd. It was obvious that Isabelle had never been to a club before, but despite her various shortcomings, she was a quick learner. Veronica teased that guys always liked it when girls danced together, so she put her arms around Isabelle’s silk-clad waist and pulled her tight. Whatever initial hesitation Isabelle may have felt vanished when she noticed the circle of guys that quickly accumulated around them. Turning in Veronica’s arms, she slid to the floor and back up, tossing her hair over her shoulder, smiling with closed lips in the universal signal for I-know-what-effect-I’m-having-on-you-now-come-closer-to-see-if-I-really-mean-it.
Two men of the dozens nearby claimed places behind Veronica and Isabelle, sliding hands across stomachs, down hips, pushing groins to buttocks in a strange parody of another act that wasn’t legal in public. Veronica made her sit down periodically to sip another martini or champagne or fruit cocktail, but not enough so that the girl would have a raging hangover the next day. They left an hour before the club closed, Veronica making sure that Isabelle got a lot of numbers, but that she didn’t give hers out. She wanted Isabelle to continue to trust her, to need her to have to fun in a way she’d always been denied before, and to do it without any immediate consequences.
Since Isabelle, was, however, drunk and underage, she texted her parents to say that she’d be spending the night at Veronica’s. When they got back to the mansion, Veronica helped her get halfway undressed before they fell into the silk sheets of the master bed, their dancers limbs tangled together in a sensually macabre pose. And because Isabelle would only vaguely remember it, and probably credit it to a dream, Veronica kissed Isabelle before the girl slid into sleep. Sensory memory was important to Veronica’s overall plan. Every fabric, from Isabelle’s club outfit to the pillowcases she was now sleeping on, had been carefully chosen for its texture, every drink for its flavor, every touch on the dance floor for its ability to send shockwaves through the nervous system.
When she woke the next day, Isabelle felt only that she had had a wonderful time, that after the initial uncomfortableness, she had felt safe and empowered, and that in Veronica she had found a lasting friend who could introduce her to things she had only ever fantasized about in passing.
Everything was unfolding beautifully.
Because Isabelle was impatient to learn, and because Veronica told her that she was getting the carpets professionally cleaned at the mansion, they practiced at Isabelle’s home studio the next night. As luck would have it, Marcus had finished with his project the day before, and was home this evening for the first time in a week. He did not usually bother his sister in her studio, but it was late at night and music was seeping from the crack in the door with a lot more bass than Isabelle’s usual soundtrack of Claire de Lune and Swan Lake.
Holding a glass of red wine (he had turned twenty-one a month before and still liked to impress upon his parents the gravity of his age by walking around the house with alcoholic beverages in hand), he nudged the door open a few more inches and was hit low in the stomach with a jolt of something he hadn’t experienced since the wildly hormonal days of puberty. A girl, tall, taller than Isabelle, thin with muscles under what looked like, in the dim light, flawless skin, wearing nothing but a white sports bra and criminally short gray cotton shorts, was spinning slowly, slowly around what looked like his old wheeled basketball hoop, except it was missing the hoop, the pole standing naked in the middle of his sister’s ballet studio. As he watched, she suddenly hugged herself to the stand and slid, breasts and hips kissing the painted metal, down to the ground, flinging her hair back, baring a throat as long and savage as Mary, Queen of Scotts’ with her eyes closed in the deceptive calm of a prayer.
