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The house feels particularly empty, the creaks of old floorboard louder than usual, as Mari navigates to her room. Her conversation with Aubrey last night loops, fresh in her mind:
“I promised Kim and Charlie that we would get ready together…”
A question had lingered in the silence. It’s okay with you, right?
Ever-graceful, Mari’s reply had been light, her smile habitually sweet. “Of course. Surprise me!”
And a wash of relief over Aubrey’s features. “Just you wait.”
People hang out with others in their own grade; it’s to be expected, she tells herself.
This whole thing had been her mother’s idea.
“You’ve missed every formal since freshman year,” she’d said. “Such a shame.”
That first year after the accident had been a given, since Mari was still learning how to navigate life in a wheelchair. Chronic pain had gotten her down before junior year’s event, and by the third? Dressing up and dancing—if you could even call it that—just felt so far away. She and Hero had spent the night curled up on the couch with a bowl of popcorn, enjoying a movie night instead.
Even though Mari thought she’d left it all behind for university, her mother had managed to arrange something with the school.
“Semiformal redo!” Her mother had that unmistakable brightness that tended to herald a new treatment, doctor, a new attempt at normal. “Don’t worry. Alumni come back all the time. Remember how that one DJ made a surprise visit after he graduated…”
Who was she to burst that bubble?
Mari studies the grandfather clock’s swinging pendulum, wondering how many oscillations will pass before Hero arrives. Eight o’clock feels tremendously distant, but it leaves her plenty of time to prepare for tonight. Especially because she’s determined to accomplish it all by herself.
One shaky breath, then another, and she pulls herself upright. Each finger leaves a clouded halo of moisture on the glossy lacquer of her grand piano. Dress half on, the lush silk pools around her hips. Mari manages to hike it up one-armed, balancing on the other elbow, before easing back onto the plush leather bench. At last, she smooths the bodice down and reaches around the back. Yet the shining ribbons evade her fingers time and time again. Perhaps she can try again later.
Guilt wells in Mari’s stomach as she maneuvers into the bathroom. Her bathroom. Access to the old one upstairs, with its expansive mirror and whirlwind of sticky notes, was an option no more. Cleared, tiled, and gutted, the old storage room had been transformed in a matter of days. So much as a glance was enough to materialize any product, glittering in the glass cabinet—a far cry from her prizes of the past, earned with high numbers in red ink and recorded on a battered sticker sheet. Sighing, she draws the tourmaline flat-iron from its velvet sheath and gets to work.
Guided by her dexterous hold, the tool coaxes each flyaway strand into polished submission. It would have felt heavy many months ago, but Mari’s arms had learned to carry what her legs no longer could. Delicate threads of steam whisper from where she’s set the iron on the counter. As it cools, Mari sets about plaiting her hair. The braid winds ropelike into a pristine bun, anchored by discreetly placed pins. Teasing her deep violet strand into view, she ponders how Aubrey will choose to style her own matching pink streak.
While vanity hour with Aubrey entails dramatic puffs of glitter and glamorous swoops of blush, Mari spends her evening with only one compact in hand. Within, a mosaic of pastels blooms, powder embossed in delicate floral relief. A garden of hues, softened by frequent use, designed to brighten shadows, mellow redness. Dandelion yellow. Petal peach. Lilac purple. Mint green, where the patterns are notably worn. Long minutes pass, alone with only the powder brush and her own critical gaze, before the compact snaps shut. Drawing back, Mari begins the easier part of her routine, the one which adorns rather than conceals. Shimmer for the lids and shine for the lips. She’s waiting for her manicure to dry, a pearly purple sheen glistening in the overhead light, when the murmur of soft fabric turns her head. Probably my mother, hovering as usual, Mari thinks. A hesitant request for help forms in her mouth as she wheels towards the door. Upon seeing who really is outside, the words vanish before they can reach the air.
Sunny, who prefers his Statistics textbook to concert tickets; who would trade a night out for a doze on the couch; who wears the same assembly of blue, grey, and brown daily. The little brother who has never, ever once tagged along to an event with his exacting elder sister—he’s standing in his crisp black recital outfit, running both hands through his sleek, parted hair. Pressed between his cheek and shoulder is the hallway phone.
“Gino’s?” Sunny’s soft rasp filters into the bathroom. “Sure, see you there.”
He makes to leave, but not without a final glance towards the mirror over the table. And he may as well be skipping to Mari, who catches the near lift in his gait, the concealed smirk playing at his lips. Who could he possibly be getting ready for? She rattles through a list of girls in Sunny’s year, names mentioned in Aubrey’s hallway gossip. None of them seem to suit, though. The curiosity bubbles in her, a rush of quiet amusement. She’ll make sure to pay attention on the dance floor.
Her little brother has barely made it past the porch when an earsplitting shriek splits the quiet.
“SUNNY! CLEAN UP THE MESS YOU’VE MADE. DO NOT LEAVE THE SHOES LIKE THAT!”
Shuffling and tossing, mixed in with an exasperated huff.
“Sweetheart!” Her mother appears in the doorframe, face softening immediately. She eases her way into the bathroom with small steps, as if the walls themselves might bruise. Mari would ask politely—a please, or would you mind, or I’m so sorry—if she hadn’t already reached for the dress’ back panel. As the ribbons are deftly looped, weathered knuckles grace the pale seam marring her back. Its rough texture hardens her mother’s features too, drawing her attention upward, beneath every layer of pale powder on Mari’s face. A gentle hold at her chin. One thumb traces at the jagged lines that snake around it, where raised skin still marks the meeting between flesh, hard oak flooring, and snapped steel strings.
Girls shouldn’t have scars. They’re…ugly. Mari braces for the sting of tears.
Such a shame, is what would typically follow.
She doesn’t say it, not this time.
“You still have that melon seed face,” is what she says instead. Followed by “Well, dear, I’ll go and get your shoes.” Mari feels two taps on her shoulder, executed with near-clinical precision.
In her head, her mother’s voice rings just as loud as always.
Waiting outside is the hallway vignette, ornate mirror floating above an arrangement of knicknacks. A faint wisp of citrus emanates from the reed diffuser carefully placed next to a stand of business cards. Only one tier is filled. Nearby, family photos are adorned with competition medals and ribbons. This ensemble would be flawless—if not for a yellow, square paper cleverly abandoned on the telephone’s display. Judging by the scrawl, the checklist belongs to none other than her brother. Sunny must have picked the habit up from her. Mari herself had adopted her mother’s method of making such reminders the first thing she saw in the morning.
Did Sunny keep all the stickies in the bathroom or upstairs? Even after all those years?
The notion sparks an irrepressible grin, that same expression Sunny had sported earlier. She’s a nosy sister, and sorely tempted to reveal the caller ID behind the note. She’s also a sentimental one, and this small grace alone spares his privacy.
She muses upon the reflection peering back at her. There are many things they share: that ink-black hair, those soft eyebrows, those long fingers and compact frames. A thin-lipped glare when focused, arms crossed at the same angle. At family gatherings, their mother presented side-by-side baby photos as a guessing game. For all their similarities, they diverge in quiet ways. Mari’s eyes match her long-necked elegance: wide, double lidded, and slightly downturned. Sunny’s gaze is intense, aquiline and narrow, its edges lifted. Long afternoons spent roughhousing in the park have sprinkled beauty marks across Sunny’s cheekbones, which, with Mari’s pen, tended to morph into a flurry of hearts. Her own porcelain complexion, maintained by hours of piano lessons indoors, simply didn’t invite such embellishment. And one more difference—their heights. Mari remembers how she’d swing her little brother around, round and round and round until they’d tumble, breathless with giggles, into the freshly mowed front lawn. Their shadows in the sun’s golden glow. She stood at least a head taller than him, if not more. Once aligned with her eyes, the mirror hovers barely at shoulder level. Mari wonders if the view is any different from up there, where Sunny was standing just a few minutes ago.
To see any more of herself she has to wheel backwards, which is when her footrest clacks against the table leg. Mari’s brow furrows. The scattering of dents in the furniture’s varnish says enough. Finally, the mirror’s brushed brass frame captures her attire in full. The satin ripples with the colour of pressed orchid petals, each detail of Mari’s outfit having been tailored, as her mother would say, to ‘draw attention upwards.’ The dress lightens as it rises, blossoming into airy ruffles which curl around her narrow shoulders. Threader earrings dangle above, each end tipped with an iridescent lily-of-the-valley blossom. The shapes match those of her jeweled hairpin and silver bracelet, gems winking under the light. Everything looks perfect.
If only she felt the same way.
A sharp honk blasting from the driveway startles her. Mari blinks through her lashes. Already? Hero’s early, and that suits her just fine. She smooths the dress down, once, twice, thrice, before heading to the door.
The lights shine hot above the dance hall, bathing the dark wooden flooring in a magenta glow. Pulsing music and raucous chatter echoes off the vibrant, patterned wallpaper. From recitals to formals and more, Mari’s seen it all, spinning amidst the crowd on her tippy-toes. Not like…this. Now, as Hero’s confident strides propel them towards centre stage, a sea of students parts around the chair with a hush. She glances around, searching desperately for Aubrey and her friends, for Sunny and his mysterious date. The chandeliers spin and blur into a blinding haze; the friendly chatter distorts into a cacophony. Months had passed since the accident, but the whispers still hadn’t faded.
Is that Mari?
Didn't she graduate last year?
Wow…it’s worse off that I thought.
Can’t believe she’s still with him.
You think he’s just being nice?
Each comment blends into the next, until the collective resounds into a familiar, familiar phrase.
“Such a shame.”
Mari’s refined appearance, hand in hand with her polished personality, never failed to draw plentiful glances and casual conversation. She wasn’t vain; this was only natural, and no one gave it a second thought. Of course the school’s star pianist and model student were together! At least, before…this. Now, she’s wondering if she should even be calling Hero by that nickname, if maybe that right belongs to the Mari of the past. The dance hall is swimming in prickling tears, and suddenly she’s asking Hero something she’d never once questioned.
“How—How do I look?” Mari’s whisper sounds almost foreign compared to her usual lilting tones.
Hero leans over smoothly, meeting her eyes with that same, steady gaze. “Like an angel,” he replies, and sweeps them both into an easy spin.