The Trinket Box

The last friend I had was when I was just thirteen she was a twelve-year-old girl named Maggie who thought I was the coolest.  I guess you could say she was inseparable from me but once I stole liquor from her parents we were separable.  It was understandable, but as a thirteen year old I felt betrayed by her, a silly idea in hindsight.

Angela is another species altogether; the opposite of me in that every thing I lack, she masters; a social butterfly, a connecting spirit, vivacious, funny without being mean, with the kind of inner beauty that comes from grace and demeanor, yet still blessed with surface beauty that turns heads.  I can say that I am not unattractive, because I see men look at me, but the look I give back usually makes them regret any attempt they had in mind.

Angela sits on my bed giving me shit about not being ready.  Ugh, the party.  She gives my dorm-room the once-over, “I love what you’ve done with the place; early post modern - post mortem.” 

I shrug at her, “I haven’t had a chance to get around to—”

She doesn’t let me finish.  “Semester’s over, girl.  You’ll need help when we get back; put a little color on these walls—something.”  Naturally she notices the one thing I do own, the trinket box.  “This is beautiful though.” 

She picks it up and I scream at her, “DON’T TOUCH THAT!”  

She stands up quick—startled.  She looks at me without one bit of judgment in her eyes.  How does she do that?  I’m totally embarrassed, but before I can compose my apology, Angela turns it into a joke, “Gramma’s ashes.  I get it, they’ve been spilled enough times that there is so little left.” 

I apologize anyway, “Sorry.  I don’t know why I did that.  Of course, you can look at it.”  She hesitates,  “Please, go ahead.”  Something in me still doesn’t want her to touch it and I realize, no one ever has, but me.  Farber’s voice tells me to let her.  “Please.”  I try to convince her.

Without staring at me for approval, or even a cursory glance from the corner of her eye, she picks it up gingerly, as though it would crumble at her touch.  “It’s beautiful.”  She says. “What do you keep in here, gold coins, lotto tickets, nude pictures?”  Now she looks at me with a smile.  I shake my head at her—nothing.  She shakes the trinket box; it rattles.  She opens it, which makes me reflexively hold my breath.  “Wow, this is cool.”  She draws forth a brass button.  I take it from her hand and study it.  It’s about one inch in diameter and is minted with a woman on horseback being led by a man.  I stare long at this brass woman.  The button glints several times, yet the brass seems unpolished.  I look back at Angela, who is no longer alone.

Behind her stands the woman from outside, along the quad.  Her face is still shrouded in shadow, except for her mouth, still agape.  Is it a scream, a yawn, a cry?  Without the eyes I only have the tension of her face to judge.  Then I hear it.  It is a scream.  It gets louder in my ears.  Angela grabs me hard around my arms.  I am fighting her to get to the woman who is screaming.  Then I realize the screams don’t belong to the woman, they’re mine.

My legs give out under me as if I screamed all of the air from my lungs.  Angela catches me before I hit the floor too hard.  She holds me there as I search for the other woman in the room.  She’s gone.  I regain myself.  Angela looks at me again, “Maybe we should skip the party.”