Marianne by Elizabeth Hammer (best books to read in life TXT) 📕

grin on his face, but he blocked her way before she could go in. “Hold on one second. It has to be perfect.” He darted inside, closing the door behind him. “I like the Muppet wallpaper, by the way,” he shouted.

“Har, har,” she shouted back.

A second later, the eerie music started playing again. “Okay,” he called. “Now you may enter.”

Marianne stepped forward slowly and pushed the door open.

8

Poetry is Averse to Me

Every surface of her room was covered in fake black rose petals. The dresser, the bed, the floor. The organ music seemed to ring off the walls. There were a dozen black tea light candles sitting unlit on her dresser and a gaudy silver necklace dangling from her ceiling fan. Welcome to the crypt.

Marianne put her hands on her forehead and spun around in a circle, taking in all the carefully laid out Goth decor. There was a box of chocolates on her pillow and a red garland of tissue paper cupids taped up in an X across her canopy bed. She had to huff a few times before she could get any words out. “Turn the camera off.”

Patrick laughed but kept filming. “I didn’t know your taste was so dark.”

“It’s not.” Marianne walked up to the necklace and slipped it off the light bulb and into her hand. “Oh my word, this can’t be what I think it is.”

“Why would your boyfriend decorate for you like this if you don’t like morbid stuff?”

She spun around quickly, clutching the necklace in her hand. “Turn that thing off. He’s not my boyfriend.”

“You’ve gotta see your face,” he laughed, trying to keep the camera steady.

Marianne lurched forward and tried to grab the camera from him. “He is not my boyfriend.”

“He sure seems pretty in love with you.” Patrick held the camera higher, trying to back away from her. “Someone needs to tell him that.”

“I did!” Marianne practically did a pull up on his arm but didn’t manage to pull it down an inch. “Give me that camera. All evidence of this needs to burn.”

“Burn whatever you like, but this footage is off-limits.”

“I demand you give that to me, you fiend.”

“Oh, and here I thought I was an angel of light.” Patrick twisted his wrist to point the camera at her.

“Stop it,” she said, still clawing her way up his arm. She looked directly at the camera. “Dark Lord Alvin is not my boyfriend.”

Patrick was backed up all the way against the wall now. “But he was your boyfriend, right? Wait…” He moved his head to peer at her around the camera. “What did you call him?”

“You heard me,” she grumbled. “And what is this? Are you trying to get me to confess so you can put this up on YouTube?”

“I would never do that to you.” Patrick put his other hand on her shoulder to restrain her when she gained a few inches by standing on a pile of laundry. “I just know that you’re going to want this later.”

Marianne finally gave up and slumped down. He was too stinking tall. “You’re probably right.” She stepped back from him and sat down on the floor in the middle of the room. “Ahhh...” she moaned. “This is all just so embarrassing.”

Patrick frowned. “Fine. You win.” He clicked a button on the back of the camera—it sucked in the lens and shut off. “It’s no fun if you’re not going to fight back.”

Marianne looked around her again in disbelief and threw the necklace on the bed. “This is so creepy.”

“Agreed.” Patrick smiled and sat back onto the edge of her dresser. He gestured at the mirror beside him with this thumb. “And you didn’t even read the poem yet.”

“Huh?” Marianne saw that her vanity mirror was graffitied all over in Alvin’s tiny handwriting. “Tell me he didn’t use a Sharpie.” She got up and walked over to the dresser.

“Makeup, I think,” said Patrick, smearing the stem of a rose sketch with his finger.

Marianne looked down at the dresser. On top of a pile of schoolbooks was the corpse of an eyeliner pencil and a pile of shavings. She picked up the pencil and examined it. “That twit.”

“No, it comes off easy. See.” Patrick held out his blackened fingertip.

Marianne shoved the mangled remains of the pencil in his face. “He just cost me twenty-two dollars. This was mine!”

Patrick frowned at her. “It was for art, Marianne. Have some class.”

She’ll show him class. She reached out swiftly and drew a line across his forearm.

He was unimpressed with her revenge. “In case you haven’t noticed, Marianne, my arms are already colored on.”

Oh, yeah. “I should have done your face.”

“I’m so scared,” he said in a flat voice.

Marianne cocked her head at him. “Maybe I will.”

“Whatever makes you feel better.”

“You shouldn’t have said that.” Marianne pushed the books out of her way, sending them flying to the floor, and took a seat facing him on the dresser. “I just love doing makeup.” She reached out her be-penciled hand and hesitated above his left eye. Alvin’s creepy soundtrack was still playing.

“What are you, like five years old?” Patrick held totally still. “And don’t you even want to read your love letter?”

“Nope-p.” She started filling in and enlarging his perfect eyebrow to make it all pointy and scary. “You can read it to me as I work.”

Patrick laughed, messing up her stroke.

“Hold still. You gave me permission, remember?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Patrick held his head motionless. “Do you think the guys at work will like my new look?”

“Oh, you’ll look fabulous, darling,” said Marianne in a cheesy English accent.

Patrick smiled at her, his sparkly brown eyes watching her face as she worked. “I want to paint my face in the shades of your soul.”

Marianne pulled back immediately. “Excuse me?”

Patrick pointed at the mirror. “I’m reading aloud the poem you inspired. It’s rather catchy, I think.”

Marianne went back to drawing on him. “You scared me for a minute there. You have to warn me before you go and utter such words.”

“Sorry.