Here's chapter two!
Thank you for the views and reviews... I'm replying as this is posted :)
Enjoy!
December 1932
She was surprised that they even still had a house let alone a cook. To plan a party in these times was vulgar. After they moved to Chicago before the market crash, the Branson's and the Cartwright's regularly made house calls and planned parties. She normally wasn't allowed to stay up to be a part of them but this was a special occasion. She pulled and fiddled with her grown up party dress, which was uncomfortable and terribly itchy. Even her hair was pulled and curled, all styled by a professional. It looked rather nice but she wouldn't admit it. She still didn't want to go. It was Jonathan's 18th birthday and Sybbie really couldn't care less. They were now in the same school as she had moved up to the higher years. But she had a secret. In her journal she was counting down the days until the autumn.
Until September.
That was when Jonathan went to Stanford. It was in California, a place far away and that meant she didn't have to see him anymore, and by extension, his parents. His mother wasn't too bad - kind, caring though she looked down upon her father and it annoyed her. Sybbie hated that Mr Cartwright and her father would whisper about her, even with her in the room. With Jonathan gone though, she was free.
She looked at herself in the mirror, still unhappy about the dress. Aunt Mary sent it from England and it was apparently very fashionable. It was red, she hated red but she couldn't send it back. Though it fit her, it was starting to get a little tight across her hips. She asked cook to stop making her sweets but that wasn't doing it. She huffed, picking up her shoes. She plodded down the stairs. Her father was in black tie and he smiled as she entered.
"Is that the dress Aunt Mary got you? It looks-"
"I hate it. I don't want to go."
After an argument with plenty of shouting and screaming and smart remarks that Tom almost admired Sybbie for daring to say to him, they were in the car on their way to the Cartwright's. They were welcomed by Mr and Mrs Cartwright, Sybbie given a hug by the older lady. She was ushered in to join the ladies whom sat listening to the wireless, drinking fancy drinks and smoking. She couldn't count the times she had been offered one. They all believed her older than she was.
She felt very out of place. The older men came to join but Jonathan and his 'friends' were nowhere to be seen. But there was a loud ruckus going on across the hall in the larger reception room, cheering and such.
After two hours, she wanted to go home. As her father was too busy schmoozing and creating more 'prospects', she left to explore. Upstairs held many bedrooms, some had locks on, others didn't. They must rent them out like some of her friends parents do. Suzy Holmes' house is like a hotel, but it makes them money, which a lot of people don't have at the minute.
She found a bedroom, she didn't know who's, and walked in. She really hoped that it was a spare and she could sleep with peace and without being disturbed but there was little luck. After further exploration - the suits in the wardrobe, the male shoes in the floor, the very revealing photographs of women - she knew it was his.
"What are you doing?" he asked. She jumped round and Jonathan was stood there, drink in hand. Surprisingly, he wasn't mad. Amused really. He chuckled and gestured to the picture she was holding.
"Are you taking that with you?" he snickered.
"No." she snapped, throwing it at him. "Why on earth do you have that?"
He laughed aloud then, picking it up and putting it back where she found it. She fiddled with the skirt on her dress, her cheeks matching the red shade of the material. He never really saw her dressed up, he knew it made her uncomfortable.
"Why would she want to send a picture like that to you?" she folded her arms.
His laughter died off, trying to conceive and answer. The more he thought, the more the insult revealed itself to him. It wasn't the picture, or the nakedness in the picture that she was curious about, it was that he was the recipient. He knew she didn't like him and she was asking why anyone would want to reveal anything intimate to him. He scoffed. How... clever. She was 12 and already outwitting him.
"What do you know? You're just a kid." he muttered. He finished his drink and threw the glass on his bed. He sat on it, and began to untie his shoes. She stepped around him, facing him square on. That gaze - still her trademark from the age of 6 - lit up her face.
"More than you think. Living without a mother has left some things to myself." She sounded proud. He didn't want to know how she came about it all. He imagined her listening to whispers from the older girls in school, giggling at stories, even reading books. He shook his head at how quickly gossip and false facts could ruin a life. He didn't know the woman in the picture of course, but he didn't doubt that she knew that. He felt sorry for Sybbie, not having a mother. If she were alive she would have tamed her a little and monitored her behaviour. He was told to watch over her around school, when in all honesty, she could take care of herself. A boy, two years her senior, lifted up her skirt and she punched him. In the face. She was suspended for a week but he saw how proud Mr Branson was. He was a little bit though he'd never admit it; he was friends with the boys older and much bigger brother and he didn't want a beating. No boy, even in his year would go near her now. If her mother were alive, she wouldn't have done that. She would have probably cried. The way she was couldn't be changed now, her mother's death decided that. But it made her likeable. It made her different.
"Why aren't you at your party?" she asked. She sat on the bed, curling her feet under her dress. In the silence she had removed her shoes too. He'd never had a girl sat on his bed before, never mind one that hated him. This must have been the longest conversation they'd ever had.
He shrugged. "No one to dance with." he joked.
"There are lots of pretty girls downstairs, I'm sure they'd like to dance with you. Pa says you're a playboy, so there must be a girl you like enough to dance with."
He bugged out his eyes, staring at her.
"What?"
"How do you even know that word?"
"What word?"
"Playboy? Do you even know what it means?"
She rolled her eyes.
"Yes." she picked up the glass, fiddling with it. "It means that you like lots of pretty girls and you spend lots of money on them. Uncle Harold was one."
"Your father told you that?"
She shook her head. "Not technically, he said it to your Dad who thought it was very funny. He said you'd grow out of it... in time."
He turned on the bed to face her. Though there were 6 years between them, he felt like there was no one else whom could understand. She was just a kid, yet he was curious as to what she knew.
"In time for what?"
It was her turn to shrug. She looked up at him and sighed. She was suddenly downcast.
"He didn't say, Pa just agreed with him and said that he didn't have to worry about me."
"Your father?"
"No! Your father!" she groaned, exasperated. "He said that, 'In time, Jonathan will be mature enough, but Sybil will never be an issue' - and that - 'our prospects will be greater when they get older'. He said that 'money would be of no issue - for both of them.'"
Her expression became sombre as she continued, her voice almost faded to a whisper as Jonathan didn't say a word. He sat back. He just stared, his mind processing the secret. He didn't even notice that Sybbie had left. He reached for his glass but it was gone. She'd taken it. He found himself downstairs, sans shoes, and drifting toward his father. He hadn't noticed the faces of the people he bumped into, the tray of glasses almost shattered on the marble floor. He eyed the flow of Sybbie's dress going into the front door alcove. There he spotted his target. Jonathan wasn't looking for his glass anymore, just for answers. He was saying goodnight to the Branson's when he lunged. He tackled his father, who just pushed him off and back, his back cracking as he tumbled to the floor.
"What is wrong with you?" his father boomed. Jonathan rolled and scrambled to his feet. He
"Did you decide this?" he looked to Tom, who was just as confused. He moved Sybbie away, holding her close. "Does she know yet? Because she knows a hell of a lot more than you think!"
He stood, shrugging his waistcoat back into place and pushed back his stray hairs. He looked at Sybbie who didn't seem terrified. She looked quite enthralled at the possibility of a fight. He stepped away from his father and her face fell, ever so slightly. He pitied her. He envied her. How long will they wait to tell her? He bid the Branson's, and his mother, goodnight and went back to his room.
He patted the place where she sat, as it was extremely unlikely that any other girl would sit on his bed. Not if his father had anything to say about it.
The next chapter will be in 1936 and Sybbie decides to sneak out, not without being caught first.