Rhiannon waited that night until she heard the distinct click of her mother turning the light off in her room, before retrieving the dressmaker's bag from her closet. For a moment, she only held it up, gazing lovingly at the slick, heavy fabric and rhinestones through the clear plastic. She'd tried it on in the store—with her white socks peeking out from the bottom, the bulge of her jeans around the waist, the straps of her green sports bra crossing her shoulders, and her hair scraped back from her face in a messy braid. Now she carefully slid the dress from the bag, shucked her other clothes, and stepped into the dress. At her dressing table mirror she stooped to see herself slide the faux diamonds into her earlobes and twist her hair up with the silver combs; feeling very much like Audrey Hepburn she slipped on first the gloves and then the stone-studded bangles. Then she turned to face her Prom-bedecked self in the Mirror.
Again came that queer sense that she was gazing at someone else through the ghostly glass. Though her hair was a little sloppy, her eyes a trifle haunted by the near-miss encounter with her father's ghost, the girl looking back at her was, for a moment, definitely not Rhiannon Abernathy. The other girl was too slimly elegant, far more comfortable in such understated extravagance and glamour than she could ever hope to be; it was as though a Rhiannon from another where or when had come to be, a different version of the taciturn, awkward high school junior who was accustomed to late night parties and coaches and fairy godmothers. Well, maybe not fairy godmothers—but the aura of that other reflection looked like she would find nothing odd about poisoned apples, dragons, or thousand-year slumbers held in the lethal spindle of a spinning wheel.
For the moment she existed, Rhi was more jealous of that other girl than she'd ever been in her life.
The wistful sigh that escaped her seemed to blow off the other girl's hold on Rhi's form and she stood there in the Mirror, plain old Rhiannon, daughter of Marienne and—
How did my little firefly get so grown-up beautiful?
She whirled just as she had in her dream, more than certain that she'd heard her father's faraway murmur at her shoulder—but of course there was no one there, and this time, no silver rope flung itself around her throat to choke her. Rhi breathed again, not sure when she'd stopped doing so, her heart sinking the way a tiny stone does in calm water: slowly, almost lazily, but drifting down, away from the sunlight even so.
Her sleep that night was blissfully uneventful, and after lunch Sunday afternoon she biked to the park where Matt had invited her to Frisbee practice. The day was bright, the air completely still and very warm, with little of the dampness of the morning lingering in the promise of a hot summer's day.
Matt and a few of his friends—his teammates, Rhi supposed—were already on the field, stretching, when Rhi ambled up. All of them were dressed as she was: tank tops and t-shirts with soccer shorts and sweats, but instead of trainers, everyone else wore what looked like soccer cleats. Matt beamed wide when she walked up to him, and made quick work of the necessary introductions; Rhi recognized a few of the players from classes, and was secretly relieved when they smiled at her. By two-thirty there were at least twenty people stretching on the sidelines of the field or tossing Frisbees back and forth, and the captains—a girl from their Spanish class named Cassie and a redheaded boy Rhi didn't know, named Danny—called the team to order. At Cassie's whistle everyone lined up on one of the white chalk lines at the end of the field, as if they were getting ready to start a footrace.
"These are called ladders," Matt explained quickly as the line settled. "Run from here to the first white line, touch it, run back here. Turn around, go to the second line, touch that, and run back here. Don't stop till you've gotten to the other end zone—"he pointed, "—and then we start from that end and run down to the first line, here." Matt planted his feet at the edge of the sideline and crouched.
"I thought you said you guys didn't do drills," Rhi pointed out, settling her feet like Matt's.
"This isn't drilling, this is training. Don't worry, you'll do fine," Matt assured her.
Four hours later Rhiannon dragged her aching body through the front door to flop on the couch of her living room. The bike ride home, she decided as her heart began to slow its painful thumping, had been the worst. After four sets of ladders and four laps around the field before even starting a scrimmage game, her leg muscles felt like plastic baggies full of hot sand; her tongue itched and her throat burned and there was a stitch needling into her side. Then came the actual playing: Ultimate Frisbee was one big long fifty-yard dash, punctuated by spectacular leaps, full-on tackles and fancy catches and tosses that Rhi wished she could watch rather than try to anticipate and react to at her first game. Cassie and Danny prowled the sidelines like hell's referees, calling fouls and flags on any and every supposition of foul play, bellowing at their players to cover your man or faster, guys, faster and jump, damn you, JUMP for the damn thing! Rhi sprinted up and down the field with everyone else, batting at the flying discs and trying to hit her receiver with each throw, taking a couple good hits from tackling defenders but never, luckily, tripping on her own feet or falling down on her own. After three hours of that came the grueling pedal home, against traffic that hadn't ever been so heavy before, and along streets that she'd have sworn weren't uphill the last time she'd biked on them.
Despite her multitude of aches and pains, despite the grit in her mouth and the grass stains on her shirt, despite the sweat pouring down her face and back, Matt had somehow gotten her to promise—to promise, no less—that she'd at least come to the game Wednesday. Something told her that even if a real game was less hardcore than this scrimmage had been, she might not survive to Thursday if they decided she needed to play.
"Hi honey," Ms. Abernathy's voice shone from the hallway. Rhi spared her last ounce of energy to turn her head (hearing even her neck muscles creak in protest at this latest exertion) and gaze dully at her brightly-smiling mother. "Muuuugh," she answered.
"Looks like you had fun today," Mom observed, settling into the armchair across from her daughter. "I hope you don't have mud on the back of your pants. You certainly have enough everywhere else."
"Muuugh," Rhi repeated. It was the only thing that didn't take effort to say.
"Yes, well." Mom smoothed her skirt over her lap. Rhi hadn't even noticed she was wearing one...along with her peridot earrings, and bracelet...and heels. Why heels on a Sunday?
"Rhi, Carol called and asked us out to dinner tonight, you and I. She and Mark and Andrew—"did Mom blush everso slightly at the mention of his name? "—well, none of them have families here, so I guess they prefer eating out to cooking for themselves. Anyways, I didn't know what time you'd be home, so I said I'd go, but if you're, ummm, feeling up to it, I can call Carol and tell her you're coming along, or you and I can stay in tonight, it's up to you. But Carol will be here in about an hour, so if you'd like to go, now's the time to get off the couch and into the shower."
Rhi briefly considered getting up—showering—dolling herself up for a third-degree evening with her mother and this man who seemed to show up whenever Mom wanted to do something social. She tried, she really did—but when she discovered she didn't have enough energy to raise her head, she opted instead for a third, less taxing, "Muuuugh".
"And that means what, darling?"
Rhi found she could flap a hand at her mother. "You go. I hurt."
"Are you sure?"
"Muuugh," Rhi said again, although in a much more assuring tone this time. She managed to roll onto her side and nearly tipped off the edge of the couch. "Rhi tired. Legs don't work. Mushy. You go."
"Did you at least have fun this afternoon?" Mom got up, straightening her skirt again.
"Fun. Ow. I mean, yeah. Ow."
"Well, what can I make for you before I go?" Ms. Abernathy called from the kitchen. Rhi concentrated her efforts and was able to sway herself upright; with a supreme effort she grunted and heaved up off of the couch. Her legs, she decided, had ceased to be baggies full of sand: now they were full-fledged tubes of concrete, the kind that look small and portable compared to the big paper sacks, but prove to weigh so much more because of their ergonomical tube design. Her shoulders strained against themselves, trying to relax but unable to; panting, she leaned against the kitchen doorjamb and watched her mother fill a pot with water.
"Don't worry, Mom, I can make my own macaroni and cheese," she said, with a real effort at a smile (her face only ached from a slight sunburn). "I mean, I'm an invalid, but I can boil water just fine."
"And so can I. Sit down, Rhi, you look like you're going to collapse."
"I'm fine, really," Rhi insisted, flopping into one of the chairs at the kitchen table. She tried to stretch, but found that much too painful. Maybe after a hot shower....
"So are Carol and one of these fine gentlemen dating, or what?" Rhi asked inelegantly, leaning her head on one hand.
"No," Mom's voice was deceptively light: Rhi could see her shoulders tense under her champagne-colored blouse. "No, we—well, they've all worked in the same department together for a while now, and no one in our little corner of the world is married except m—ahem, has ever been married except me." She turned to give her daughter a stiff smile. "They're a little kind of family for each other, is all. I'm glad to be included in their get-togethers. It's like—"
"Like being asked to dinner?" Rhi managed a wicked little smile.
"It's a privelaged kind of inclusion, darling." Mom's tone of voice made it clear that her daughter shouldn't have any strength left to argue.