Photograph

Claire stood in her spacious bedroom on the second floor, in front of a large window whose curtains she had thrown back, the view was not so lovely as she had wished; just the pebbles on the driveway and the dusty car. Back in England they had a fountain on their front lawn, and fresh green grass and a rose garden.

So much for a better life.

She grimaced and pulled the lace curtains back over the window. Some sunlight still went through the white lace, but the room darkened considerably.

As she turned, she glanced over the furnishings; rose-adorned wallpaper; a lamp on the ceiling in the middle of the room; a large bed to her left that was less comfortable to lie on than it appeared; a dark wooden chest at the foot of the bed; an empty oak bureau against the wall to her right with a rectangular mirror above it; a desk in the far right corner; and wide open space in the middle. Claire’s two suitcases lay here.

She sighed and walked to the mirror, her high heels clicking on the wooden boards of the floor. Her room had no carpet yet, but she oddly liked it that way. She resolved to convince her mother not to put any carpet in while she reached up and carefully removed the purple silk, feathered hat from her head, setting it on the dresser. The light brown curls beneath it looked golden in the faint light from the window. Her hair was normally straight, but sometimes she curled it in rags and pinned it up in a sort of bun with her diamond headband, the way it was now.

Content with her hair, Claire turned to her suitcases and reached down, lifted one up and lugged it onto the bed. Her long, double-layer, white-and-gold dress threatened to get caught on her shoes so she did this carefully. Then she undid the two buckles on the smaller of the two suitcases and opened it.

The black-and-white photograph lay tucked beneath her journal and pair of brown pumps, on top of the little box which held her favorite jewelry and other prized possessions.

She pulled it out with delicate fingertips, trying not to smudge its edges. Her own face peered back at her, smiling, shoulder-length hair, arms around a girl with long black locks and a grin that matched her own. This was Jane, her best friend, the girl who would forever be her favorite person in the whole wide world. And she might never see her again.

Claire’s mouth twisted and she angrily blinked back the water threatening to fill her eyes.

“Claire, come down!” Her mother’s loud call came from the bottom of the stairs, just down the hallway outside her bedroom.

She didn’t answer right away, well aware that she wouldn’t be able to keep the anger out of her voice. It was her mother, after all, who had pushed their move to America the most. Yes, her father had good stakes in this country. But Claire might’ve stayed in England if she had been allowed.

She didn’t like this place anyways.

“Coming!” she called back, no longer hesitating, sticking the photograph into its special place and shutting the suitcase roughly.

She glanced once at her face in the mirror — her hot cheeks looked redder than usual. She twisted her mouth again, wishing she could do something about them, but tossed the idea aside instantly. It wasn’t worth it.