A/N: Well, here is my first foray into fiction in over fourteen years. Thanks to the Ravelry Unicorn Ladies, Ravelry Fan Fiction, Saturday night chat group (Jayne Rulis, grendelsmother, Becca Graymoor, Ceci, stringcat, KnittingVamp7), and an extra thanks to Becca Graymoor for being endlessly hilarious and supportive over IM and for baking some really excellent cookies.
This story is part of Back in the Days of Auld Lang Syne, a larger, multiple-author universe with dovetailing but independent storylines. Links to come.
I'm also giving a shoutout to AngstGoddess003, because her story was what finally broke me.
This story is rated M for language only.
All Twilight hoopijoob belongs to Stephenie Meyer, blah blah blah standard disclaimer-cakes.
Chapter 1: The Wrong Child
I'm not supposed to be like this
But it's okay
- R.E.M.(1)
What were you thinking? Why did you think you could do this? I sat on the edge of the rumpled bed and clutched the cheap polyester gown to my chest. It had that particular smell found in every drama department costume room, a heady mix of stale greasepaint, the body odor of decades of kids with burgeoning hormones and the panic sweat of stage fright, and a futile spritzing of Febreeze. The wig I'd kicked under the bed was a little newer, I thought, smelling more of PVC storage bag than spirit gum or Aquanet. The floor-length blonde wig hadn't even felt that bad against my scalp. My hair was short enough that I didn't need to pin-curl it up or put on a wig cap. I'd tucked my hair under the lace of the wig and held the musty costume up to my chin when I made the mistake of looking at myself in the full-length mirror on my closet door.
A long-forgotten blonde girl stared back at me, and I found myself drawn to the glass. Just three steps, and I was face to face with that girl. She was beautiful, happy, complete. I traced her face lightly with a fingertip, leaving a long smudge on the mirror. My head spun, and for a second I felt like I was the one trapped in the mirror, the blonde girl outside. That she would go, leave me here, trapped inside forever. I'd locked her in long enough, and it was my turn. You can't keep me here, I'd heard her murmur in the back of my head. She would go, and no one would find me here behind the glass. Alone again, always alone. Alone and forgotten. Goodbye, she would whisper as she slipped out the door, locking it behind her.
I don't know how I ended up kneeling on the floor, grasping my short hair and rocking back and forth. How many minutes did I lose this time? I'd ripped the wig off my head and crumpled the dress into a ball on my lap. She didn't win, I tried to comfort myself as I shakily brought myself back up to the bed. You are still you. She didn't come back. My wind-up alarm clock ticked relentlessly, pounding in my ears, slivers of my life sliced away a second at a time. I didn't even notice I'd been clenching my fists. I pried my hands open and saw the deep half-moons my fingernails had made. My face started to itch from the salty residue of my tears. I rubbed my cheeks roughly and sighed.
Well, one thing was abundantly clear: there was no way I could go to the big party tonight as Rapunzel. Fuck. Now what was I going to do?
Fucking Rosalie. No, that wasn't fair—I'd been excited about tonight's fairy tale masquerade theme too. I loved dressing up; I loved pretending I was someone else and slipping into a different skin. I mean, didn't I do that every day anyway? The party was an opportunity to put on a different face than the one I wore every day: happy, bubbly, perky, skippy, multitude-of -adjectives-ending-in-a-cutesy-diminutive-Y fucking Alice. Maybe I'd show them the real me, I'd thought. No one here knew that girl. Maybe it would be fun to imagine what my life would have been like, before… it would be safe to let her out because everyone would think she was just a character. I could be vulnerable and sad, and they'd all say, "That's so Alice to be all fucking Stanislavski with her costume." And no one would know.
But I hadn't counted on this, hadn't counted on being so freaked by that Other Girl. It was supposed to be my vacation, my one-night respite from sucking in my sad like an unwanted belly pooch. I'd gotten a kick out of ordering my costume at the rental place, tickled by the possibility of wandering town in my old hair, my past life, and no one would know. It would be like that dream where you're the only one not wearing clothes, except nobody notices. But when I'd put the wig on and looked at myself, it was like the regular version of that dream where you're the only one not wearing clothes—everyone points and laughs and calls you "freak." And the loudest voice was coming from my own head. Who could love you? You're just like her; you are going to end up just like her. "Shut UP!" I hissed through clenched teeth. It seemed as though That Voice got louder every day.
Thankfully, the ticking clock grabbed my attention again. I looked at the square, retro-futuristic numbers on its face. It was three o'clock already, and Rosie was expecting me in an hour. And I could not possibly go out in that costume. And I could not possibly show up without a costume—Rosie would have my metaphorical balls on a stick. Giving up, I went to hang the costume back in my closet. The smudge on the mirror caught my eye, and I shuddered, remembering what it felt like to feel trapped on the wrong side of the mirror. That's when it came to me: Alice in Wonderland.
I could probably cobble together a costume pretty easily—a few years back I'd gone through a faux-Tenniel kinderwhore phase, and I had a sky blue peter-pan collared dress and white satin bloomers I'd sewn on my mom's clunky old Singer. I had that frilly white apron Bella the cake girl had given me as a joke during spring break last year after I'd complained about the drunk college kids getting too rowdy at the bar and spilling drinks all over my clothes. And of course I had patent-leather platform Mary Janes, because what self-respecting faux-Tenniel kinderwhore wannabe didn't? Alice in Fucking Wonderland it would be.
***
"You're late," Rosalie groused without even looking up from unpacking another box of chintzy decorations. It was only a few minutes past four, but Rosalie could be a bitch like that. I hiked up my striped tights, the crotch of which had slithered to my knees while I sprinted from the bus to the trusty 'corn. Ah, the Unicorn. I swear, the only useful thing I learned in college was that weekend course I took in bartending. I didn't like to drink much, but I p0wned the shit out of mixology.
Since Rosalie could be pretty stingy for being such a rich heiress or whatever she was, my hourly wage was more of an honorarium, but I had a way of sassing hefty tips out of the increasingly drunk. It was amazing how a little giggle, a little over-the-bar lean, and a lingering touch during a standard drink handoff could turn a six-dollar drink into a twenty-and-keep-the-change. It wasn't a bad gig. I didn't mind being on my feet for hours, and the busywork of measuring jiggers and trying to be a pixie Cocktail Tom Cruise (minus the creepy Scientology) kept my hands and head occupied. The endless bantering could get exhausting, but it still was better than letting my thoughts take over. I embraced the static of shallow conversation, especially in the wee hours of night. And the Unicorn was never crowded enough to be too stressful to the mistress of the bar.
A calculated, exasperated sigh from Rosalie reminded me of the barnacle-on-my-ass quality the job could have at times.
"Rosalie, you must chill," I said as I slipped under the bar to my station. This stupid party. Rose could be a colossal bitch on a good day, but this damn New Year's shindig was turning her, well, into a giant barnacle on my ass. "I'm three minutes late, okay? We'll have all the streamers and glitter and crap up before you can say 'slave labor.'" I ducked to avoid a hideous inflatable New Year's baby thrown at my head. Putting on my best game face, I hummed cheerily to placate Rose. To the casual observer, it would appear I was humming the famous South Pacific ditty, "I'm Gonna Wash that Man Right out of My Hair," but in my head I was singing one of my work-time staples, "I'm Gonna Cut a Bitch Whose Name Sounds Like Schmosalie Schmale." It was going to be a long night.
***
Ten minutes to 11:00, and the party was hopping. The flickering strobe lights and awkward costume gave the approaching giant turnip a disconcerting Nosferatu feel as she lurched toward the bar. I had to read her lips over the noise of the techno and the babbling crowd. "Give me a, um," she began, eyes struggling to focus.
Irritated at her hesitation when there were so many others waiting, I interrupted, "Gin and tonic, extra lime, dash of … grenadine, seriously?"
Giant Turnip's mouth hung open, and she nodded.
I wasn't sure exactly how I sometimes knew what drink someone wanted, but I forced myself not to examine it too much. I cringed whenever it happened, hated the weird buzzing feeling I'd get before the words would just form in my head. Sometimes I could actually see specific bottle labels in my mind. Bombay Sapphire. Crown Royal. Johnny Walker. Boone's Fucking Farm (Rosalie would die before we carried that shit). Most days I tried to ignore the words and images, but tonight I was focusing so hard on moving the customers along that I couldn't stop myself from blurting her order out. And now she was looking at me almost afraid. I knew that look. I'd lived a whole year with that same look on a hundred different faces. I was furious with myself for letting the noise take away my calculated control.
Oh god, the din tonight. I hated it, hated the frat-house smells of oversexed dude-bros, spilled drinks, cheap perfume, the bodies pressed against the bar, reaching out to me like they were on the Titanic and I was the last lifeboat. This was almost too much static. The frenzy of singletons trying to find their New Year's midnight kiss hung heavily in the air—I could almost taste the desperation. What was the big deal? What made tonight so special? I'd rather be alone than appear so needy.
An overeager beefy arm nearly clotheslined me across the windpipe as I handed Giant Turnip her Gin and Tonic on the Rag. I wanted so much to be like Rosalie then, able to shoot two-foot spears out of my aura like a freaky emo Wolverine—SCHPROING! SHISH-KABOBED! People left Rosalie alone when she chose.
Even now in her riskankulous Little-Bo-Peep outfit, tits almost putting her eyes out, Rosalie had a comfortable no-fly-zone buffer. The only guy remotely near was this special, and I mean short-bus special, guy in giant footie pajamas and a Burger King crown. She was doing her best to dissuade him, practically swatting him on the nose with a rolled-up newspaper, but he kept circling around her, probably wanting to sniff her butt or something.
Overeager Beefy Arm slammed down a crumpled bill to get my attention, flipping a bowl of peanuts in the process. Peanuts rained down on me, and a few fell into my cleavage. Fuck, no. "Gimme 'nother Sam Adams," voice of Overeager Beefy Arm slurred.
"Sorry, shug, I'm on break," I purred, mentally adding "you careless beefy fucking fucker" while pivoting on the ball of my foot and grabbing a bottle of San Pellegrino before ducking under the bar.
"Scoot!" I said to the unfortunate, albeit very brave, overweight pale dude in assless chaps who was sitting on the barstool farthest from Beefy Arm. When he didn't move, I pressed the cold bottle right into the nearest exposed asscheek. God, it looked like bread dough rising. Assless Chaps yelped, and I said, "Sorry, employee stool," smiling apologetically, and thinking that maybe I shouldn't use the word "stool" around a guy in assless chaps.
Assless Chaps galumphed over to a wall and thoughtfully rubbed his chilled cheek while his eyes swept the room. Was he waiting for someone? Hoping to find someone? Watching his methodical ass rubbing, I thought it was wise to drape one of the ubiquitous bar ShamWOWs (anything else was sacrilege, according to Rose) over the still-warm vinyl seat before sitting down. I cracked the San Pel open and wiggled the aching toes in my unforgiving Mary Janes. I took a long pull of Italy's finest nonalcoholic fizziness and sighed.
Resting my chin on the San Pel bottle, I let my eyelids flutter closed for a moment. The bar had never been this crowded before, not even during spring break. Rose's efforts to pimp out the party had not been in vain. I was happy for her and the Unicorn, but the competing energies of the bar patrons was too much. Listening to the crowd's incomprehensible murmuring with my eyes closed, I started feeling the buzzing. Oh no, not now. It was that humming in my chest, the reason I preferred being at the bar most nights instead of in my narrow twin bed. I froze, hoping it would pass. I slowed down my breathing, letting in only thimblefuls of air, barely allowing my ribcage to expand. They couldn't find me if I could be still enough.
I continued taking in tiny sips of air, but the buzzing didn't stop. This was different, though. It wasn't moving up to my brain, and I could still hear the noise of the bar. I still had control of my thoughts. What was going on? I cracked an eye open cautiously.
"Too much tequila?" I was surprised to see a sweet-faced guy in Victorian garb gazing at me with amused concern. I turned to face him. How curious—he had a mint julep in his hand, but I didn't remember serving him. He absentmindedly brushed a lock of hair behind his ear with a gloved hand. Oh, he was Mustard Gloves! I remembered him now. I'd blurted out his drink as well and had been too embarrassed to look him in the face. Mustard gloves. Even the gloves had seemed to look at me mockingly at the time.
"Not while I'm working," I said, gesturing toward the beer taps with my head. "It's just … sometimes there is such a thing as too many people." Mustard Gloves swiveled toward me and smiled sympathetically. The vibration ramped up in amplitude, the force of the thrumming nearly knocking me off the stool. I would normally be freaking the fuck out, but this energy felt different, almost good.
Mustard Gloves smiled broadly and said, "I'm sorry, Alice."
I felt panicky that he seemed to know who I was. "How did you know my name?" I bristled.
"I, uh," he looked uncomfortable. He made an oddly graceful, yet marginally butch Vanna White gesture up and down my body. It was like beams of light were radiating from his gloved hands, warming me. Curiouser and curiouser. I shook my head at the ridiculousness of my thoughts—I was supposed to be on high alert. Code orange! "Aren't you, um, Alice?"
"Well, yes, but who told you that?" Annoyed at his cageyness, I nearly added something ball-shriveling, but his completely befuddled expression softened me. Maybe I'll let him live.
"I'm sorry—I'm not trying to be a dick. If you aren't supposed to be Alice in Wonderland, then who are you?" Suddenly his eyes widened, and he stammered, "Oh god, you're not in costume, are you? You must think I'm a dick. I'm sorry. You're right. I am a dick." He looked so much like a little boy caught accidentally looking up the teacher's skirt at naptime that I couldn't help laughing.
"Oh, my costume! Jesus fuck, I thought you were one of those creepy bar stalkers or something. It's been a long night. Some asshole just flung a bowl of peanuts down my tits. That reminds me," I said, reaching down my top, "want a peanut?"
Mustard Gloves flashed an impish smile and shook his head. "I don't normally turn down cleavage peanuts, but I don't know your name, and it wouldn't be gentlemanly." This was one charming motherfucker.
"Oh, well then. Hi. Hello, I'm Alice in Wonderland. And also Alice. Alice being my name. My costume and my name. Multifunctional." Smooth, Alice, real smooth. Bravo. "So what are you supposed to be exactly?" I asked, nervously crossing and uncrossing my legs. "Willy Wonka or some shit?" I noticed Mustard Gloves take in my striped tights, and my heart lurched a bit.
He didn't say anything, but he bent his head down and solemnly tapped a sign under the hatband of his top hat, a small cardboard square with "10/6" written in a fancy copperplate script. "Oh! You're the Mad Hatter!" I hadn't taken in the whole of his costume earlier, this evening's chaos turning the bar patrons into walking synecdoche.
"When I'm not participating in activities related to haberdashery, I go by Jasper," he said, extending one of his mustard-gloved hands and tipping his hat with the other. We shook hands stiffly, formally, and then we both broke down snickering.
"Well, it's very nice to meet you, Jasper." I was surprised to find I really meant it. I wasn't just bullshitting and pretending to be friendly. That was … different. Again, disconcerting. Code Orange, I reminded myself. I glanced at an imaginary watch. "Well, I should go back to the thirsting masses," I said, hopping off the stool.
"Yes, ma'am," Jasper of the Mustard Gloves said, leaping to his feet when he saw me stand. The guy was taking this Victorian costume thing a bit far. He flashed that impish smile again. "See you later? Maybe in an hour?" What was an hour from now?
A rattling drew my attention. Assless Chaps, having met up with his totally cute baby-faced boyfriend, who dressed as a sort of freakish nightmare jailbait Howdy Doody—huh, who knew? And what fairy tale had Assless Chaps and nightmare jailbait Howdy Doody?—was swinging a New Year's noisemaker around. New Year's. Midnight. Right. Wait, what? What was Mustard Gloves saying?
"Ha, ha," I fake-laughed. "What?"
Jasper pawed at the floor nervously with his spats. "Oh, I mean, not to be presumptuous or anything. I just, well, my buddies seem occupied—that's Edward spinning the tunes up there, and you've probably seen Emmett trying to get your boss to look at him, and you're the coolest cat I've met tonight. And this is the best mint julep I have ever had north of the Mason-Dixon. I nearly wept, did you know?"
I snorted. "Wow, drinking a mint julep and admitting to weeping, that's not doing much for your macho cred there, buddy."
He grinned widely. "Let me explain how it works. When one is truly comfortable with one's supreme machismo, one can drink what one chooses and freely admit to weeping. One could even wear six-inch platform heels and beaded halter top with macho-ly pride. B.F. Skinner said so."
"Right, the secret diary of B.F. Skinner. I must have missed that one." I ducked under the bar. "I'm working, Macho Man. Let me know if you need help hooking up your corset. I hear they're a real bitch."
"See you in an hour," Jasper said, tipping his hat once more with his drink-holding hand, turning on his heel, and walking back into the crowd, whistling "Auld Lang Syne." He didn't look back once, almost as if he knew I'd be watching his every step. As I said, charming motherfucker.
I thought it wasn't possible for the bar to get more crowded, but this must be what it's like when you are giving birth and you just don't think your cervix could possibly become the diameter of a bagel. (I took a moment to curse my ninth grade health teacher for forever ruining bagels for me. Dilated cervix with cream cheese? I think I'll pass.) The view from behind the bar toward the dance floor was like a living Where's Waldo? two-page spread. There was no fucking way I was finding Waldo.
After my break, I started looking at the customers differently. I smiled to myself when I'd catch people flirting awkwardly, finding excuses to touch someone's arm, laughing a little too eagerly at a joke. Normally I'd be rolling my eyes at their transparency and neediness, but now I felt a tug in my chest, a twinge of wistfulness as they danced cautiously around each other, not wanting to tip their hand unless they knew the other person were interested. Sometimes it must be nice to be normal.
I found myself constantly scanning the crowd, trying to find a certain top hat with a "10/6" cardboard square tucked under the hatband. Stop being ridiculous. That life's not for you. Annoyed, I kicked my unzipped backpack, which I'd stowed in its usual spot near the cash register. The Rapunzel wig fell out. Funny, I didn't remember taking it with me, but that was nothing new. I was always absentmindedly picking things up and dropping them somewhere else, as if I were a human magic claw arcade game. Feeling suddenly emboldened, I thought, "What the hell?" and put it on my head. I had paid extra to rent the full-length wig; might as well give it a public viewing. Miles away, my bedroom and the Other Girl felt harmless, just a bad dream now. How bad could it have been?
Still, I made a point not to catch my reflection in any of the bar's mirrors. I gazed down, mesmerized at the long yellow hair once again cascading down my shoulders. Absentmindedly I combed my fingers through the acrylic Barbie hair. Wiping the bar down with a ShamWOW in my other hand, I felt a pull, a presence, a prickle on the back of my neck. I froze.
My head instinctively popped up, and from across the room I saw Jasper staring at me confused, as if he were trying to do long division in his head. As if the long division problem were written directly on my face. What was his deal? My earlier panic began to break over me in waves. We were both frozen, looking at the other for what seemed like ages. I turned away first. Cheeks burning, I ripped the wig off my head and threw it back under the bar. Fuck you, Mustard Gloves, I thought sourly. I felt like a fool for believing, even for those few moments, that I was a part of that world. I returned to my buffing and bent down far enough that I could practically see the molecular structure of the wood.
"Okay, revelers, two minutes to midnight!" announced the pretty fucking hot radio DJ Rosalie had hired—Edward, I think Mustard Gloves had said. It was a shame to keep that kind of hotness on the radio where no one could appreciate it. I glumly noticed Bella the cake lady loitering near the DJ booth expectantly, and the glances I saw the DJ sneak back at her told me that her expectation was not entirely unwarranted.
I felt small and alone, and I wondered what my mother was doing at this moment. I imagined her sitting on the hard bed with her knees hugged to her chest, looking out at the moonlight through chicken-wire reinforced glass. I wondered if she was thinking about me too. Nonononononono, I wasn't going to do this now. I gritted my teeth and straightened up, hands fluttering, trying to find something physical to do. Taking Edward's cue, folks were beginning to count down, pairing up shyly, or eagerly, or as if it were the most normal thing in the world not to be alone at the start of a new year.
I heard someone clear his throat behind me. "Ms. In-Wonderland, I believe we had an appointment." My face broke into a wide grin before I could stop myself but fell when I remembered that freakshow look he'd given me just a few moments earlier.
Guardedly, I put on a more neutral expression and turned to see Jasper extending a mustard glove to me. I gave him a courteous but tight smile and ducked under the bar again to meet him. It was easier to keep my promise than to make some excuse for bailing. The counting was growing louder now. Still, I just didn't want to pretend that I wasn't upset by that weird moment across the bar. "Um, I kind of don't do the whole New Year's thing," I began.
"There's a New Year's thing?" he asked. "I'm afraid we didn't cover that in my anthropology class. We are just standing near each other at an insignificant date and time, because everyone else is being all couples skate, and I think you are cool. And you made me weep, so now I have to stay in your good graces, lest you write it on the wall in the women's bathroom."
Damn it, I meant to be unreadable and maybe a little disapproving, but I grinned. I couldn't help it. I was powerless in the presence of such smooth motherfucker charm. "Well, it just so happens I have a Sharpie in my pocket and some itchy graffiti fingers."
"I'll have to do my best then. Would you like to see the interpretive soft-shoe number I put together for you in the last hour?" Without waiting for a reply, he started Flashdance-sprinting in place and swinging his arms in big windmill circles, hissing "Alice!" Fosse-style.
I surprised myself by doubling over laughing. I was finding it hard to maintain bladder control when faced with such dramasexuality. "Hey, guy, you're really not suppressing my urge to Sharpie-bomb your masculinity over in the ladies room," I said once I'd regained composure.
"Damn, those were my best moves," he said, smirking and slightly out of breath.
I wondered if he was just a gigantic dork or if this literal song and dance was to make me smile. Maybe both. I could tell from the increased activity around me that we were hitting the home stretch. "Ten! Nine! Eight!" Oh god, this was awkward. Highly awkward. I didn't know where to look. How did people do this? "Seven! Six! Five!" My tongue felt about the size of an inflated Aerobed. "Four! Three! Two!" I felt a warm, cotton-sheathed hand slip around mine. "One! Happy New Year!" The bar exploded with cheers and noisemakers, and there was wall-to-wall macking. It was disgusting. And looked incredible.
Before I could take it all in, Jasper spun me toward him, bowing deeply and planting a gentlemanly kiss on my hand with plush, soft lips. As he straightened up, I gave him a toothy smile and leaned my head against his shoulder. We stood in silence, hand in hand, as the bar drunkenly slurred through "Auld Lang Syne." Happy New Year, I thought to myself. Maybe this time I almost believed it.
1 Copyright © R.E.M./Athens Ltd.
A/N: So there it is. If you feel like reviewing, I wouldn't kick you out of bed in the morning. La la la.