Longcuts

By Lisa Doyle

Ella's life has just turned upside down. Her parents got divorced, and her dad moved to Ohio with his new love, Cynthia. Meanwhile, Ella's mom landed her dream job teaching at a law school-only problem is, it's in the boonies. They move next door to Grace Childs, the queen (and president) of t

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lang Verhaal Company
• Release date: May 10, 2022
• ISBN: 9798985778106

Lisa Doyle

Lisa Doyle is a nonprofit communications professional and freelance writer, and lives with her family in the Chicago area. Follow Lisa on Instagram and Twitter @bylisadoyle.

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Copyright © Lisa Doyle 2022

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author or Lang Verhaal Company except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Cover Art by Hilary Rhodes www.hilaryrhodesdesign.com

Longcuts

Library of Congress Control Number: 2021950410

Printed in the United States of America

ISBN 978-1-7339503-9-8 (Paperback Edition)

ISBN 979-8-9857781-0-6 (EPUB Edition)

Lang Verhaal Company

Chicago, Illinois

www.LangVerhaal.com

For Tim

Wer mit Ungeheuern kämpft, mag zusehn, dass er nicht dabei zum Ungeheuer wird.

He who fights with monsters might take care lest he thereby become a monster.

--Friedrich Nietzsche, Beyond Good and Evil, 1886

1

Booties on! the realtor trilled, thrusting the box of thin blue shoe covers at me and Mom. I awkwardly bent down to wriggle a pair over my worn-out flip-flips, feeling my hair plastered against my neck and my tank top sticking to my back. I shuffled the last two steps up the porch and into the house.

Then, I raised my eyebrows in appreciation. I locked eyes with Mom and saw the smallest hint of a smile on her face, too.

So far, the pictures we’d seen online didn’t lie. The house was a miniature white Cape Cod framed by freshly-painted black shutters, greeted by a driveway composed of two long, narrow strips of cement, grass, and dandelions growing in between them. As advertised, the house had arched doorways, built-in bookshelves, and original glass doorknobs. And a stained-glass window of a rising sun in the stairway.

Shall we? the realtor said brightly, nodding toward the interior.

Let’s do it, Mom said, looping her arm in mine. C’mon, Ella.

The realtor had to duck her head as she headed up the stairs, though, of course, Mom and I, topping out at five feet apiece, were fine. Slanted ceilings dominated all the upstairs rooms, including the bathroom, and the smaller bedroom, with its dormer alcove, triangular closet and sloped ceilings, boasted a total of eleven different-sized walls. For the suburbs, this house was considered smaller—and in fact, it was significantly smaller than the brick bungalow we’d be leaving behind in Lincoln Park. Cozy was used in this new house’s description four times.

It was like nothing I’d seen before in the city. Sure, we had our share of older homes—and Chicago’s bungalows are legendary, thank you—but this was quaint and sunny in a way that our old house hadn’t been. You could practically see a happy family from the 1940s all sitting together in the breakfast nook enjoying the Chicago Tribune and pancakes or building a pillow fort on the window seat. Or, maybe that was just wishful thinking. Wistful.

You’re in luck, the realtor said incredulously after we toured the house, ending in the kitchen.

Why’s that? Mom asked, poking about the cabinets.

"Well, first of all, the realtor said, a little patronizingly in my opinion, Snow Ridge houses almost never go on the market. Lots of these houses stay in families for generations. But, the Carricks didn’t have any children, and their nephew was the executor of the will. He’s managing the entire transaction from Scottsdale, of all places," she added, wrinkling her nose. Like Arizona was seventh circle of hell or something.

"What kind of Downton Abbey town is this?" I whispered to Mom, who snorted back.

"And second of all, the realtor added, Right next door is the Childs family."

Okay? Mom said, raising an eyebrow.

The realtor looked at her in disbelief.

"You know, they practically built this village. Childs Playground? Childs Garden and Nursery? Childs Boulevard?"

As long as it’s not Childs Blasting Music At 3 AM, I don’t really care, Mom said with a shrug.

The realtor pursed her lips, color flushing on her neck.

Right, then, she said in a clipped tone. Shall we see the back? There’s a lovely screened-in porch.

Obnoxious realtor with her weird Snow Ridge fixation aside, the house was undeniably darling, and Mom put in an offer that day.

Of course, if you’d told me a year ago that I’d find myself living in a white-picket-fence kind of suburb, I’d have told you that you were crazy. But there’s a lot of things I didn’t see coming a year ago.

Like Cynthia.

This summer, Dad and Cynthia moved to Cincinnati, where she’s from, because she wanted to raise their eventual, hypothetical kids around family. Correction, her family. Dad’s in tech sales and can work anywhere within an hour of an airport, so they were gone the minute her condo in the city sold.

Not long after that, Mom got offered the position of director of the newly-launched Social Justice Department at the Northern Illinois University School of Law—a huge move for her, as she’d been an adjunct at Depaul for years while running a small fair housing law practice. The biggest problem was that NIU was in DeKalb, so far from Chicago that you couldn’t even consider it a suburb, and there was definitely no practical way to commute there from the North Side each day. Why anyone would want to leave Chicago was beyond me, but it didn’t take a genius to figure out that Mom really just wanted a fresh start.

This house is filled with too many old memories anyway, don’t you think? she’d said the night she broke the news to me as we sat on the edge of my bed, dangling our feet.

Of course it is, I’d retorted, trying to keep the hot tears hidden behind my eyes. "This is the only house I’ve ever lived in. It’s the only place I have memories." Good and bad. Pre-divorce and post. Though the divorce had only happened in the past few months, so the post-divorce memories were fewer, but fresher.

She’d squeezed my shoulder.

We’ll make new ones, El, she insisted. Better ones.

We’ll see.

Anyway. Our August moving day came before we knew it. Mom and I were taking turns between the front lawn and inside the house, directing traffic as our two men from their truck heaved and lugged a lifetime of possessions. It was my turn outside for a bit, and as I stood there, fanning the back of my neck with my ponytail, I suddenly heard a voice ask, Water?

I whirled around and saw a statuesque blonde, hair like honey, green eyes with impossibly long lashes, flawless tan skin and dimples, looking at me and holding two bottles of Voss. She wore cutoffs, a loose purple tank top, matching flip flops and a chunky wooden necklace that looked cooler than it sounds. I took one look at her and knew right away she was one of Them.

And by that, I mean, let’s be honest: there’s two kinds of people in school. There’s Us, the normal people; and then there’s Them, the people who won the genetic lottery, and cash in on their winnings every day. This girl? Them. No question.

Needless to say, I had both feet firmly planted in the Us category. My dark brown hair was, and is, long because everyone’s is, but it was a little on the stringy side. Sopping wet, I weighed about 95 pounds, and maybe half an ounce of that was in my boobs; and my skin had two shades it varied between: pasty and crispy. And, there was that small matter of my godawful bulbous nose, that Mom refused to let me get fixed, no matter how much I tried to guilt-trip her about it.

Sorry? I asked, trying to regain my composure for a second.

Would you like some water? asked the girl.

Sure, I said, feeling dumb. Thanks.

She smiled warmly and handed me the bottle.

I’m Grace, she chirped. I live next door.

I glanced at the direction in which she pointed, and lo and behold, it was the Childs’ house. Which was indisputably gorgeous. It was a large, lavender, 1800s-era mansion, well kept from its freshly-clipped lawn to the clapboard cupola. It had a two-car detached garage toward the back of the property, and two more cars sitting in the apron. Both Range Rovers.

I’m Ella. Ella, uh, Bennett, I said. We’re just moving in.

Duh, Ella, I thought, feeling my face growing hot.

Grace was kind enough to ignore it.

That’s awesome, she said. What grade are you in?

I’m gonna be a sophomore.

Her eyes opened slightly wider in surprise. Though who could blame her? I knew I looked about twelve on a good day.

Me, too! she said, with a smile that was a little too tight-lipped to be real.

Now it was my turn to be surprised. She definitely looked old enough to vote, at least.

Just then, Mom sauntered out of the house, throwing her hair into a messy topknot.

Jesus, it is hotter than hell out here, she said, fanning her lower back with her Radiohead tee shirt. I noticed Grace wince, and slightly cringed myself.

Mom came over to us and greeted Grace with a broad smile.

Hi, there, she said enthusiastically, sticking out her hand. I’m Nina Minkoff.

I should mention that Mom has always been Nina Minkoff. She never changed her name when she got married, which I suppose made it a plus that she didn’t have to change it back when she got divorced.

I’m Grace. I live next door, she said, accepting the handshake like a trooper.

Oh, that’s great! Mom said. You must go to the high school here, then?

Yes. I’m a sophomore.

Mom’s face lit up like a Hemsworth had just shown up at her door.

That’s fantastic! So is Ella!

I’m right here, Mom, I muttered, looking at my feet.

She glanced at me and raised her eyebrows in a please-excuse-my-cranky-daughter kind of way.

Ugh, thanks, Mom.

Well, I better get back in and make sure these guys aren’t breaking the china, Mom said. You two get acquainted. And with that, she whirled back into the house.

I looked up at Grace and gave her a sheepish smile.

A few beats of silence passed.

So, I said, fidgeting with the cap of the water bottle.

So.

Um. What is there to do around here?

She looked at me for a moment, weighing her answer. I could almost hear the question running through her head: For me to do or for you to do?

There’s a movie theater pretty close by. And there are concerts sometimes at the park downtown. And, ah, football’s pretty big at the high school. Most everyone in town goes to the games, she eventually said. I’m on cheer.

Oh, that’s cool, I lied.

For pete’s sake, it’s not like Lincoln Park was the heart of Chicago, but it felt a world away from here right now. What I wouldn’t have given to be mere blocks away from Fullerton Beach, stopping at Firecakes Donuts on the way. Or even go to a DePaul football game. I wasn’t sure I’d ever get back there again.

And, maybe you’d think that being from Chicago, I’d be somehow more…I don’t know, more confident, more sophisticated, and maybe less likely to give a crap what other people thought of me—especially people from Snow Ridge. But that’s not true. I might be better at identifying sushi and using people’s preferred pronouns, sure. But the truth of it is, I’ve always cared a lot what people think of me. I want people to like me, and more importantly, I want them to like me just as I am. I don’t want to be made to feel like I’m a loser, and if anyone implies I am, I don’t just shake it off and move on. Does anybody?

Just then, a tiny chirp emitted from the phone in her back pocket. Grace anxiously started to reach around for it, then stopped herself.

So, I said, desperately fishing for a topic of conversation. Do you have any brothers or sisters?

No.

Me, either.

Her phone chirped again, and I could see her physically tense with fighting the instinct to check it.

Oh, that’s cool.

Yeah.

Good grief, this was five helpings of awkward. Nothing’s worse than being stuck in a conversation with someone who had nothing in common with you, nor any interest in you. It wasn’t so different from the handful of phone conversations I’d had with Cynthia—who I’d had yet to even meet in person, and I already could tell she thought I didn’t deserve her time. I felt my stomach prematurely churn at the thought of more strained conversations at the bus stop or over the backyard fence.

You know, I better go back inside and see if my mom needs anything, I said, granting us both a reprieve.

All right. I’ll see you around, yeah? She had already pulled her phone out of her pocket and started heading back toward her house.

Sounds good, I said. As an afterthought, I called after her, Nice to meet you.

You, too, she called out, not bothering to turn around.

I darted into my house.

Hey, Mom, I called up the stairs. I’ll take over inside for a while.

I wish I could say that was my only strained encounter with Grace, but that would be a big lie.

2

You ever hear the saying about how, if a frog is placed into a pot of boiling water, he’ll immediately hop right out and save himself? But, if the frog starts out in a pot of cool water, and then the heat is turned on, he’ll slowly let himself boil to death?

Well, call me Kermit. And call Snow Ridge the pot.

I didn’t see Grace for the entire next week, as her family left just after our meet-uncute to spend the remainder of August at their lakehouse in Wisconsin. This was totally fine by me; if I couldn’t spend my days hanging out with my old friends from the city, I’d rather be on my own, texting them from a lawn chair in the backyard, than hiding inside or enduring Grace’s polite disinterest in me.

I couldn’t blame Grace, though. If I had been anything like her—tall, gorgeous, undoubtedly popular—I probably wouldn’t want my stock to plummet because of the pint-sized new neighbor, either. And before you lecture me on self-esteem, you can stop—I have enough of it. I love myself, and I know I’m loved. I know I’m a good daughter. I’m loyal, and I know how to make my friends laugh. I know I have gifts unique to me and blah, blah, blah. But I also know that books are judged by their covers all the time, and anyone who says they aren’t is lying through their teeth.

So, imagine my surprise when, the night before school started, the doorbell rang. I peeked out my bedroom window and saw Mrs. Childs on the front steps. She’d stopped over briefly the day after we moved in, and that encounter had been just as humiliating as my introduction to Grace. I felt my throat tighten, and I darted into the bathroom and turned on the shower. Sorry, Mom, you get to handle this solo.

Half an hour later, I heard the front door fwump back closed again, and I tiptoed back from the bathroom to my room. Within moments, Mom was at my door.

Guess what? she said, barely containing her excitement. Mrs. Childs offered to drive you to school this year. Every morning!

What? I said, alarmed. I thought I was going to take the bus. Like we planned.

Hon, why don’t you just enjoy it? They want to do something kind for us. The kind thing would be to graciously accept it, don’t you think? she said as we riffled through my closet to search for the next day’s outfit.

Isn’t it kinder to give a gift that the receiver actually wants? I countered. Like, if someone gave you a rusty, broken-down car to get to work, does that mean you need to keep it and get rid of your Prius, just to be nice?

I’d hardly compare her Evoque to a rustbucket, she shot back, pulling out a few hangers of dresses. I shook my head no and hung them back up with more force than necessary.

I scoffed, You know what I’m saying.

Mom looked at me firmly.

Look, I get it, she said. "You and Grace might not be friends yet. But, she probably knows a lot of people, and she’s probably a good person to have in your corner at a new school. Don’t you think that at least is true?"

Maybe, I conceded. But everything I was really thinking remained unasked. What if she ignores me at school? What if she tells all her friends I’m a loser, and that’s the reputation I’m stuck with? What if she does that…and she’s right?

Mom playfully chucked me on the chin. And if Grace doesn’t realize how awesome you are? Then screw her.

I let out a sigh of relief. There was Mom like I needed her.

The next morning, I got up before six, showered, washed and dried my hair, then flatironed it in hopes it would magically go from stringy to glossy. I put on my loose black tee and white cutoffs that Mom and I found at the mall last week, hoping beyond hope that this