Beauty

She keeps a small yellow pitcher she had won in the carnival. Funny how she stuffed the pitcher with pens, crayons and color pencils. Her pitcher actually turned into a pencil box. She has a handsome collection of books. No doubt this is where her allowance is mostly spent. She owns three large photo albums that contain not even a single picture of hers. Instead, she filled the albums with beautiful sketches. She is kind of artistic. Weird. Really weird. 1

On the craggy wall of her room are colorful drawings that never fail to awe me. All of those drawings were her works in her art class during her primary school. Each is marked with a neat check beside the teacher’s signature; above right is the grade written in percentage. All of her drawings bore 90-above grades except for the one where she had drawn a bright-eyed maiden crowned with rich, inky hair. That is a beautiful face, I often tell myself whenever I sneak in her room and see that face. The art works have titles on them. This one, which is marked 70, has the most striking title. “My Ugliest Portrait”. Perchance, she doesn’t understand what the word “ugly” mean. 2

Our house isn’t painted. It is plain stark. But not her room. She had painted her wall with different mixtures of colors. White, blue, green, yellow, and purple. Her wooden bed is painted blue green. She hung skeleton chain at either side of the headboard. The skeleton chains are silver. At the middle hangs a crucifix. Pretty creepy, if I could say it. 3

There is a wooden side table in her room. She apparently had also painted it. It’s mint blue. It is where she perfunctorily put her mini-tree house that she personally designed. Her room looked messy. Primarily because of the cartons that consumed half the space of the room. The cartons contain her treasures. They are her treasure boxes. There she keeps all her journals, book reports, paper terms, essays, short stories, editorials, feature articles, and novels. They aren’t just cartons. They serve as the safe of Cidelle’s ultimate dream. She’s an aspiring writer. Did she ever tell anyone? Nope. 4

Back to her room. She has a cabinet full of sketchpads and books rather than clothes. Her bookcase isn’t big enough to accommodate all her books. Some of the books are borrowed from her classmates, which Cidelle didn’t bother to return. I’m dead sure Cidelle had read all those books. She has a habit of locking herself in her room so she could read all she wants. But I know for sure that she also dedicates much of her time writing. 5

She only had one picture displayed in her room. She was wearing her long hair and best smile. Daddy framed it. 6

“Your sister doesn’t look good in picture. But she looked magnificent in this one.” Dad once said, and whispered, “She never smiles.”7

Cidelle is dad’s bastard daughter. She moved in our home five years ago. But in those five years, I couldn’t still figure her out. She remains distant and enigmatic. A mystery. 8

Our house only had five rooms. There are two bedrooms, a living room, dining room, and a washroom. Cidelle’s room used to be mine, but I moved to dad and mom’s room when she arrived. At twelve, I still sleep on the bed between my parents. I never would get rid of the habit. 9

Cidelle isn’t interested with household chores. She wouldn’t have any part of the household duties over her dead body. She always makes that clear. Mom isn’t very pleased with her stepdaughter’s attitude. 10

Ashilea Cidelle is her Christian name. I simply call her Cidee. Dad loves calling her “Beauty.” She is the beauty in our family. Mom must have dissented this idea because she used to call her Acid at first. Cidelle is perpetually nonchalant of whatever names we want to call her.11

She lives her own world. And I strongly believe that dad, mom, and I are insubstantial in that world. And what world is that? I could hardly figure it out until now. 12

Cidee is clumsy. During her first weeks with us, she had carelessly broken one of mom’s beloved goblets. Mom had been furious. I hoped to finally see some reaction from Cidee, but she remained wearing a deadpan. She still acted indifferently, undaunted by mom’s rage. 13

“Okay. I’ll replace it with a goblet just exactly like the one I’ve broken.” She retained her innate pomposity that both mom and I dislike. She disappeared into the doorway and went straight to her room. She reappeared with a neatly rolled coupon and handed it to mom, then disappeared again. 14

Mom gasped in restrained consternation when she saw the goblet that Cidee had neatly drawn. I chuckled. After her anger had subsided, mom found the humor in Cidee’s goblet and smiled in spite of herself. The wench had a talent after all.15

Cidee loves her things. A miniscule eraser is even dearer to her than I, or mom or dad. When her old fountain pen suddenly disappeared, my taciturn stepsister grew furious and confronted me. (I swear to God I didn’t take it. I’m as innocent as a newborn babe.)16

“Where’s my f-pen?” A dangerous gleam darted from Cidee’s enigmatic eyes and I averted her gaze. F-PEN?17

“Dad doesn’t allow the f-word in this house, Cidee. Simply uttering the first letter isn’t permitted either. Mere f or the whole f-word doesn’t make any difference.” I scolded in a tone dad sometimes used when I did something inappropriate. To my dismay, Cidelle quirked a brow, her insolence never flickered. 18

“What are you talking about?” 19

“You said the f-pen? Why not just say pen?” I sounded rather to sober for a kiddo. 20

“What’s wrong if I say f-pen? I didn’t mean the fucking pen, anyway, you malicious boy! Now, where’s my fountain pen? My f-pen?”21

A blush crept up my neck to my small, cherubic face. “I’m sorry.” I murmured. I couldn’t look straight to her eyes.22

“Whatever. I only want my fountain pen back.”23

It never went back to her. Somehow, it just like vanished like bubbles in air. Cidelle had sulked for her lost fountain pen.24

Cidelle isn’t crazy about gifts like most of the girls I know. When dad bought her a handy camera, we never saw the glint of pleasure we so have anticipated. 25

“That’s a nice gift Aidel,” mom had commented (by that time she had quit calling her Acid). “With that camera, you can catch all the beauty around you.”26

Cidelle shrugged indifferently, and said in her lazy voice, “I don’t need it. My hand could do better than this camera in catching beauty. It’s cheaper, too.” She kept the camera nonetheless. She didn’t use it though.27

Cidelle is a member of the drama club in their school. Once she was chosen to play Juliet in the famous Shakespeare play “Romeo and Juliet”. No one knew why Cidee declined the role and volunteered instead to help in the stage preparation. She painted the stage and designed the marvelous setting. 28

It was only after the play that the casts found out the reason why Cidee refused to play Juliet. She didn’t fancy being paired with Jeremy who played Romeo. Bluntly, she said that Jeremy had the most offensive bad breath ever to abuse her nostrils and that she was surprised that Juliet didn’t collapse when she smelled his breath during the entire play. 29

Jeremy taught her better to humiliate him when he waited for her outside the campus and bashed her beautiful face. Cidee trudged home with a bloodied nose.30

Fortunately, I was the only one who saw her in that mess. Both mom and dad were not home yet. I‘ve been seriously alarmed when I saw her bloodied nose.31

“Who did that to you, Cidee?”32

“The freakin’ bull with halitosis!”33

For a week, Cidee painted her face to camouflage her bruise. I never had a chance to tell my parents about what Jeremy had done to Cidee. The point of fact is I’m afraid to incite Cidee by reporting to them.34

“What goes around comes around.” I heard her mutter not only once. Cidee didn’t physically get back at the freakin’ bull with halitosis. She revenged through her dexterity. She painted a Jeremy whose mouth is gagged. He stood at the center of the filthiest garbage damp on earth, flies swarming around his gagged mouth. The title of this piece is; “Halitosis: Stronger than Junk.”35

Cidee asked me to show this picture to everyone in the street and in the school. She had forgotten to warn me about the nefarious freakin’ bull. He was there when I was showing the painting to a bunch of kids.36

“Hey, Jeremy. That guy in the painting looks like you.” A boy whose front tooth is missing shouted excitedly. 37

Jeremy scrutinized the painting and hit me across the head afterwards. He pulled me at the collar and hissed, “Tell your stepsister she ain’t a good painter.”38

Being that close to Jeremy, I discovered that Cidee hadn’t been only lying after all when she said that Jeremy had the most offensive bad breath ever to abuse one’s olfactory sense.39

I went home with a bloodied nose. As Cidee tended to me, I saw a rush of tenderness cross over her face for the first time. 40

I gazed lovingly at her face, ignoring the pain caused by Jeremy’s fist. Ashilea Cidelle is even fairer than Juliet. Lovelier than any girl I know.  41

It was winter when a family moved in the painted house near ours. The house had long been unoccupied since its owner died a natural death. The old spinster had disliked my sister intensely primarily because Cidee would inexorably steal the roses from her garden every spring. Cidee loves the harpy’s beautiful garden. Cidee had actually painted our neighbor’s garden not a few times.42

Even if Cidee didn’t say anything nor betray any emotion, I could sense that she was aggrieved by the old woman’s death. When the old woman died, her garden also died. All the beautiful flowers that captivated Cidee’s heart just withered away, never to spring again. 43

When snow covered everything, Cidee gave up all the hope to behold petals blooming in our neighbor’s forsaken garden.44

Our neighbors are nice people. Mr. and Mrs. Syrell and their daughter Ainee are friendly and warm. I easily befriended the family except for the son Argyll. 45

The day I came to their house to play monopoly with Ainee, Argyll was present in the parlor. He only sat there in a motionless manner, like a statue. I never heard him say anything. His lips as red as ruby were sealed in a gloomy silence. Argyll is white as snow. A stark delight to the eye. He has such an angelic face that I almost thought that maybe I was staring directly at a heavenly creature. He neither frowned nor smiled at me. Argyll also avoided eye contact.46

Ashilea Cidelle came to my mind when I was looking at Ainee’s big brother. Cidee might like, even love him once she met him. Argyll might inspire her to paint or to write. Cidee, in return, might give him life, for as long as I’m concerned he didn’t seem to be radiating with life.47

Apparently, Cidelle had another business the whole winter. She would occasionally wander about the nearby forest now entirely covered with thick snow. She would go home brimming with mysterious glee, her cheeks stinging from the chill. 48

On the last day of  winter, we were up early for the hot biscuits and cocoa mom had prepared. Cidee told us that she would go into the forest to gather the first spring blooms.49

“But surely there is no sign of spring yet amidst the thick snow.” Mom said gently. Cidee clammed up, her eyes turning aloof. She went to the forest nonetheless. 50

My stint for that day was to help dad rake off the snow that covered our roof and front yard. 51

“Did you notice something about Cidee, dad?” I asked him.52

“She looks beautiful, doesn’t she?” Dad was beaming at me. I nodded in agreement.53

“She seems to be blooming like a spring blossom.” I observed solemnly. And in winter of all time. Most of the women, whom I had a chance meeting on my way to school or to the grocery, look pale and unbeautiful because of the chilly season.54

When Argyll walked past our block, I waved at him enthusiastically and yelled: “Howdy, Argyll!”55

At the point of turning to their block, Argyll changed his mind and wheeled on his heel in the direction toward us. 56

“I’ve been to the forest, little man.” He said, addressing me. “I’ve just seen the sign of spring.”57

“You’ve seen a flower?” Dad and I asked in the same breath. 58

Argyll smiled. That is the first time that I saw him smile. “The most beautiful flower that I’ve ever seen.”59

Incredulous, I went to the forest to see for myself. I goaded about the whitewashed forest in search for an early spring flower. But I didn’t see any flower. What I saw is Ashilea Cidelle resting against a dead tree, wearing no bonnet; her long, dark hair ruffled freely by the breeze. Her lips and cheeks are deeply red as if kissed by a bloody-red rose. 60

The flower Argyll had seen is no less than Ashilea Cidelle, my stepsister, the beauty of our home.61

Argyll is right. Cidee is the most beautiful flower that blooms. Cidee herself is the very sign of spring. 62

“Why did you come her?” Cidee asked me, unsmiling. Her cheeks seem to grow redder.63

Overcame by adoration for her, I said; “I went here to look for the first spring flower and bring it home.”64

“Why, silly boy?”65

“Because it’s the beauty of our home.” I gazed at her with adoring eyes. “Let’s go home Cidee. Mom is waiting for us with a hot chocolate.”66

Cidee stood and dusted off the snow on her coat. I offered my arm to her and she gladly took it.67

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