by Kyla Stone
I don’t sleep for the rest of the night.
34
The next day, I go to school. The hallway is crushed with students, all laughing and whooping and yelling. It’s almost Thanksgiving, and the natives are restless. But a path opens up before me like the parting of the Red Sea. People are quieting, staring, their eyes like lasers boring into me. I lift my chin, look straight ahead, and walk through the crowd.
“Sorry about your family,” several people murmur. I don’t pause to acknowledge them. No one calls me names. No one whispers insults. They stare at me like I’m some wounded deer that’s just appeared in their midst. They have no idea what to do or how to act, like I’m made of glass and will shatter if they try to touch me.
I both hate it and feel immense relief. They’re leaving me alone. The oppressive disdain and ridicule that’s dogged me for years has dissipated. I can breathe the air again.
In Classic Lit, the whole class is already there. Miss Pierre scrawls notes on themes of The Scarlet Letter in red marker on the whiteboard, her back turned. Everyone cranes their necks and whispers behind their hands when I walk in. I don’t care. I pull out my book and stare at it until the lines of text blur.
“Hey,” Eli says. “How are you doing? You okay?”
I ignore him. I have no interest in pity attention from people who haven’t bothered to talk to me in four years. The familiar hard, spiky feeling rises up in me.
Lucas sits next to me. I can feel him staring at me, and his presence is much harder to ignore. My skin prickles. Sweat beads beneath my armpits. Finally, I snap the book shut. “What the hell are you looking at?”
He cocks his head. “I’m really glad you’re back.”
“I’m here. Big whup.”
“Come running with me. After school.”
I remember his lips on mine, what it felt like to be touched. My cheeks redden. I also remember pushing him and running away like some freak lunatic. “And why should I do that?”
His eyes are kind. “Because it helps. When your whole life sucks rocks, it helps.”
He’s right. I do want to run. I want to slam my legs against the pavement, beat the air with my fists, run until everything is erased except for the road ahead of me, the burning in my lungs.
“Welcome back, class.” Miss Pierre catches sight of me and she falters a bit. “Well—hello, Sidney. We’re glad to have you back. We’re so sorry for what you’re going through. But we’re happy you’re here. Please let me know if you need anything.”
I slump further into my seat.
Lucas passes me one of his notes. I really want to see you. Will you run with me? Please
circle yes or no. Insert smiley face here. I can’t believe he still wants to talk to me after how I treated him. I stare at the note for a long time. I’m different. I’m going to be different.
I circle yes. When I hand him the paper, his fingers touch mine. A snap of electricity passes between us. “Sorry, not sorry,” he says with a lopsided grin.
“I didn’t even know you were coming,” Arianna whispers as I slide into my seat in Government class. “Your phone has a text feature, you know.”
I shrug. “Surprise. I’m here.”
“I would have walked you to your classes.”
“I’m not in need of a chaperone, thank you very much.”
“Are you okay?”
“I’m fantastic.”
“Are you sure? Did anyone say anything to you?”
She’s being too pushy and I get antsy again. Too much, too fast. “I said I’m fine!”
“Ladies, is there a problem?” Mr. Cross asks gruffly.
“No, sir,” Arianna says. She turns back to me. “I’m glad you’re here,” she whispers as soon as Mr. Cross’s back is turned.
I pull out the bag of Reese’s Pieces I picked up from the cafeteria vending machine and put a handful on her desk. She stares at them like they’ll give her cancer. “You eat them one at a time,” I say. “They’re good, really. I think they even have vitamins in them.”
She grimaces at me, but I get her to eat ten of them. She helps me through the review questions for the chapter on the federal judiciary court system I missed.
Halfway through class, the school secretary walks in. She scans the room until her gaze settles on me. “Miss Shaw, Dr. Yang wants to see you in his office.” Her throaty whisper is loud enough for the whole class to hear.
Arianna rolls her eyes. We exchange grins, like old friends in on a joke. It feels comfortable. It feels good.
I gather my things and make my way to Dr. Yang’s office. He’ll want me to talk about
my feelings. I don’t think I could talk about them even if I wanted to. I have no idea what I’m feeling. It changes from day to day, minute to minute. I think I should be happy, relieved, and I am, but I’m also full of rage, guilt, and shame. Sometimes I’m numb, sometimes I’m so achingly sad it steals my breath away. I steel myself before I go in, make sure I’ve got my armor on.
I sit in the same blue chair I always do. He sits behind his desk like he always does. He’s wearing a pea-green flannel suit that looks like a throwback from the eighties. “Good morning, Sidney.”
“I hope you haven’t been in mourning over me. I’ve gotta say it. You don’t look so good, Doc.”
“We’re here to talk about you, Sidney. It’s good to see you. I’ve missed you.”
“I highly doubt it. Reese’s?” I hold out a handful of the half-melted candy.
“No, thank you. How are you doing?”
I hate having to answer that awful question over and over. “I’m stupendous.”
He frowns at me. “Sidney. Your mother killed your father. A huge bomb just exploded in the middle of your life.”
I wince. “Yeah, I’m aware.”
“How do you feel?”
Guilty as hell, but there’s no way I can tell him that. “Like somebody should throw a party. Preferably with little fruity drinks or a spiked punchbowl.”
He just raises his eyebrows at me.
“Wrong answer? I’m devastated. I can barely get out of bed in the morning. He promised to fly me to Belize and buy me a Mercedes for my graduation. Now what am I going to do?”
He steeples his fingers beneath his jaw. “Sidney, can you tell me how you’re really feeling?”
I wish there was a window to look at. There’s nothing but this horrid chair and Dr. Yang staring at me with his unsettling, penetrating gaze. I think about what Aunt Ellie told me yesterday after she got off the phone with the defense attorney. Ma’s case is waiting on the pre-sentence investigation report, which the judge will use to determine her sentence. Defense counsel and the prosecution have already agreed on a charge—murder in the second. Ma refused to say a bad word about Frank, even when a battered wife syndrome defense might have lessened her prison time. Even if she had, it would’ve been a hard sell. Frank never broke any bones. Terror and humiliation were his favorite weapons, wounds that didn’t leave visible scars. I take a deep breath. “I’m happy he’s gone, okay?”
“Tell me about that.”
“He was a drunk. And mean. He was a lousy father.”
“Some people would be pretty shocked by those statements,” Dr. Yang says carefully.
“People think just because he had sticky fingers and could run like hell twenty years ago, that makes him a good guy. A hero. Or maybe they only know what they want to know, only see what they want to see.”
“How does that make you feel?”
I clench and unclench my fingers in my lap. “How do you think?”
“Is there a part of you that wishes he was still here? Do you miss him?”
“He’s not here, so it’s a moot point, isn’t it?” The truth I won’t speak, I can’t speak, is that in some terrible, twisted way, I do. Before it all went to hell four years ago, there were some good memories nestled like small pearls in the darkness. My traitorous heart aches for the father who taught me poker, who to
ld me every curse word when I was six and laughed and laughed when I repeated them in my little girl lisp, who told funny stories and brought crazy gifts whenever he returned from his trips, who took me to the range and taught me to shoot before I was nine, who bragged to his buddies about how clever and pretty I was when I was just a gangly, awkward kid, how I felt ten feet tall around him.
But all that came before. Before I grew breasts and hips and he saw something he wanted to own, to consume. Before he turned savage. If I let myself think about those things, my heart becomes a black hole sucking me down to a nothingness I know I’ll never escape from. “No. I don’t miss him.”
Dr. Yang keeps plying me with questions until the bell rings, trying to get me to crack, but I don’t. I can’t.
“I really am here to help, you know,” he says as I pull myself out of the blue chair.
After school, I don’t meet Lucas to run. I feel the carved butterfly heart he made me bouncing around in the bottom of my backpack, pulsing with accusation. But I can’t. Everything dark inside me is shrieking inside my head. He is too good, too bright to look at.
And I’m still a coward.
35
“Hello again, Miss Shaw,” Detective Henricksen says sweetly when I open my front door. Gusts of wind swirl around her trench coat. She’s clutching a cup of coffee in one hand, her spiral notepad in the other.
“What do you want?” I say, dread prickling my skin. Aaron’s in the living room with Aunt Ellie, painting some ceramic Christmas ornament they molded and baked in the oven yesterday. Over Thanksgiving break, Aunt Ellie and the boys brought home a huge Christmas tree. We strung some sorry looking lights around it and Aunt Ellie and Aaron have been decorating it with homemade ornaments ever since. Frankie’s not interested in making construction paper snowflakes or pipe cleaner candy canes. He’s in his room, playing Grand Theft Auto. For the last two hours, I’ve been sitting next to Aaron and Aunt Ellie with my drawing pad, shading in the black and white stripes of the Zebra Swallowtail butterfly with my charcoal sticks. My fingertips are smudged and blackened.
“May I come in?”
“If you have to ask, then the answer is no.” The cold air hits me like a slap, but I’d rather freeze to death in my underwear than let her in again. I know my rights this time.
Arianna googled them and read a whole list aloud while we waited for the pasta to boil for
the linguine carbonara with cauliflower and pancetta dish she made us last week.
Detective Henricksen’s smile falters. “Have it your way.”
I fold my arms over my chest. “What do you want?”
“I wanted to check on you, see if you’ve thought about my offer.”
“That’s funny. I don’t recall any offer.”
Her auburn hair is yanked back in a bun so tight, her forehead skin is pulled taut. “I think you do. It’s not too late, you know, to come clean. The thing about vigilante justice the movies don’t tell you about, is it eats you up with guilt.”
“You have personal experience with that?”
“Think about your mom. Think about the baby.”
I blink rapidly, trying to keep my emotions at bay. I can’t show her anything. I can’t show her my weakness. “Maybe I am thinking about them.”
“If he hurt you, I can help you. I can make it go easier for you.”
But I’m not fooled this time. I see the flash in her eye, the same predatory glint Frank got whenever he was playing you. When you were already ensnared in a trap you hadn’t even seen coming. She doesn’t care what happens to Ma, the boys, or me. Whatever guilt I’m feeling, whatever choices I might have to make, I’m not confessing to her. She has no empathy for me. I can see it. She wants to break the case everybody else was duped into thinking they’d closed. She wants the glory, to win the game. “I’ll pass.”
She changes tactics. “I need to speak with your brother again. Verify his story. Wrap up these inconsistencies.”
Detective Henricksen moves to step forward, but I block her with my body. I know what to say this time. Arianna helped me prepare, in case she came back. “Does your boss know you’re out here, making unscheduled house calls? Harassing grieving witnesses? What about your partner? Where’s he? Maybe I should give the precinct a call. Just to make sure you’re on the up and up and all. You understand.”
She scowls and gets right up in my face. “I’m a detective. Let me through.”
Like last time, I don’t break her stare. It’s freezing outside, but my blood is hot and tingling. “Unless you have a warrant tucked inside your bra, you can go screw yourself. Detective.”
Her face hardens. But I see the shift in her eyes. She was bluffing, and she just lost. No one else suspects a thing. It’s only her. If I don’t let her in, there’s not an effing thing she can do about it.
“You just blew your last chance.”
My heartbeat thuds in my ears. “No, you did.”
She glares at me for a long moment, then turns and stomps down the porch steps. The flaps of her coat flutter in the wind.
“Don’t come back here again or I’ll report you for harassment. Besides, you’re too late. Ma’s sentencing hearing is tomorrow.”
She turns and looks at me, her mouth twisting into a harsh smile. “Didn’t your mother’s lawyer call you? No? Those public defenders are lousy, aren’t they? Your mom went into labor. The sentencing was delayed until Monday. She had her baby this morning.”
I slam the door shut and sag to the floor, my legs turned to spaghetti. Too many emotions war in my head. Fear and guilt and shame grip me and won’t let go. Even though there’s nothing Detective Henricksen can do about it, she’s still right. I’m guilty. Guilty as sin. What am I doing here? I’m hiding and lying like a criminal, like a coward. I deserve to be caught. I should be sitting in that cell, not Ma. Ma should be in a hospital bed, cradling my new baby sister in her arms.
I try to imagine what she might look like, but I can’t.
My sister.
There’s a shriek from the living room.
I rush in to see Aunt Ellie bent over the coffee table, holding her cheek. Aaron sits on the couch, crying. Frankie stands with his arms crossed defiantly over his chest.
“What happened?”
Aunt Ellie straightens, her eyes bulging. “He hit me!”
Frankie’s hands are balled into fists. “She tried to take away my PlayStation. For no reason! Dad got this for me, not you!”
Aunt Ellie shakes her head, her vintage chandelier earrings tinkling against her neck. “That disgusting game is not allowed in this house. Thugs shooting people in the streets, killing women? It’s filth. I will not have it.”
“This isn’t your house! You don’t make the rules!”
“I surely do, as long as I’m here—”
“Then leave!” Frankie screams.
Aaron cries harder.
Frankie’s ruining it. He’s going to drive her away and then what? The state will take the boys, and I’ll have failed completely. “Frankie! Stop it!”
“You’re grounded for a month!” Aunt Ellie is shaking, her voice rising to ear-splitting octaves. “No phone, no video games, no friends. You hear me, young man? That game goes in the trash.”
“Go to hell!” he shrieks.
“That’s it! You need your dirty mouth washed out with soap, young man.”
I have to do something, right now. Before she can reach him, I step in front of her. I grab Frankie’s narrow shoulders and shake him, hard. “Stop it! Just stop!”
“Leave me alone!”
His body goes rigid, his arm springing up so he can hit me, too. Anger sizzles up hot and fast. I grab his arm and twist it hard. He bleats in pain and smacks at me with his free hand.
“Stop it!”
Aunt Ellie stomps into my parents’ bedroom and slams the door.
“She can’t do this!” Frankie yells. “I hate her!”
“Just stop! We need her.”
/> “We don’t need anybody!”
“Yes, we do. We have to listen to her, or she’ll leave, and you go back to foster care. Is that what you want?”
His face crumples. “No.”
“Then stop! Stop acting like—”
“Like Dad?” he snaps, wetness glimmering in his eyes. “Why don’t you?”
He shoves me away and runs into his room, slamming the door.
I stand there, arms at my sides. A sick feeling slithers into my gut. He’s right. We’re both like Frank. Frank is dead, but he’s not gone, not completely. Frankie and I both have his monster living inside of us. We both turn hard, sharp with anger.
Aaron lets out a sob. “Sidney!”
But I can’t go to him. I flee to my own room. I despise this room, but with the boys back, I have nowhere else to go. It doesn’t matter how many times Aunt Ellie scoots the furniture around. It’s still both my sanctuary and my prison.
I slump at my desk and stare at my hands, the ridges of black charcoal beneath my fingernails. Hands that so easily resort to violence. I can’t be him. I won’t be him.
Pain roars in my head, the familiar biting urge rearing up inside me. I need to cut. I’ve moved the razor from my backpack to beneath my mattress. I find the baggie and pull it out, drop the razor into my hand. I shimmy out of my sweatpants.
Stare at my legs.
I’ve cut my ankles a few times, attempting to get the cold calm, the sweet release, and failing every time. I only needed to tug down my socks for that. I’ve showered almost every day, but I haven’t shaved. Haven’t touched my legs. I’ve dressed and undressed a hundred times in the last weeks. But always in the dark, always without looking.
I didn’t want to see what I did to myself that day on the side of the road, in the shadow of the old barn. I run my fingers over the thick red scabs. I slashed my legs from my ankles to my knee caps. Dozens of times. It looks brutal. It was brutal. I press against one of the scabs and wince.
The razor slips from my fingers. I can’t keep doing this. I don’t want to do this.
