Or, I don’t know, maybe I can.
Milo’s truck sits parked outside his house, and I stumble over to it, hoisting my body into the frosty flatbed rather than knocking on his front door, afraid his mom might answer. Bursts of warm air billow out of me with each jagged sob.
There was a gun in the house. You found it.
I try to imagine myself there, despite having no memory of our home or what I would have been like back then. Blond pigtails, chubby cheeks, a pacifier in my mouth?
You shot her.
Had I been looking for a toy when I found Robert’s gun? Did my mother try to stop me?
It was an accident. You were only a baby.
With my eyes shut, I try to picture a real gun, what it would feel like in the hands of a two-year-old. How the thunderous boom must’ve deafened me.
You’re a killer. You picked up a loaded gun and shot your own mother. You’re horrible and sinful, and you don’t deserve to be alive.
Gunshots ring out in my head, only they don’t sound real. Are crime show sound effects real? Or do they sound as fake as TV punches and barroom brawls? I imagine myself crying afterward. Was there a lot of blood? Did my mother see me pull the trigger? Did she die instantly or suffer while I sucked my thumb?
“Jo? What are you doing out here?”
My hot, saturated eyes flutter open. I shake my head, sobbing harder.
Milo jumps up beside me. “What is it? What happened?”
I shake my head again, wiping slippery tears from my cheeks.
“Come inside,” he begs.
“No.” My voice is hoarse, full of snot and grief and grit.
“You’re shivering.”
“I don’t care.”
“What happened?” he says again, warm hands clasping my frozen ones.
I open my mouth, but how do I say it? Only tears come tumbling out of me, my heart hammering like an egg being scrambled. Like I can’t control anything about myself.
“Hey, hey, hey.” He squeezes my hands tighter. “Seriously, let’s go inside.”
Still I refuse, heaving and convulsing so hard, I wonder if a rib might crack.
There was a gun in the house.
Milo says something else, but I can’t hear him or don’t try to.
Your grandparents took you away from me. I was arrested. They filed for custody.
A crumpled tissue appears in front of my face and I take it, grateful to clear my head of a thousand pounds of slime.
“Wait here,” Milo says.
He hops onto the sidewalk and runs off, reappearing twenty seconds later with a soft, plaid blanket and a whole box of tissues. With a magician’s flair, he shakes the blanket out wide and drapes it over my shoulders. I lift my butt, grateful to have something separating me from the ice-cold truck. The warmth relaxes my muscles and eases my tears. Milo kneels beside me, rubbing my shoulders. Wordlessly, I scoot closer, extending one side of the blanket for him.
“Thanks,” he says and pulls it tight around us both.
There is nothing romantic about it. The state of my face and my torn-up soul offer nothing to flirt with, but I’m grateful for the extra warmth. For a long time we stay silent, wind whistling gently around us. Every so often, Milo hands me a fresh tissue. A mountain of crumpled white cotton forms at our feet.
“Is it your dad?” he asks after a few minutes.
I hesitate, then nod.
“Shit,” he says.
The blanket slides off my shoulder, and he reaches across to gently pull it up. Our eyes connect. The rest of the world stops. It’s still so new—Milo and me. I don’t want to scare him, but the thought of keeping this bottled up inside me for another second scares me even more. I can’t do it. I can’t keep this in.
I look into Milo’s soft, blue-gray eyes. “Can I tell you something?”
“Of course,” he whispers.
“It’s something bad. Something really, really—”
His lips brush lightly against mine, enough to reassure me.
When he pulls away, I tell him everything.
12
Waking up on Monday morning is like waking up in a coffin. A dull sandpaper pain coats my skin, but rather than get out of bed to shower or hide behind my sewing machine, I let it soak deeper into my bones. I hold my breath, so I can keep it still within me. I deserve this feeling. Deserve to burn alive in it.
I roll onto my side and picture Robert’s stricken face, tasked with telling his own daughter that she shot someone—not just her mother, but his first love. And my dishonest, heartbroken grandparents. I didn’t just kill their daughter, I ruined their beautiful fiction too. It’s easier to think about Milo. The way he held me and kept me warm for hours. Listened to me cry, shake, shatter. He told me it wasn’t my fault, but it was.
Will God have mercy on my soul? Do I deserve His forgiveness? I can hear Pastor Thompson now: Jesus Christ died for your sins—well, you weren’t fucking around with that sin, were you, Johanna? Well. Maybe not quite like that.
My bedroom door creaks open, and I freeze under the covers, afraid to hear my grandmother’s voice and too-late apology. The door clicks shut. Two gentle sets of feet tiptoe across the room, mango body mist and Daisy perfume wafting in with them. Leah curls up on one side of me, Gabby on the other. Sweaters warm, skin cold. My trusty Rottweilers don’t say anything. Don’t need to, after the fifty thousand texts we exchanged till 2 a.m. The way I explained the unexplainable to them. The way they lied and told me everything would be all right. Even though I know it won’t.
“Did you sleep?” Leah whispers.
I shake my head and swallow uneasily, my heart blaring in my ears. There’s something disquieting about this, despite the spooning and the bear hugs. Yesterday, I knew myself around them—the blend of fibers that made the fabric of us. But can we still be that connected? Or are they as horrified by me as I am of myself?
“What are you thinking about?” Gabby asks.
“Milo,” I say quickly. “Do you guys think I ruined things with him?”
Leah shakes her head. “No way. He’s really into you.”
“I can’t believe I poured my guts out like that.”
“He’s your boyfriend,” Gabby says. “It’s his job.”
“Yeah, well, he didn’t know I was a cold-blooded killer when he asked me out.”
“You’re not a cold-blooded—” Leah shivers and squeezes me tighter. “Don’t say that.”
I stiffen. “Sorry.”
“It’s okay. But please don’t say stuff like that.”
Stuff like the truth, she means.
They cradle me for a while longer. Butterfly kissing my cheeks as I manage one jagged breath after another. The smell of bacon permeates the house, reminding me I haven’t eaten since yesterday morning. Leah drags my ass to the shower where I brush the grit off my skin, the moss from my teeth. Gabby helps me into a short black pinafore and wool tights. We don’t bother with my Mo’ Tizzy sweater or any other style-hiding garb because, why should I? My grandparents have been lying to me my whole life. From now on, I’ll wear my damn clothes without worrying about their precious Christian sensibilities.
“Mornin’, girls,” Gran says, layering greasy bacon onto a dry paper towel. “Bacon’s ready. I made it crispy, just how you like it!”
The three of us stop dead in our tracks in the kitchen doorway. I glance at Gabby, her mystified shock-horror confirming my own. Because, como que what? Is Gran seriously acting like nothing happened? Standing there in her American-flag robe, shoulders hunched, making breakfast and pouring coffee, same as always. The only out-of-the-ordinary thing is how she doesn’t comment on my dress being too short or urge me to change. She barely looks at me twice, actually. Just smiles and turns back to the stove, swirling metal tongs in a cast-iron bed of sizzling fat.
“There’s time for eggs too,” she says. “How do y’all want ’em?”
“Um. Morning, Mrs. Carlson,” Leah says tentatively. She
laces her fingers through mine and squeezes, eyes darting from the kitchen to the front hall, waiting for the go-ahead to bolt, if necessary.
It takes a second for me to steady myself, queasy from the mound of bacon heaped high on white porcelain. Mandy was a vegetarian, Robert told me. She loved animals. The words crunch inside me, forming images of my mother, cradling piglets, milking cows, serenading the birds on her window ledge.
“We’re not staying for breakfast,” I tell her, resolute and repulsed by each sweating slab of maroon pork.
“Sorry, Mrs. Carlson,” Gabby adds. “No time.”
“Wait.” Gran scurries around the counter. “Don’t forget your lunch.”
She holds up a brown paper bag, smudged with grease. I bet there’s a leftover pot roast sandwich inside with Gran’s famous caramelized onions. The Sunday roast I walked out on last night when my grandparents had the nerve to tell me they’d hidden the past for my own good. I give the bag one look and my jaw tightens.
“I don’t want it,” I say, and let the front door slam on my way out.
• • •
Milo’s leaning against his silver pickup when we get to school, blowing air into his cupped hands and fidgeting in tight black jeans and a wool coat. When he notices Gabby’s jeep, he seems to perk up, pushing himself off and walking toward us.
“Dude, he’s making a beeline!” Leah shrieks.
“See?” Gabby says. “Told you.”
Automatically, I check my makeup—which barely matters, my under-eyes are gluttonous, gray worms. “God, I look like ass.”
Gabby grabs her bag and starts to unbuckle her seat belt, but Leah reaches over the driver’s seat, pinning her in a headlock. “Do not get out of this car, Gabriella Celeste Sinclair. Jo, skedaddle. Me and Gabs are … flossing. Or having a fight. Whatever. It doesn’t matter.”
“Seriously?” Gabby groans, extricating her throat from the crook of Leah’s arm. “Okay, fine. But only because it’s Jo.”
“Thanks.” I flash a nervous smile and slide out of the car.
Milo’s standing a couple feet away. “Hey,” he says, voice so gentle it’s practically on crutches. “How are you?”
“Look, about last night,” I say. “I’m really sorry.”
“Are you kidding me?”
Before I can answer, I scan the half-full parking lot. My adrenaline boomerangs. People are staring at me—Lucy Bingham, Alice, Oola. Are they staring? Or, shit, maybe they’re not? The Kenworth twins walk past, and Iris (the blond-highlights one) gives me a look. I swear, it sends my heart down to my toenails.
She knows what you did. Milo told her. You’re ruined, you’re—
“Hey, Jo. Hi, Milo,” she says, eyes big as hard-boiled eggs.
“Hey, Iris,” I mumble back.
Selene—the edgy twin with the piercings—flashes a borderline lustful grin and gives me the least subtle thumbs-up I’ve literally ever seen in my life. Then, the two of them scamper up the hill toward the coffee cart. My shoulders drop two full inches. This isn’t about my mother, it’s about me and the hot new transfer student.
My secret is safe.
I glance at Milo again, and he ducks his head, shoving his hands deep into his pockets. “I wasn’t sure you’d show up today.”
I shrug. “Me neither.”
“How are you, y’know, feeling?”
“Like dog shit smeared on the sidewalk.”
“Nice.”
“You asked.”
A few more kids walk past us, and I have to swallow twice to stop the swampy feeling from bubbling all the way up. They’re not looking at you. They don’t know. No one ever has to know what you did.
“Didn’t feel like cashing in a sick day?” he asks. “I’m sure your grandparents would have understood.”
“Oh, you mean the backstabbing assholes who lied to me my whole life?” I exhale furiously and lower my voice. “Gran basically pretended like nothing happened. This morning was bacon and business as usual.”
“Seriously?”
“Yeah.”
“Damn.”
Silence creeps up, sucking us in. To fill the void, we walk across the brittle, wintry grass toward first period, and it’s so awkward that my heart starts puttering inside my chest, assuming the worst.
Milo clears his throat. “I’m not sure what to say.”
Which is almost a relief.
“It’s okay,” I say carefully. “Neither am I. In fact, I totally understand if you don’t want to see me again. No hard feelings. It was fun, but I’m kind of damaged goods.”
Not even a nanosecond passes, and Milo shakes his head, curling his fingers around mine. He raises them to his lips and kisses the back of my hand.
“Not damaged,” he whispers. “Just good.”
13
All week long, the American flag on our front lawn flaps angrily in the wind. Weird how I never used to notice it up there—this huge, durable ad for our patriotism. I wonder if my grandparents owned that flag before or after I shot and killed their daughter. Whether displaying it was a way of buoying their patriotism in a world that no longer made sense.
Or, I don’t know. Maybe they just like the colors.
This is the kind of shit I’m thinking about as I drive home from school on Wednesday. Grandpa’s Subaru isn’t parked in the garage when I get home, and I remember something about a trip to Albuquerque for a post-op hip replacement thing.
Instead of going inside, I hook Magic to his leash and lead him down the street, past Mrs. Strumor’s house, past the Zelaznys’ and the Greggs’. I look at their homes, so similar to mine—simple stucco frames, not tiny but nothing grand. Same vigas and red brick floors, but what about the decor? The details that make our houses ours. Magic drags me farther, sniffing bushes and marking his territory, and I think about the tops of closets. Inside cupboards and underneath beds. Safes and locked drawers. Do any of my neighbors own guns? Multiple guns? Stashed away or on display. Firearms have become such a part of our culture. I’ve almost grown numb to them, only thinking of guns in the abstract—until now. Now I can practically feel them pulsing around me. The cold click of metal, a stale potpourri of smoke.
“Johanna!”
My head drops out of the clouds and back onto my shoulders at the sound of a familiar, buoyant voice. Across the street I see Mrs. Vargas in her driveway, leaning into the trunk of her car for a bag of groceries. The Vargas family has lived on this street since before us. Super friendly, cup-of-sugar people. Their son, Steve, goes to Chavez, but he’s only a freshman. We used to hang out when we were kids, playing the-floor-is-lava and eating Mrs. Vargas’s amazing chocolate-chip cookies.
The last thing I want is to talk to her, but I smile and cross the street. “Hi, Mrs. Vargas. Need a hand?”
“No, sweetie, that’s all right. How’s your semester going?”
“Fine, thanks.”
“Oh, good.”
Mrs. Vargas has a plump, babyish face. A preschool teacher’s face, which is exactly what she is. Kind and patient. I picture the floral sofa in their living room and imagine a semiautomatic wedged between the cushions. A rifle in the broom closet. I wonder what she’d do if she knew about me.
“I wanted to ask you—” She hoists the bag up on her hip. “Did you ever have Ms. Hondo for Latin? Steve says she’s real tough.”
I nod, tightening my ponytail and swallowing the urge to blurt out that I killed my own mother. That my father did time for it. “Ms. Hondo is the best. I loved her class, but she’s definitely a fan of pop quizzes.”
Mrs. Vargas shakes her head. “That’s exactly what Steve says. He’s never been much good at tests.”
“Tell him to memorize the vocab every other Thursday. Friday pop quizzes are kind of her jam.”
“Oh, that’s good to know! Thanks, sweetie.”
“Sure,” I say. And I don’t add that I aimed a .22 caliber handgun at my mother’s chest. What even is a .22? A style? A size? Is it smaller th
an a .38, a rifle, an Uzi? I force a smile. “Have a good evening, Mrs. Vargas.”
“You too, hon. Say hi to your grandparents.”
“Sure thing.”
Back in the house, I tiptoe down the hall. Not that it matters. Not that my double-crossing grandparents are even home. The house just makes me feel that way sometimes, like I need to be on my best behavior. Not leave scuff marks. I change into sweats and open my laptop because Mr. Gonzales assigned us an essay on The Great Gatsby. Not that I feel much like delving into the failed American Dream. I don’t even want to get out my sewing machine to create some kind of fabulous, roaring twenties’ ensemble à la Daisy Buchanan. Everything just seems so trivial now.
But Google beckons, glowing from my laptop screen, all blank and inviting. I sink onto my desk chair and ball up my fists before splaying my fingers, typing each letter like I’m picking up individual grains of rice. A-m-a-n-d-a C-a-r-l-s-o-n. Why have I never searched this before? When I was a kid, I guess I assumed proof of her car accident wouldn’t still be there. Or, I don’t know. Maybe I never wanted to make my nightmares worse by reading about it.
Maybe I still don’t.
Before I can press Enter, brakes slam in my brain and the fear wins out. Which sucks because I thought I could do this. I slap my laptop shut and hide its smirking aluminum shell in a desk drawer as my heart shivers inside my chest. Seriously, though. How did I manage to fire a gun, and yet I can’t carry out a basic internet search? Pathetic.
Hating myself a little, I slink away from my desk and walk into the kitchen, not expecting to see my grandparents unpacking a hundred grocery bags from Trader Joe’s.
Gran looks up, pulling out a few boxes of Grandpa’s favorite organic crackers. “Oh, you’re home. Good. Pizza dough was on sale, so I bought fresh mozzarella and tomato sauce and some of those olives you like as a topping. How was your day?”
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