by Cat Clarke
There are possibilities other than kissing. That’s what I try to tell myself as I shower and dress and put on the bare minimum of makeup. I add a couple more ideas to the list: a huge zit had suddenly erupted on Thomas’s nose and Laurel was helping him apply some concealer so it wouldn’t show up in the photos; Thomas had lost his voice from trying to shout above the music upstairs so Laurel had to stand really close in order to hear his hoarse whispers. They’re beyond flimsy, though, these possibilities of mine. They are the preposterous imaginings of someone who doesn’t want to accept the truth.
—
I rush to leave the apartment before Michel and Dad get up. I leave a note on the kitchen counter. It’s much easier to lie on paper than in person. Having said that, the lie I do tell is more than a little lame: a school project, spending the day in the library.
I wander the streets, but my feet start to hurt, so I actually do go to the library in the end. It calms me, walking among the shelves, picking up books and putting them down again. Then I accidentally end up in the poetry section, which makes me think of Thomas and spoils things a bit.
My legs take me up the stairs and past seven rows of shelves to the part of the library I know the best. Over the years, I’ve spent a lot of time here, reading as fast as I can, worrying that Mom will realize I’m not in the children’s library downstairs. She never caught me, though, not once.
The three books are all there, present and correct. I thought someone might have borrowed them, what with all the press recently. But these days people can get all the information they need on the Internet, can’t they? And these books are out of date now; the story they tell is incomplete.
Little Girl, Lost. Schmaltzy, over-the-top, written by a tabloid journalist who’d never even bothered to speak to my parents.
TAKEN! The REAL story of Laurel Logan. Another tabloid journalist, this one convinced that Laurel had been sold into slavery or prostitution. He spent months traveling around Europe trying to find her, and made bold claims that he’d arrived at some brothel in Eastern Europe mere hours after Laurel had been moved by “gangland bosses” who knew that he was “hot on their heels.” (The police had followed up, of course. Lies, all lies.)
And then there’s Jeanette Hayes. The book that my mother wouldn’t allow in the house. She wouldn’t have been happy about me reading any of these books, but if she’d caught me reading the Hayes one, she’d have gone apeshit. Mom always said that Hayes had some kind of vendetta against us. She refused to even say her name. In our house, Jeanette Hayes has always been known as “that woman.”
I hate her for what she did to our family. I’ve been conditioned to hate her. I mean, Mom always tried not to talk about things like that when I was in the room, but she failed often and badly. Maybe that’s not quite fair; as a child, I developed a habit of listening at doors before I entered rooms and after I left them. I heard many, many things that weren’t meant for my ears, but I never felt guilty about it. I saw it as my right.
I sit down on the floor and cross my legs. The Jeanette Hayes book isn’t as worn as the others; it’s a new, updated edition that I haven’t seen before. I check the date and see that it was published last year. I must have read the old version of the book four or five times. I would mark my place by folding over the corner of the page and continue where I left off the next time I was in the library. Mom and I didn’t come to the library every week, so it took me a long time to finish reading it. Back then, I was looking for clues—reasons why this woman hated my family. I couldn’t understand why she didn’t care about Laurel, why she was the lone voice of dissent when everyone else was saying that everything possible must be done to find my sister.
Hayes argued that kids went missing every day, that there was no good reason for the police and the media to focus on “Little Laurel Logan” when there were all these other kids being ignored. The word that kept cropping up was injustice. She seemed to be saying that just because Laurel was white and blond and pretty and middle class, no one should care. But it wasn’t Laurel’s fault that the media latched on to her story. Why should she be punished just because people were more interested in her than the other missing children Hayes talked about?
I read the introduction once again. I know the words so well I could almost recite them by heart. And the strangest thing is that today I can almost see what Hayes was getting at. It wasn’t fair. Of course it wasn’t. Every missing child should be a priority. Who knows how many of these kids could have been found if even a tenth of the money and resources that were invested in the search for Laurel had been spent looking for them? It’s a horrible, horrible thing to think about. That’s why Jeanette Hayes got so much flack for it, I suppose. The hate mail and the death threats were because people didn’t want to think about it. They didn’t want to see the truth of it—the awful truth that they skipped over a one-paragraph news story about a missing black kid from a run-down neighborhood in Boston without even blinking. They would keep sipping their coffee or tea or orange juice without taking even a second to worry about the fate of that child. And if, by some miracle, they did think about it, they would assume that the kid had run away or been snatched by their deadbeat dad (because even in a tiny paragraph, the journalist had somehow managed to find space to mention that the kid had three siblings, all with different fathers).
It’s despicable. And I’m despicable for not realizing that sooner. Even though I pored over Hayes’s book for hours and hours, I often skim-read the parts about the other missing children. I didn’t care about them. I only cared about Laurel. But at least I have an excuse—two excuses really: I was young, and Laurel was my sister. Still, I never thought to check the Internet to see what became of any of the other kids. For all I know, half of them are back with their families now. For all I know, some of them are dead.
I slam the book shut. I can’t read any more. The thing I’m trying really hard not to think about is whether my little Jeanette Hayes epiphany is because this is the first time I’ve read her words since Laurel came home (possible), or whether it’s because I’m reading them today. If I’d looked at the book a few days after Laurel came home, I’d probably still be calling Jeanette Hayes “that woman” and hating her, because that was what’s expected in our family. Which leaves me with an uncomfortable explanation for my change of heart. I agree with Hayes now, this morning, today, that too much attention was paid to “Little Laurel Logan,” because now, this morning, today, I hate Not-So-Little Laurel Logan. And even though I said those words in anger last night—not even believing them myself—I realize now that they were true.
I do wish she’d never come home.
I should talk to Laurel. I know that’s the sensible thing to do. We have to fix this, if not for our sake, then for Mom and Dad’s. The two of us have to find a way to live together, even though she’s exactly the opposite of the kind of person I want to live with.
With Thomas, it’s easy. I can cut him out of my life like a malignant tumor. Of course I’ll still see him at school, but I can tune him out, pretend his existence means nothing to me until it means nothing to me. Martha will be on my side—no question about that. Soon he will be nothing more than one of the “Others,” as Martha used to call everyone at school who wasn’t us. Thomas will cease to be Us and will become Them.
Laurel is family, though, and family’s different. Blood is thicker than water. Even though we’re not actually related by blood. I can’t cut her out; all I can do is learn to live with her, try to minimize the damage she does.
I text her: We should talk.
I keep reading Jeanette Hayes’s book while I wait for a reply. This time I read some of the stories about the other kids. Each one represents a family destroyed. A family like mine, but different. We are the lucky ones. Our missing jigsaw piece was found and returned to us. Who knows what these families are still going through?
Half an hour later, there’s still no reply from Laurel, but I’m not giving up that
easily. Perhaps she’s scared to talk to me, worried I’ll tell Mom and Dad. She has no way of knowing that’s the last thing I’d do—that it would be excruciatingly embarrassing to admit that my sister stole my boyfriend. (Has she, though? Has she stolen him? Is he gone for good? There’s no way of knowing unless I talk to him.)
I send another text: We’ll be OK, you know.
I nearly didn’t hit send on that one, because I doubt it’s the truth. And if I’m doubting it, then Laurel probably is too.
I read more stories, more families torn apart, more parents bitter that their little boy or girl was considered less important than my sister. I wonder what it was like for Hayes, actually sitting down with these people, witnessing their grief firsthand.
My phone buzzes with a text. Finally. But it’s not from Laurel. It’s from Kirsty Fairlie: Hey. Am in town. Feel like a coffee? Flying out tomorrow.
We’ve been texting a bit since we all had lunch together. The Fairlies have been doing the rounds, looking at universities and staying with various relatives. I type a reply: Can’t today, I’m sick. Sorry!
I’m about to send the message when I change my mind. I can’t just stay here all day, can I? Plus I’m starving. And Kirsty is nice, if a little loud. It might take my mind off things. So I text her back and we arrange to meet in a coffee shop that’s about twenty minutes away from the library. I put the Hayes book back on the shelf, ignoring the temptation to shove it in my bag. Then I rearrange the shelf so that the book is standing in front of the others, with the cover facing out. Other people should read this book; it’s important.
—
Kirsty’s already there, devouring a slice of chocolate cake. I order the same and ask for a slice of carrot cake, too. Kirsty gives me a look as if to say Greedy bitch! and I mutter something about having forgotten to have lunch. Then she orders some carrot cake, too, and says, “Well, I had my lunch, but it was revolting.”
We talk about our plans for college, a subject that we didn’t get around to at lunch, because that was all Laurel this and Laurel that. It turns out that there are a couple of the same universities on our lists. She asks which one is my top choice, and I say, “Whichever is farthest away.” It doesn’t come out quite right, though; I’d meant it to sound like a joke, like something anyone might say when they’re talking about escaping from their family. But from the way Kirsty is looking at me, I can tell she caught the bitterness in my voice. I try to make light of it and say something about not wanting Mom to turn up on my doorstep every weekend, but Kirsty leans toward me, looking concerned. Her hair brushes over the top of her cake, but I don’t say anything. “Are you okay? You seem a little…I don’t know.”
A sip of my drink buys time. A second sip buys more. “I’m fine. Just tired. Late night.” Two-word sentences, stripped bare of emotion.
“Are you sure?” God, she’s as bad as Michel. I hate people being nice to me when I’m trying not to cry. Hate it.
This time, the “I’m fine” dies on my lips and is swiftly replaced by “Not really.” And the desire to talk is just too overwhelming. It’s like when I talked to Kay, but better because I know nothing is being recorded.
I don’t tell Kirsty everything, of course. Just the high(low)lights. I don’t tell her about Laurel walking in on me and Thomas having sex, because nobody needs to hear that. I do tell her about the book deal and how I’m only doing it for Laurel’s sake and how does she repay me? By kissing my boyfriend.
“Holy shit!” Kirsty says, sitting back in her chair. “That is fucked up.” And I swear I could kiss her right now. It’s such a relief to be talking to someone who isn’t Laurel or Thomas or even Martha, and to have her say exactly what I’ve been thinking: it is fucked up. “What did you do to them?” Her eyes are wide, and her expression is sort of gleeful, but I don’t really mind.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, I can tell you something for nothing…if it had been my sister and my boyfriend, I’d have given her a good slap and kicked him in the nads. At the very least, there would have been a drink chucked in someone’s face.”
“Um…I didn’t really do anything. Just…you know…said some stuff.”
Kirsty’s disappointed. “Like what?”
I’m too embarrassed to say. “Just…stuff.”
“Aw, girl, you didn’t cry, did you?”
I nod.
She shakes her head sadly. “Ah well, can’t be helped. No use crying over spilled tears. You dumped him on the spot, though, right? Tell me you did that, at least?”
I nod again. Someone seems to have pressed my mute button.
“Thank fuck for that. Bastard.”
I clear my throat. “I’m more angry with her than him.” It feels shameful to admit this, as if it’s a betrayal of my sex.
“I don’t blame you. He’s just some guy, right? Like, I’m sure you love—loved, past tense, thank you very much—him and everything, but he’s just a guy. She’s your sister. Nothing should come between you two. Blood is—”
“Don’t say it. Please, don’t say it.”
Kirsty sits back, shoves some more cake in her mouth. I’m grateful for the pause in her ferocity, however brief it might be. It turns out to be very brief, because she starts talking again before she’s swallowed her second bite of her second slice of cake. “I can’t believe it. I mean, you’d have thought…”
“Thought what?”
She looks down, carving off a mountainous slice of cake with her fork. “Nothing…It’s just…I dunno. You’d have thought getting with a guy would be the last thing on her mind, after all that…y’know.”
I nod again. Kirsty might be a little over the top, but she definitely talks sense. She narrows her eyes, thinking hard. “Unless she just wanted to…I don’t know, experiment or something? Like to see if it was okay, kissing a guy who wasn’t going to torture her and rape her or whatever?” She winces, reaches out to touch my hand. “Sorry, that was…Sorry.”
I turn that thought over in my mind. An experiment. I suppose if you were going to conduct such an experiment, Thomas would be a good option. And for Laurel, the only option. She doesn’t know any other boys our age. Boys my age, actually. Thomas is nineteen months younger than Laurel.
It’s an interesting theory; the more I think about it, the more I like it. If Laurel just wanted to kiss a boy to see whether she could do it without freaking out or having flashbacks or something, it would still be wrong. I mean, you can’t just go around kissing other people’s boyfriends like that. But at least it wouldn’t be as wrong. I realize I’m desperate to find a way for this to be okay. I don’t want to hate my sister. I would love to have a decent reason to not hate her.
“Maybe that’s it….” I take another bite of cake, and for the first time, it doesn’t feel like it wants to lodge itself in my esophagus.
“Of course, she could just be a massive slut,” she says with a sly grin.
“Kirsty!” I have to act shocked—I can’t not.
“Sorry! I forgot you’re not supposed to say anything bad about people like her. Victims. It must be pretty cool, actually. She gets a free pass to be a total dick for the rest of her life, doesn’t she?”
I know I should say something to defend my sister. Kirsty is practically a stranger to me; there should be no question about where my loyalty lies. But it’s so nice to talk to someone who doesn’t think Laurel is a fucking saint for a change. It’s a breath of fresh air in the fetid stink that my life has become.
“Anyway, at least your sister has half a brain—even if she was schooled by a psycho rapist. Bryony is as dumb as a brick. You should hear some of the stuff she comes out with sometimes. You know she used to think baked beans were made of pasta? And for a whole year when we were kids, I managed to convince her that unicorns were real—not that it took a lot of convincing.”
I laugh, but admit that I used to get confused between dragons and dinosaurs when I was little. “Do you think we’d have been f
riends if your family hadn’t moved?” As soon as the question is out of my mouth, I regret it. It’s an odd, needy sort of question. A pointless one, too. What-ifs are the worst.
Kirsty looks at the wall above my head. She takes her time, really thinking about it. “Yes. I think we would…and then I could have kicked your boyfriend in the nads for you last night.” Her smile is rapidly replaced by a frown. “But it would have been weird for Bryony, I think. We’d have had to let her hang out with us because her friend would be…gone. God, it’s freaky even thinking about it.”
“Did Bryony say anything about that lunch? I thought things between them were a little…weird.”
Kirsty shrugs. “It’s not exactly a normal situation, is it? I think Bry was just freaked out. I suppose she was a bit quiet for a couple of days afterward—withdrawn, you know? I just enjoyed the peace—made a nice change. Oh man, you’re gonna love this…it’s priceless! You know, she actually asked me if I thought Laurel might have been brainwashed! As if that’s a thing that actually happens in real life and not just in shitty movies.” She laughs. “Honestly I find it hard to believe we’re related sometimes. I think she must have been dropped on her head right after she was born. Slipped right out of the nurse’s hands like a greased eel.”
“Brainwashed? Why would she say that?”
Kirsty’s eyes bug out, and she makes a Scooby-Doo noise. “I dunno….Well, she said something about Laurel not seeming to remember stuff. Like, things they did together when they were little, you know? Playing with dolls and stuff. Apparently they had this secret language? That must have been Laurel’s doing, because English is more than enough for Bry to cope with. So anyway, Bry started talking to your sister in this bullshit made-up language, and your sister just looked at her like she was a fucking nutcase. So of course that must mean she was brainwashed.”