The Grip Lit Collection

by Claire Douglas

Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Part Four

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Epilogue

  An Interview with Lili Anolik

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Prologue

  The first time I saw Nica after she died was at Jamie Amory’s Fourth of July party. I’d slipped into the study, dark and cool and strictly off-limits, was crossing the carpet to get to the liquor cabinet, when I felt someone behind me. I paused, flesh prickling. Slowly I began to turn. A set of doors, French. On the other side of the glass, a girl. I didn’t run, didn’t move, didn’t even breathe, just stood there looking, looking, this girl so familiar: straight black hair, narrow nose, scarlet bloom of mouth, top lip nearly as fat as bottom. My skin recognized her before I did, rippling once then tightening on the bones.

  My sister, Nica.

  I was surprised to see her. Stunned. Yet a small part of me, the dark, secret, hidden part that didn’t listen to reason, was not. I’d known she was going to be at this party all along, had known without knowing I knew, in a way that had nothing to do with my eyes or ears, with what I could sense with my body. That’s why I’d crashed, wasn’t it? To greet her, take her around, show her to everyone who’d lost faith, given up, bought into the lie that dead means gone? I reached out to touch her as she reached out to touch me, the tips of our fingers meeting on the pane, misting it a little. I began to fill, nearly to bursting. She seemed just as full, mouth open, stretching wide, laughter I could almost hear spilling out.

  Almost but not quite.

  The doors were old-fashioned: two clear rectangles framed in wrought iron. At the center was a latch, small and black. I seized it. Twisted, rattled, jerked. Unbudging, as if set in cement. I let go, tried again with a different grip. Hand slipping on slick metal, my body lurched forward, right temple smashing into glass.

  I staggered back, a hurt in my head that made me throb, a jolt in my blood that shocked me mad, a ringing in my ears that turned me dizzy. I looked around for something to throw. A chair, maybe. But the only chair in the room was overstuffed leather, arms wooden and elaborately carved—too heavy even to lift.

  I looked back at Nica, took a step toward her to I don’t know what. Plead, I suppose, beg her to stay. And as I did, she leaned into me. Her eyes were hot, our mouths close, almost touching, our breaths intermingling if not for the pane.

  Again I pulled on the latch and again the latch refused to yield. As I continued to pull and pull, hard as I could, so hard it felt like I was wrenching my fingers from their sockets, I watched her expression changing, dimming, her features going limp, listless. I’d lost her, I realized. She’d wander off, leave me alone, this time probably for good. It was already too late. Inside me something crumpled, and I let my head fall against the iron bar running down the door’s middle, my whole weight slumping behind it.

  Suddenly, a giving sensation followed by a tumbling one, forward and then over. At first I was frightened, no ground under my feet. But as the stationary objects rushed away—the French doors, the short balcony outside the French doors, the rail, waist-height and rounded and shining—so too did the fear. I felt exhilarated, thrilled, as if I were in one of those dreams where I have the power of flight, am amazed at how easy it is. All it takes is faith. Trust in my heart I can fly and I can fly, nothing to it. Air streaked past me, singing in my ears, whistling through my body, emptying it out, blowing it clean, purifying me, making me perfect. I was soaring, streaking, gliding, hurtling, harder and harder, faster and—

  A burst of electric white. A pain like my face had exploded.

  Time passed. For long seconds I lay on the ground, breathing dirt, spine quivering, teeth vibrating, vision doubled and knocked out of focus. No plan was in my head, no thought. I felt broken, everything on me soft, dented, my brow already swelling, battered tissues gorging themselves on blood, skin split and streaming.

  Around me a breeze stirred, picked up. I waited for a lull. Then, neck trembling, eyes loose and lolling, I dug my fingers into the soil and slowly, very slowly, raised myself onto my elbows. I turned. Directly above me, on the second story of the house, was a pair of open doors, the twin panels spread like wings, the latch at the center swinging lightly back and forth.

  I looked around. Nica was nowhere in sight. Had she jumped from the little balcony? Gotten fed up, ditched me like I thought she would? Or had she fallen from the little balcony, knocked off it when I went careening through those doors? Was she lying on the ground someplace, hurt, maybe unconscious? Or, I wondered, my gaze turning to the pool, illuminated only by the moon, the lights surrounding it doused to discourage partygoers from cooling off with a swim, had she landed in the water? Panic cutting through the pain, I stuck my hands and knees beneath me and crawled over to the edge.

  Sure enough, there she was, at the bottom. The most obvious damage had been done to her face, which looked smashed in and puffed up at the same time. She wasn’t moving, was perhaps too stunned to, but her eyes were open and seeking mine. Now it was she who needed my help. I’d give it to her. Of course I would. Just as I was about to take the plunge, though, a drop of blood trickled down the bridge of my nose, dangling for a second at the tip, then falling. When it hit the water, Nica’s face broke apart in a series of shivery concentric ripples, and that’s the moment I realized.

  For a long time I stayed there, crouched at the lip of the pool, peering into the black water, my own dim reflection wavering on top. I brought myself into focus as best I could: a translucent shadow, visible but invisible too, a lonely little ghost haunting itself.

  Light suddenly flooded the room behind me and above me. Turning into it, I shielded my eyes.

  “Grace,” someone said. “Grace.”

  PART ONE

  Chapter One

  The last time I saw Nica before she died was on the way back from the tennis courts of Chandler Academy, the private boarding and day school in Hartford, Connecticut, where we were both students and our parents were both teachers. It was a Friday in April, a few minutes past five o’clock. Practice had just ended.

  Nica was in front of me, walking fast, head down, racket bag rhythmically slapping her hip. Her skirt was pleated and short, rolled at the waist to make it shorter still. As she bent to retrieve a fallen sweatband, I glimpsed an underside of thigh, tan and smooth-muscled, a flash of cotton, too, hot pink like a lick of flame. I called her name once, then again. She didn’t turn around, though, until I put my hand on her arm.

  Stopping, she stared at me, eyes slow-focusing in her head. “Oh,” she said, “I didn’t know it was you.”

  “Who else would I be?”

  “Good question.” With a blink, she turned, started walking again. “Mr. Schaeffer said he was going to stick around, run drills for anyone who wanted to work on overheads.”

  “Yeah?” I said, struggling to keep pace.

  “I figured you’d want to.”

  I was the team’s number one player. Had beaten out Nica for the spot. As far as mechanics went, she was the superior. Her strokes were sharper, crisper, cleaner, landed deeper in the court and with greater penetration. But I was a little faster and a lot more willing to scrap. If the rally became extended, she’d almost always go for the kill shot, hit something with verve and ambition that sailed just past the baseline; whereas I’d push the ball back to the center of the court, wait for my opponent to make the mistake. Basically, I was better at tennis the same way I was better at school, which is to say, I wasn’t. I was just a grinder and a grubber. She had too much style to do either.

  “My overhead doesn’t need work,” I said, the breeziness of my words undercut by my strained tone.

  She nodded distractedly.

  I came clean. “Actually,
I pulled a muscle a little bit hitting serves. Thought I’d give it a break.”

  This time she didn’t bother to nod, and for a while we walked in silence.

  Trying again, I said, “So, are you going to that party tonight with Maddie?”

  “Unh-uh.”

  “I thought I heard you say you were.”

  She looked at me. “You were listening to our conversation?”

  I shrugged: an admission.

  When she was quiet, I snuck a sideways glance at her, scanning her expression to see if she was mad. She didn’t appear to be, though, just thoughtful, eyes downcast, fixed on the moving patch of ground in front of her. Since her mind was so obviously elsewhere, I watched her more openly than I normally would have dared. She looked different lately, beautiful as always but sloppily so, uncared for—hair in a crooked ponytail, feet slip-sliding in untied sneakers, lips chapped and swollen.

  At last she said, “I only told Maddie that to get her off my back.”

  And that’s when I understood. It wasn’t me Nica had been trying to avoid. “Maddie was bugging you?”

  “Wouldn’t take no. You know how she is.”

  I wanted to shake my head, say, How? But instead I lied, nodded. That familiar feeling of disconnectedness, the sense that people were mysterious to me in a way they weren’t to each other, descended. Before it could turn into full-on depression, I shook it off. Said, “If you’re going to be home tonight, I could help you with your French paper. I know it’s due Monday and—”

  “Donnez-moi un break, okay?”

  “What do you mean?” I said, surprised. “Why?”

  “Because I’m not going to be home tonight.”

  I half laughed. Of course she wasn’t going to be. Of course she wasn’t.

  “And neither should you,” she added.

  “But I always go to bed early the night before a match. You know that. And tomorrow’s is a big one.”

  We’d reached Houghton Gymnasium by this time, were standing at the rear of the building, a few feet from the entranceway to the girls’ locker room. It was private here, and the late sun was mild. I tilted my head back to feel its warmth. A faint breeze was on the air, and when it blew, I could hear the clink of rope against metal flagpole. Nica turned to me. Slowly she lifted her right hand, brought it to her left nipple, then shook it rapidly back and forth: titty hard-on. Titty hard-on was a favorite gesture of hers and Maddie’s. It was meant to convey excitement—sexual—but, coupled as it always was with blanked-out eyes and a bored expression, was actually meant to convey the opposite of excitement—of any kind. So, basically, it was a put-down.

  “What’s that for?” I asked, hurt.

  “You’re already in college, Grace. Have been since forever.”

  Not since forever. Since mid-December. I’d applied early decision to Williams. Nica, a junior, would apply to colleges next year. “So?”

  “So you have no excuse for being well-rested anymore. Maddie invited you to the party, too, you know.”

  Trying to act casual, as if my interest was low, “Maddie said that? She said I was invited?”

  “She implied it. Same thing.”

  It wasn’t. Not remotely. I flattened the corners of my mouth to show Nica I wasn’t fooled, but otherwise let it go. Then I said, “If you’re not going to the party with Maddie, where are you going?”

  “Out.”

  “Hot date?”

  She smirked.

  “Guess you and Jamie are giving it another shot, huh?” Jamie was Jamie Amory, Nica’s boyfriend of two years, her ex-boyfriend of two months.

  I tried not to look relieved when she said, irritated, “How many times do I have to tell you? Jamie and I are over.”

  “So it’s a mystery man.”

  That smirk again.

  “Not that much of a mystery. I know he likes to brand his girls.”

  It was a shot in the dark, but it hit. Nica’s jaw dropped. “How?”

  “X-ray vision,” I said. And when she just looked at me, “I was brushing my teeth this morning. You came out of the shower in a towel. You reached up to open the medicine cabinet. I saw your armpit.” The tattoo inside her armpit, specifically. An arrow, bloody-tipped.

  Groaning, she said, “I’m going to have to throw out every bathing suit, tank top, and sleeveless dress I own now, aren’t I?”

  “Or stop shaving under your arms.”

  “Gross.”

  I wanted to ask her who the guy was, but I didn’t want her to tell me only because I’d asked. I looked at her. She was staring off into the distance, worrying a shred of dry skin on her lip with her front tooth, like she was making up her mind about something. There was a shard of gold in her left iris, which, in certain lights and at certain angles, turned the eye from dark hazel to pure green. That was happening now.

  Finally, her gaze came back to me. “I probably won’t be in till late tonight. Can you cover for me with Mom and Dad? Tell them I’m staying over at Maddie’s?”

  “That depends. Will you answer my questions when you get home?”

  She held up her hand, three fingers raised: Scout’s honor.

  I pretended to think it over. “Fine,” I said, with a sigh.

  She nodded her thanks, then opened the side pocket of her racket bag, pulled out her cigarettes, her zebra-striped Bic.

  “Come on, Nica, we’re still at school,” I said, peering around anxiously as she lit up.

  She exhaled. “Relax. We’re alone. Want one?”

  I made a scoffing noise, a show of waving away her minuscule smoke cloud. “Those things are going to kill you, you know.”

  She considered what I’d said, then shrugged. “Like I want to live forever.”

  She started laughing. And a second later, to my surprise, I did, too.

  I woke up the next morning from a bad dream I couldn’t remember—there and gone, too fast to be pinned down—drenched in sweat, heart pounding. Immediately I was struck by the conviction that something was wrong.

  Nica.

  I threw off my blanket and ran across the hall, opening her door without knocking. The room was in its usual state of full-scale squalor: unclosed drawers, unclean laundry, undusted surfaces, uncapped pens, lip-gloss tubes, soda and nail-polish bottles. The comforter was pulled down on the bed, and I could see the ghost of Nica’s body imprinted on the sheets, the pillows flat and dented. The fleece I’d borrowed from her earlier in the week, returned yesterday, though, was still at the foot, neatly folded, label facing up, which meant she’d slept someplace else. Looking at it, I told myself what I was feeling was anger. If she got caught by Mom and Dad, she’d not only get herself in trouble, she’d get me in it, too, since I’d lied to cover for her.

  I stood there for a minute, absently rotating my shoulder, limber after a night’s rest and pain-free, trying to think what to do next. My cell vibrated in my pocket. I whipped it out, hoping it was her. It wasn’t. Just the weather update I had sent to my phone hourly on game days. No missed calls either, so I called her. Voice mail picked up. At the beep I said, “Thanks a lot, Nica,” in a tone that was angrier than I felt, the anger from before, if anger was ever really what it was, having already dissipated, replaced by unease. But why, I wondered, unease? There wasn’t anything weird or out of character about Nica spending the night in a bed that wasn’t hers. She sneaked out all the time. Maybe then it wasn’t her I was uneasy about. Maybe I was uneasy because I was supposed to play an important match in a couple hours. Telling myself that must have been it—prematch jitters—I slipped a sweater on over my pajamas, headed downstairs.

  The house was quiet, and my footfalls seemed to echo on the stairs. I could hear an appliance in the kitchen—the microwave, bleating plaintively because someone stuck something in it, forgot to take the something out. And then another sound—a tapping, faint. Not Dad. He’d be at Chandler, supervising morning detention. Not Mom, either. She’d be in her darkroom, working. Had already been there for
hours, no doubt. Besides, this wasn’t her kind of noise. Too furtive, too cautious. There it was again. I stood, rigid, ears aching with the effort of listening. And then, suddenly, I realized: Nica, trying to attract my attention without attracting Mom’s. She wanted me to let her in. I flew down the last step and into the kitchen.

  It was empty, no one behind the back door. On the other side of the window above the sink, though, was a slender rhododendron branch, knocking against the pane with the breeze. I stared at it, trying to remember if I’d seen Nica take her keys with her yesterday, until the microwave sounded again, and I reached for its handle. Sitting on the rotating glass tray was the bowl of Grape-Nuts and soy milk Mom ate most mornings. I started for the darkroom, about to duck my head in, tell her breakfast was ready. Then, anticipating the way her face would go hard and flat, the snap of her voice, if I interrupted her, broke her concentration, I stopped. I turned instead to the back door, thinking Nica might be outside, waiting until Mom went upstairs to shower.

  But the backyard was as empty as the kitchen, not a soul. It was a beautiful morning, though, the sky a deep blue streaked with wispy white, the sun a rich, buttery yellow. I stood there, the rays gently pressing down on my skin, seeping into it, warming it, and breathed in the daffodil-scented air. Through an open window, the sounds of the Wheelers, our next-door neighbors, eating breakfast floated lazily toward me: the murmur of their voices, Mrs. Wheeler, pregnant, asking Mr. Wheeler to bring her her calcium supplements and a glass of orange juice; the soft scrape of a chair leg against tile; the suctiony pop of a refrigerator door; and then the jounce and slosh of a juice carton being shaken. I could hear the delicate wing beats of the sparrows, fighting for space on the perch of the bird feeder dangling from the yard’s lone tree. Somewhere far away, a car engine revved to life, and, beyond that, the dim drone of a lawn mower.