by Amber Smith
“Well, it smells great. I’m starving,” I add, trying to stretch out this good feeling as long as possible. Twenty minutes later, the three of us are at the kitchen table, and Aaron keeps clearing his throat like he’s working up the nerve to break some kind of bad news. Bad news about Mom, I’m sure, about the trial.
“There’s this thing on Friday,” I begin, thinking that maybe if I can talk long enough, then Aaron won’t ever get the chance to tell us whatever it is he doesn’t want to tell us, and then we’ll never have to know, and we can hold on to this moment.
“Oh yeah?” he asks, too interestedly, as he twirls a bunch of jumbled stands of spaghetti around his fork over and over, around and around.
“A dance thing. Whatever. I might go, I don’t know.”
“You should go,” he agrees.
“Maybe,” I say, and I wonder how much longer we can feign interest in this pointless conversation. “It’s not like I have my heart set on it or anything.”
At this point Callie rolls her eyes and tears off a bite of bread between her teeth, looking back and forth between Aaron and me like we’re some kind of preverbal cavemen, not speaking a real language, but just grunting and snorting and pointing.
“No, go. I mean, why not, right?” he says, finally putting that twirled and retwirled forkful of spaghetti into his mouth.
“Yeah?” I ask. “Well, maybe.”
Callie sighs loudly.
After a few seconds of silence, chewing, and swallowing, Aaron clears his throat once again. “So, listen. I saw Mom today.”
Callie sets her fork down with a clang against her plate and crosses her arms over her stomach, sitting back in her seat.
“Aaron, you knew I wanted to go see her too,” I tell him, careful not to yell.
“It wasn’t a visit like that. Her lawyer wanted me to go talk to her. She’s getting cold feet, I guess. She wants to take the plea bargain instead of having the trial.”
“Why would she want to do that?” I ask.
“I don’t know,” he mumbles. “I think she just wants this to be over with. We’re trying to convince her that they need us to testify—all of us. You know, to prove that it was self-defense. Jackie’s going to. So am I. Tony, too. Except Mom doesn’t want you guys anywhere near this, even if it’s going to hurt her case.”
“That’s ridiculous!” I shout.
He scratches his head and sets his fork down on his plate. “She wants to protect you, I get that, but—”
Callie lets out this small noise, a cross between snort and laugh. Her eyes tick back and forth between me and Aaron.
Ignoring Callie, I answer for us all: “We’ll do whatever we have to do.”
“Speak for yourself,” Callie hisses, her voice low.
“What?” I ask, not used to her voluntarily offering up so many words at once.
“I’m not lying for her,” she says, wrapping her arms around her body so tightly her muscles tremble, something menacing going on behind her eyes.
Aaron looks at me, confused. “Who said anything about lying?” he asks, that familiar edge of irritation rising in between the words.
She looks back at us, her eyes dark, her jaw set, and repeats herself through gritted teeth. “I’m. Not. Helping. Her.”
I feel my breathing slow to a stop, my brain unable to process what she’s saying to us.
“Are you serious right now?” Aaron asks, barely able to stay in his seat. “Callie, she’s our mother—we have to help her.”
I’m sitting there, getting caught in a familiar cross fire, my head foggy, because this is not happening. Our little sister can’t turn on us, not now, not when we need her.
“And who was he?” Callie says, her voice not having reached this volume in months and months. “Some random stranger?”
My head feels like a drum being pounded, word by word.
“Just because you guys hated him,” Callie continues, gaining steam, “doesn’t mean he deserved to die!”
“No one said that,” I tell her, but I can’t make my voice loud enough to be heard.
“So it would better if Mom were dead right now?” Aaron asks, his voice getting louder. “That’s what you’re saying?” He pushes his chair out and stands, like he’s going to walk away, but then he doesn’t.
“Stop, you guys,” I try, but no one seems to hear me.
Callie stands now too and swipes at the angry tears on her cheeks. “Why does anyone have to be dead?” she challenges, getting louder.
“You guys, stop!” I try again, my head surely about to implode.
“I don’t know, all right?” Aaron shouts over me.
“Shut up,” I tell them. “Stop it, both of you!” I yell, now standing in between them. “Shut up! Just. Shut. Up.”
Callie and Aaron stand on either side of me, all of us breathless. Then they both take a step away from me, like I’m the bad guy, when they’re the ones who are fighting. Callie spins around and stomps off to her room. When she reaches her door, she turns around and braces herself with one hand on either side of the doorframe, her voice straining when she says, “I hate you!”
Then crash. Her door slams shut.
“Why does this happen every time we try to act like a family?” Aaron asks, though I don’t think he expects an answer, because he turns away from me before I can offer one. He stacks our three plates, one on top of the other, all the delicious food being smashed and splattered, and walks into the kitchen. I open my mouth to say something—what, I’m not sure—but the sound of the plates crashing into the sink makes me jump.
After a few seconds I hear the water running. I walk to the doorway and have to raise my voice over the clanging dishes: “Let them know that I’ll do whatever she needs, tell them whatever they want to know. She doesn’t have to keep me out of it—please tell her that. Okay?”
“Yeah,” Aaron mumbles, not looking up.
I go into the bathroom, open the medicine cabinet, and swallow three aspirins. Then I close my bedroom door and lie facedown in bed, listening to the pattering of rain on the window as I wait for the pills to kick in. She said she didn’t remember what happened. I didn’t believe her at first. But then I did. And now . . . now I don’t know.
I must have dozed off, because I awake to muffled voices. I lie here for a while, listening. I drag myself up from my bed, my head noticeably better, though not all the way. I sit at my desk and pull out my homework; putting my brain to work drowns out their voices, drowns out the dull leftover ache of words pounding through my head. Everything’s quiet now, even the rain has stopped.
It’s almost midnight when I come out of my room again. Aaron’s sitting at the table hunched over this giant GED study guide that I’ve seen him open only in five-minute increments over the past few weeks.
I go sit down next to him. He doesn’t look up.
“Sorry,” I offer, even though I’m not really.
“I’m trying. I really am,” he says, picking up the study guide, as if offering up proof.
He is trying, I can see that. “I can help you, Aaron. Studying—it’s sort of one of the only things I’m good at.”
“Nah,” he says, pushing the book away. “Thanks, though. I gotta get up early tomorrow.” He stands abruptly, already walking away before I can answer.
UNHOMECOMING
DANI AND TYLER ARE talking the entire car ride, but I have no idea what they’re saying because their voices are competing with a billion formless thoughts that flow through my body to my brain all at once, jumbling together, so that I can’t parse out anything coherent, anything that remotely makes sense.
Less than ten minutes after she picks me up, Dani is pulling into a big, crowded parking lot. There’s a neon sign at the entrance of a giant warehouse-looking building that flashes THE SPOT, THE SPOT, THE SPOT, over and over again. We’ve only just stepped out of the car, and already my eardrums vibrate with the sound of the music pounding.
“Okay, listen up. Both
of you,” she announces as Tyler trudges up behind us. “I plan on having a good time tonight. So no excuses from either of you—we’re dancing, all of us, and we’re going to have fun. Got it?”
“Yes, drill sergeant,” Tyler murmurs unenthusiastically, raising his eyebrow at me—the corner of his mouth hooking up into a smirk, which makes me laugh.
“Come on.” She reaches for my hand, pulling me along, and I suddenly feel like such a normal girl doing normal things. Then she drapes her arm across my back and around my shoulder, something between us buzzing with new energy.
I stop laughing then. I stop breathing, because Tyler’s stupid voice has lodged itself in my head, whispering, Are you? Are you? over and over again. I focus on the fresh air. I swallow gulps of it, trying to fuel my mind back up with oxygen. And when we get to the door, I have no choice but to let her do the talking, because I’ve been rendered speechless by the weight of her arm across my shoulder. She tells the bouncer at the door that we’re here for the Unhomecoming Dance and then pays my cover charge for me. I notice that Tyler pays his own.
“Thanks for getting that,” I yell over the music as the bouncer draws a thick black X on each of our hands as we enter. But under my words there’s a thought brewing—one that makes my heart skid through a few beats—Is this a date?
Being inside this club is like being inside of a giant speaker. I swear I can almost see the sound waves hammering themselves out through the air, ricocheting against the walls. But that’s probably just the flashing lights. I move in close to Dani and have to shout in her ear, “I’ll pay you back!” Except I can barely even hear my own words once they’re out of my mouth. I have to repeat it two more times before she hears me, and then she shakes her head, gives me the thumbs-down, and grabs on to my hand again, leading me through the sweaty bodies jumping around, covered in glitter, spilling their drinks.
The three of us huddle in a circle and Dani holds her hand out to Tyler, as if she’s waiting for him to give her something. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a little bottle of hand sanitizer, squeezes a glob into his own hand, then Dani’s. Then Dani grabs my hand and turns it over so Tyler can give me some as well.
“You guys . . . ,” I caution, feeling my eyes widen as I look around. “What if we get caught?”
They look at each other and start laughing hysterically, rubbing their hands together until the black X disappears.
“Drinks!” Tyler shouts. Then he walks off into the crowd. We follow in the direction he went until we get to the bar. Dani gets me a drink—it’s pink. She orders one for herself and Tyler, too. I have no idea what it is, but when I bring it to my nose, it smells fruity and toxic, all at the same time. We stand there next to the bar and she holds up her glass, and then she reaches over to position my arm so that I’m holding my glass up as well, and yells: “To unhomecoming! And to us surviving our first Robinson exam!”
“Cheers, y’all,” Tyler sings.
Dani clinks her glass against mine, then Tyler’s, then takes a sip.
I do the same. I’m too embarrassed to admit this is my first adult beverage.
It’s like I can feel it traveling through my veins immediately, both warm and cool. It sizzles when it reaches my chest, and gives me the chills when it reaches my brain, then it’s inside of me, moving everywhere, working its way through my extremities, untying all those knots. I take another sip.
The three of us move through the bodies again, out onto the dance floor, except this time it’s like I’m swimming with the current instead of against it. Dani leads us to the very center of the place, the source of the pulse that pounds through the walls and floors and me. The DJ—a girl, superthin, with wild, curly hair that sticks out in every direction—is up on this elevated platform like a deity, surrounded by turntables and equipment and adoring dancers. She has her eyes closed. With one of her hands she holds a heavy-duty set of headphones to one ear only, and she raises the other arm in the air, moving it back and forth to the beat that she’s creating, like she’s conducting some invisible orchestra. Then she opens her eyes slowly, like she’s waking from a dream, finding Dani immediately. Then Tyler, then me. She smiles, mouthing the word “Hey,” and she holds her arm still as she points at us, a strangely warm, welcoming gesture. She gently absorbs the momentary stillness into the rhythm and goes back to blissing out, everything in her body thumping along smoothly, in total harmony with the music.
“That’s Kate!” Tyler shouts. “Dani’s ex!”
My heart plummets. My whole body goes still. That girl is older than us, cool, confident, clearly so out—the exact opposite of me. There’s no way I can ever compete.
“They’re totally over, though!” he assures me.
I take another sip of my drink—no rules, I remind myself—and soon enough it begins to feel like I’m drinking the music, too. It works its way into my blood and my bones; another burst of fire and ice flows through me like electricity. I think about the now again, because this is a place composed solely of nows. In this moment—in this now—I have no past, I have no future. And I don’t know why, but somehow this is one of the most comforting thoughts I’ve ever had. I take another sip, and another.
The next thing I know, somehow this place has taken me over, and my body moves on its own. I am dancing. The bass goes crazy—faster, somehow louder, more intense—like a veil has been torn off the whole world, making everything that much clearer, that much sharper. I jump up and down with them like I was made to do this. I’m laughing so hard, except I can’t even hear myself. We hold on to one another’s hands, flying them up above our heads like flags through the air and the sound waves. And it’s like we become one person, and we become one with the people all around us, one with Kate, up there on her pedestal, one with the building, and one with the music and the air and lights. We all breathe the same breath; our hearts beat the same beat. There’s no such thing as time. Just now. Right now. Dani leans in and kisses me on the cheek. And I never want this song to end.
The rest of the night is a blur, but in a good way—a fantastic dream half remembered. As I lie down in bed and close my eyes, I replay the movie of this night on the walls of my eyelids, feeling connected, as if there’s an invisible thread still tethering me to that place, to Dani.
Then comes my favorite part. The part where Tyler and I are standing outside waiting for Dani to pull the car around, the perfectly chilled autumn air flowing through me, our backs against the brick wall, and Tyler looks at me, his eyes slightly glazed, and says something I didn’t know I needed to hear so badly. “You know Dani likes you, right?”
I open my eyes. I am here in my bed. I place my hand over my heart, but it’s almost like it’s beating outside of me now. In the floor and ceiling and walls. Boom-boom, boom-boom, boom-boom, contracting and expanding in pairs. I hear its pulse in my ears, whispering this one word over and over, like a bass line: NowNowNowNowNow.
AVALANCHE
I FORCE MYSELF TO go into work. The bell dings overhead as I walk through the door, assaulting my eardrums like a giant gong. The smell of dough and sugar makes my mouth salivate but my stomach nauseous. There are only a couple of people in here, a man sitting at the counter, a regular, and a woman doctoring up her to-go coffee. I let myself exhale; maybe this will be an easy day. But then Owen approaches from the other side of the counter, tossing a rag somewhere underneath.
“Hey, you!”
I wave but don’t say anything as I make my way behind the counter. When we’re face-to-face, he starts laughing like he knows some big secret about me.
“What?” I ask.
“You’re totally hungover, aren’t you?” he says, leaning up against the doorframe, watching me too closely as I clock in on Jackie’s computer.
“Is it that obvious?”
He laughs again. “I thought you were supposed to be a Girl Scout or something.”
But before I can answer, Jackie suddenly appears behind him, carrying a tray full of pa
stries drizzled with chocolate and vanilla icing. “Brooke!” she shouts, making my head throb once more. Her smile fades, though, as she looks at me. “Oh, sweetie, do you feel okay?”
“Yeah, I’m fine,” I lie.
Owen walks away, snickering.
“Hey, so I’m dying to know,” Jackie begins, lowering her voice. “Did Aaron say how it went? We’ve been playing phone tag all day.”
“How what went?”
“The exams.”
“I don’t—I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“He had the GED tests this week.” Her brow creases as she looks at my face. “He didn’t tell you?”
I shake my head no, but I can’t shake this nameless dread that’s suddenly creeping up through my veins, poisoning my blood.
“Well, that’s strange,” she breathes, her eyes crinkling up around the corners. “He better not have forgotten about it with everything else that’s going on.”
“I’m sure he didn’t,” I tell her, and I mean that. Because he wouldn’t just forget—he’s been studying, even. The only reason he wouldn’t have mentioned it is if something happened, something worse than forgetting. I can feel it like something collapsing under my feet, the beginning of an avalanche.
When I get home that night, I find Callie sitting cross-legged on the living room floor, grinning as she messes around on her phone. I ask her where Aaron is and she doesn’t even look up; she raises her arm and points to the hallway, where my bedroom door is open, light on.
“Thanks,” I tell her.
The window’s open. I stick my head out and hear voices from up above. Carefully, I maneuver myself through the window and onto the platform of the fire escape. The higher I climb, the louder they get. They’re laughing. When I crawl over the brick ledge, I see Aaron and Mark, in two lawn chairs set up near the edge of the roof, their feet kicked up on the wall.
I planned on asking Aaron about the exam, but as I get closer, I know I’m not going to be able to talk to him about that tonight. They have a collection of empty beer bottles sitting in a cluster on the ground next to each of them, an overflowing ashtray on the plastic table that sits between them. Mark mutters something I can’t quite understand, but whatever it was, it makes Aaron fall forward, wheeze-laughing, just like he did that day in the kitchen with me. A twinge of jealousy pokes me in the side.