Turtle under Ice

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Turtle under Ice Page 8

by Juleah del Rosario


  Kennedy looks up.

  “Wait, fifteen weeks?

  That’s a really long time.”

  Kennedy doesn’t go anywhere,

  but it’s like her body is cycling

  around the room.

  “You didn’t tell me for

  four whole months

  that your stepmother

  was pregnant?

  “Were you ever going to tell me?

  “Was I supposed to just show up here

  one day and hear a baby crying

  and, like, ask you how it got here?

  “I can’t believe I didn’t even notice.

  I’m going through all the times

  I saw Maribel and didn’t say anything.”

  Kennedy waves the sonogram at me.

  “Seriously, Row. What the hell?”

  Ariana

  “Why are you hanging out with her again?” Row said

  while lying on the couch, tossing a soccer ball in the air.

  “I thought you didn’t even like her,” Row continued.

  “I never said that. What gave you that impression?”

  “Uh. You actually did say that. Last week.

  I said you should invite your new friend

  to hang out over here, and you said,

  ‘We’re not really friends.’ ”

  “I said that?” I was surprised I admitted it

  out loud to Row. The question had been there,

  but it wasn’t something I wanted anyone to know.

  That the more we hung out,

  the less of a friend I felt like to Alex.

  Row balances the ball on her feet,

  outstretched in the air

  as she lies on her back.

  She’s trying to make it spin

  without crashing on top of the coffee table.

  I try to change the subject.

  “Maribel doesn’t want you doing that.”

  “Why do you spend so much time with her

  if you’re not friends with her?

  “Is it because she’s in a mildly famous band?”

  “No,” I scoffed.

  “Is it because her brother died?”

  “Jesus, no.”

  “I wouldn’t blame you if that were the reason,”

  Row says quietly.

  “No one understands us.”

  Row

  Kennedy’s face is tight with concern.

  But I can’t. Look at her.

  The image of our sister.

  The only photo we will ever have.

  She’s… What is the verb for “death via miscarriage”?

  “Row.”

  I slide open my phone.

  “I’m busy.”

  Kennedy glances at my screen.

  “Row! What are you doing?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “We need to talk.”

  She points to my screen live streaming

  the English Premier League.

  “This isn’t talking.”

  “It’s Liverpool versus Manchester City.”

  “Yeah, I can see.”

  “But Salah has the ball.”

  The Liverpool forward

  is in front of the goal.

  He takes two touches

  to get around the City defenders.

  He drives one in

  but can’t keep it under

  the crossbar.

  The ball sails behind the goal.

  “Row, I need us to talk.”

  And I need Ariana

  to waltz into her room,

  flop onto the bed,

  and pull out her phone

  like nothing ever happened.

  I absolutely need

  to sit here on the carpet

  and watch Liverpool crush Manchester City

  and not be worried about anything.

  Ariana

  “Where are you going?” Maribel asked again.

  I rummaged through a pile of shoes by the front door,

  trying to find a pair that would best go unnoticed.

  I didn’t want my shoes or anything

  to say too much about me.

  “It’s just one county over. They’re playing a show.

  I’ll be home by midnight.”

  Maribel looked over at Dad, who was concentrating

  hard on the player at bat on the screen.

  “Dad said I could go.”

  Maribel continued to look at Dad.

  “He did, did he?”

  Dad said nothing.

  “Can I go?” Row perked up,

  her head peeking over the back of the couch.

  “No,” Maribel, Dad, and I all responded.

  “Why not?”

  “For starters, you’ve got a tournament

  tomorrow morning.” Dad finally pulled his eyes

  away from the screen and patted Row on the shoulder.

  “Oh, right.” Row slouched further

  into the couch cushions.

  I went back to my room to find a pile of crap

  I had thrown on my bed as provisions. Sunscreen.

  Sunglasses. Cash. Lip balm. A phone charger.

  A lighter I wasn’t intending to use because I had never

  actually smoked anything, tucked into the

  pocket of my purse, just in case,

  you know, someone asked for a light.

  Row followed me and plopped herself on top of

  the pile of stuff. I tried to roll her body away.

  “Should I quit soccer?”

  “Why?” I stuffed the contents on the bed

  into a small leather purse I found at Goodwill.

  “Because I might be missing out

  on quintessential moments of teenage life.”

  “But don’t you love playing soccer?”

  “Yeah, but what if I love other things too?

  “Like you have all this time to explore

  other things in life. To find out stuff

  that you might love that you otherwise

  would never have known.”

  I didn’t know how to respond to Row,

  because I wasn’t off finding out if I loved

  soccer or swimming,

  or pottery or poetry.

  What my little sister didn’t realize

  was that while she was off playing soccer,

  I was doing nothing.

  I had no hobbies.

  No sports.

  No extracurricular interests.

  What was I doing?

  I didn’t even know.

  Maybe scrolling through socials

  wondering what it was like to be living

  some kind of best life?

  Maybe wondering what it would be like

  to be a girl with a mother.

  Maybe wondering if I was someone

  who could even sustain a friendship

  with someone like Alex.

  If I were actually her friend, there for the good times

  and the bad, instead of just the bad.

  “You’re just so good at soccer,”

  I eventually said.

  Row rolled her eyes and sat up on the bed.

  “Yeah, that’s not helpful.

  Of course I’m good at soccer.

  I’ve practiced every day for, like, nine years.

  Anyone who devotes that much time to something

  is going to be good.

  I just wanted you to, like, give me

  some wise sisterly advice, or something.”

  I tried to act like I did just give her

  some wise sisterly advice.

  That her words didn’t get to me.

  I tried to smile and shrug and quickly grab

  the purse and the car keys and tell her

  I had to run.

  But I couldn’t shake the question

  from my head. How could Row continue

  to wake up and go to practice ev
ery single day,

  how could Alex continue to get up on a stage

  that she once shared with her brother,

  when I had spent, not days or months,

  but years doing nothing?

  How could I be so different?

  Row

  “How are you unfazed by all of this?

  Your sister is gone.

  Your house is in disarray,

  and you just told me that your

  stepmother has been pregnant

  for months. Until now.

  “This is bad, Row.”

  She waves at the room,

  at ourselves.

  “Sometimes,” Kennedy huffs,

  “I hear the girls on the soccer team

  talk about you.

  Like you’re this superhero

  because when you take a nasty tumble

  on the turf, one bad enough

  to solicit audible gasps

  from the crowd,

  you get up without so much

  as a grimace.”

  She shakes her head

  and rolls her eyes.

  “But I know

  your badass-soccer-phenom persona

  is just a front.

  That there’s stuff

  that truly

  rattles you.”

  She points to the image

  of my former sister.

  “You’re still the same person

  who cried the first time

  you spent the night at my house.

  My mom had to drive

  back to your house

  in her pajamas

  and pick up Ariana

  because you wouldn’t sleep

  at my house

  without her.”

  “I told you never

  to tell anyone about that,” I say.

  “I’m not.

  I’m telling you.

  Reminding you.

  “I know that you have

  this special bond

  with your sister.

  That she’s your emotional confidante.

  But maybe it’s not healthy

  to live with such extremes.”

  I don’t respond.

  I just sit on the carpet

  picking at tufts.

  Kennedy stands up.

  “There are other people

  you can share stuff with.”

  I look up at her, standing by the door.

  “Where are you going?”

  Kennedy mutters,

  “I’ve gotta pee.”

  Row

  On the screen of my phone,

  City takes a shot on goal,

  but it’s straight into the hands

  of the Liverpool keeper.

  The players on both teams

  jog closer to the midfield,

  as the goalie sets up a kick.

  Kennedy returns

  from the bathroom

  and looks at my phone.

  “Soccer. It’s always

  soccer with you.”

  She sits down

  on the carpet

  right in front of me,

  pulls out her phone,

  and turns the screen around

  so it’s right next to mine.

  So I can’t avoid

  seeing her screen.

  Kennedy:

  Can I borrow your copy of the physics study guide?

  Ariana:

  Sure. It’s on the desk in my room.

  “Tell me. Why is your sister

  responding to me if

  she’s supposed to be missing.”

  “She’s not missing.

  I told you she’s gone.”

  Kennedy lowers her phone,

  and I lower mine.

  She speaks slowly,

  like she’s trying to stay calm,

  but her jaw is clenched,

  facial muscles tight.

  “Why haven’t you just called her?”

  I don’t say anything.

  “What the hell

  have we been doing?”

  Kennedy bursts.

  “It was your idea.

  This whole Nancy Drew thing.”

  My voice is five octaves higher.

  “Yeah, because I didn’t know

  that ‘gone’ meant

  you’re just not talking to her.

  I thought ‘gone’ meant

  maybe something bad.”

  Kennedy took a breath.

  I still don’t say anything.

  Picking at the carpet.

  Leaving my mark on the floor.

  Kennedy studies me,

  but I don’t know

  what she can learn.

  “You think that no one

  other than Ariana

  can ever understand

  the depth of your emotional pain.

  But I see you. A lot of us

  have been there.

  Different circumstances,

  same pain.”

  Kennedy stands up.

  She steps over a pile of socks

  waiting to be laundered

  and hangs at the edge of the door.

  “Pain doesn’t always

  make someone a sympathetic character.

  Sometimes pain just turns you

  into a bitch.”

  Ariana

  A late-summer storm rolled through that evening

  and the rain left a layer of gloss on the road.

  Eight of us piled into Alex’s Jeep,

  heading to a show at a venue in a nearby town.

  But she took a curve down the wooded back road

  with too much speed, and I felt the car glide on two wheels

  while those of us crammed in the back seat, in the trunk,

  and unrestrained inside the Jeep

  hovered momentarily above the leather interior,

  holding our breaths.

  No one screamed like we should have.

  No one said a word as we drove on two wheels.

  Life scraped the asphalt in that moment,

  and when the Jeep landed with an uncomfortable thud,

  we landed upright on the road in our lane, and alive.

  When we pulled up to the venue, everyone scrambled out.

  “Shit, we’re so late,” I heard someone say.

  Alex threw me the keys and ran for the stage door.

  “Can you unload the merch?”

  The white lines on the asphalt had faded.

  The corners of the cardboard box holding T-shirts had collapsed.

  I stared into the trunk of the Jeep and caught my breath,

  trying to focus on the steady beat of my heart.

  Row

  I hear the sound of Kennedy’s socks

  shuffling down the hall.

  I hear the sound of her pulling on boots,

  the sound of a door opening,

  but I can’t hear the sound

  of the snow falling

  and piling outside.

  Kennedy leaves

  and I watch Salah drive one in

  on the screen. A shot that sails

  into the upper-right corner

  that no keeper could touch.

  I see the Liverpool fans rise

  and wave their scarves

  as the weather in England

  turns from

  sleet into snow.

  I don’t know why any of this

  happened,

  but it did.

  I don’t know why

  anyone dies.

  But they do.

  Ariana

  I always imagined that having a great friend

  would be like re-watching your favorite movie.

  Where you could finish each other’s lines.

  Know exactly what was going to happen

  and still get to cry and laugh at all your favorite parts.

  But it wasn’t like that with Alex.

  The more I
hung out with her, the less I understood her.

  It was like I could spend an infinite amount of hours

  and still wouldn’t get what she was about to say

  or know when our favorite parts would even happen.

  She was ecstatic when I was annoyed.

  She was oblivious when I was hurting inside.

  She never seemed to have this looming sense of dread

  about the next moment the way I did,

  and the way life seemed to burst at the seams all around her,

  I wanted to sew it all back up and hide.

  As I watched Alex up there on the stage,

  the way her body stood poised,

  with a guitar in hand, the way she looked

  so present with the audience and the music,

  the way joy landed on her face

  with every holler, every cheer,

  every stomp of feet from the crowd,

  even as she stood next to an empty space

  once occupied by her brother,

  it wasn’t an act.

  This was her.

  I found myself wondering why so much life

  could exist within one person,

  how her pain wasn’t hidden or buried—

 

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