Sister Pact

by Stacie Ramey

  She’s still so with me, I can almost hear her saying, You’re slow, Baby Sister. Sloppy Seconds.

  So I start racing. I sprint to the end of the street. Emery’s long legs outpace me without even a struggle. I bend over and hold my side, try to catch my breath. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.

  A group of guys jog our way, keeping in a tight formation, teammates in training. They’re too far away to see which team. My heart skips a little. I try not to hope Max is with them. As they get closer, I see they aren’t the swimmers but baseball players.

  They mostly ignore me as they pass, which is totally cool. Except one of them doesn’t. Nick Larsons stops, comes closer. Nick Larsons—part baseball player, part artist. I’m not sure the exact proportions of each. He has a tight first-baseman build and warm hazel eyes. He paints more realistic than I like but still decent.

  Emery gives me an approving look and then takes off running alongside the baseball team, faster than she and I were running but still not even a challenge for her.

  Nick looks at me like he’s so glad to see me. He actually looks happy that I’m here, which, in a way, surprises me. “Hey, Allie. What’s up?”

  I don’t answer, just start running again. “I’m slow. You can go ahead.”

  He runs next to me, easy jock strides, all muscle and strength. Everything I wish I were. He turns and faces backward, jogging the whole time. “You taking studio?” he asks.

  “Yeah. You?”

  He smiles. “Yeah. Can’t believe they let me in. Kispert’s cool. But I’m in way over my head.”

  I pick up my speed, and Nick turns so he’s running forward again and adjusts to my new pace. “You won’t have any trouble with it though,” he says.

  “You have no idea.”

  He laughs. I don’t.

  When we get to the end of the street, I stop again. I motion behind me. “I’m gonna go home. This is way too much exercise for me.”

  He puts the brakes on too. “Okay. See you tomorrow. I’ll look for you.”

  “Sure thing.” I make myself face him, make myself ignore Max, who has just stepped out of his house. It’s like I have some kind of Max radar that I couldn’t turn off even if I wanted to.

  “Is that okay?” Nick trips a little over the words, making me smile.

  I act like I don’t see Max standing in the driveway, watching me. I act like I want to flirt with Nick, like it means something to me. “Yeah. More than okay.”

  Nick’s turn to smile. Sweet. I wish I could make my heart skip knowing I made him smile. But I can’t. It’s his turn to motion behind him. “I’m gonna go catch up…”

  “Yeah. Sure.”

  He jogs away, turning to look at me one more time. I wave, and I tell myself not to turn around. Not to look at Max. Watch Nick, who has that silly smile pasted on his face. He turns on the jets, turbo-ing himself forward.

  “So you’re into baseball players now?” Max’s voice comes from behind me. “That’s a completely valid choice. You know, if you don’t mind your men a little small.”

  I still don’t turn to face him. “Thanks for your approval. Not that you actually get a say.”

  He drapes his arms over me, leaning his body against mine. I try not to feel how ripped he is, but I can’t. It’s not like his body’s the only thing I love about Max, but I’d have to be dead not to notice. He whispers in my ear. “How was it?”

  Tears spring to my eyes. I want to push him away and run home, pretend that jogging is my new passion. It’s not like what he says to me is so profound—it’s just that his concern gets inside me. Deep. It blankets me, hugging my ribs hard, massaging my heart. Max does this without even trying. He turns me, so I have to face him. He sees my tears. But it’s not like he needed to. Max knows. He holds me against him, and I bury my face in his neck.

  “Shh. It’s okay. It’s going to be okay.”

  I cry more, not caring. He holds me closer. It’s like there’s no space between us. I want to turn my face up to his. I want to kiss him. I feel that need in every cell of my body—my Max need. Bottomless and aching and just plain stupid because I know it’s not going to happen. Not after that one time last spring. That thought is the slap in the face and the punch in the gut I need to stop the tears. I pull away from him so he won’t know—as if he doesn’t already.

  He wipes one of my tears away with his thumb. His eyes are so intense, I have to look away. “How ’bout I walk you home?” he asks.

  I nod. That I can do.

  Chapter 3

  I walk into my house, look at my school schedule on the counter where Mom left it for me. She’s always doing that, thinking that if I can just prepare for things, I’ll be okay. As if you could prepare for anything. What a joke. Leah and I planned. And see where that got us? Or at least her.

  I hold the schedule in my hand and stare at the teachers and subjects I’ll be taking. Junior year is my make it or break it year. Looking at my classes, I have no idea how I’ll get into any college, let alone RISD. No one I know takes regular classes, and honors are for people headed for state colleges. Not for elite art schools.

  My head throbs. The silence in the house is so loud I can’t think. Anger. Shame. Guilt. Denial. Put that in a blender and mix it up. Drink it down with a calm-down pill. Keep going. Just. Keep. Going.

  Lights out through the house means Mom’s probably lying down. Her deal-with-it cocktail already in her. Part of me wishes that she would give it up, that after everything that happened, she would have stopped. Or Dad would have come back and stopped her. Part of me remembers how it used to be when Mom and Dad still pretended to be happy. Or maybe they actually were. It’s stupid to think about the things I wish, because Mom’s not going to stop taking pills and Dad’s not going to change. Leah always said I was stupid about people. She was right. Clearly.

  The reverberation of Leah’s voice leaks into my brain, like a drumbeat synchronizing with my migraine. You were always so starstruck, Baby Sister.

  I trudge upstairs to my room. I need something to calm me down too. I need to find a little Relief.

  I reach into the back of my closet. In one of my old Michael Kors bags, I’ve hidden the bottle of NyQuil I had Mom get me two weeks ago when I told her I had a cold. I roll it in my palm and play the game Leah and I used to: I’ll stop if. This time it’s a one-player game, but I don’t let that get to me. If Max calls, I’ll stop. If Leah were here, she’d call me a cheater because that’s not even in the realm of possibilities. So I go again. If Emery calls, I’ll stop. If Mom wakes up, I’ll stop. If the phone rings in the next ten seconds, from anyone, a solicitor, a creditor, the school, I’ll stop. I breathe out and count to ten. No calls. No texts. No reason to stop. I strip the plastic off and unscrew the top, breaking the seal as I do.

  NyQuil is part of my emergency arsenal, strictly for code-red situations. Or when I need help sleeping. But right now, I need it to make the headache stop. I need to find some Escape. I need to heal, like Mrs. Pendrick said. I’m living my life in tiny squares, doing the best I can.

  And I know how bad this is. Of course I do, after Leah, but it’s not Mom drugs. It’s only the over-the-counter stuff. Just as I bring the lip of the bottle to my mouth, I get a flash from that last night I saw Leah alive, the party I can’t remember. God, that sucks. I suck. My last night with her, and I blew it in so many ways.

  I tip the bottle and drink a big swig. The sickening medicine taste almost chokes me, but I keep it in. I drink some more and walk to the window. From here I can see my studio. It’s waiting for me, but I’m not ready. So I turn up the music and drink some more.

  I lie back on my bed and think about Leah. The questions I can’t get out of my mind: Why did she do it without following our plan? Why didn’t she tell me? Why? Why? Why? The tears threaten, but I push them away. Crying doesn’t help. Nothing does except the medicine t
hat’s just starting to kick in and make the grip on my head loosen.

  I look around my room, blue-haze walls and beach-white trim. Leah picked out the colors. My hands go to my head, trying to make the pain stop. But I hear her voice, a memory filling my head with its soft tones and pretty scents. I hear my sister like it’s in real time, even though it was years ago.

  “You need something to make your work pop,” Leah said as I painted squares of color samples from the paint store over the babyish purple I had in middle school. “I like this one.” She pointed to the blue patch.

  I remember being annoyed at first. Shouldn’t I get to pick the color for my room? But she was right. It was perfect. Like she was. She could always talk me into anything. My sister made me a little starstruck. She never minded, as long as it was her star I was following.

  Liquid inspiration from the NyQuil strikes. I should paint something for Leah, let her know I get it now. Maybe I didn’t when she was alive. Maybe I didn’t listen when she tried to tell me things.

  I open the door and look out into the hallway—lights off, TV on downstairs. Mom’s checkout gives me the clear shot I need. In the garage, I find the white paint from the trim and the brushes. Everything seems really clear right now. And brilliant. I feel sort of brilliant. Like every part of my brain is working.

  Back in my room, I shake the can of paint and open it with a screwdriver and hammer, trying hard not to spill it on my hardwood floors. Too late.

  My curtains are in the way, so I rip them off the rod. I have to stand on my window seat to reach as high as I need. I start to paint, not knowing what I’m doing until the image forms on the wall, like magic. By the time I’ve painted the point of convergence on my window where the pink diamond goes, I recognize it. I painted it like it was burned into my brain. Leah’s ring.

  I sit back and admire my work. I hope, wherever she is, she sees this and knows I’m sorry. A pain shoots through my head and I squint at the blinding light of the setting sun. Spiky rays angle in through my painting, making it seem like it’s alive.

  I close my eyes against the brightness. When I open them again, I’m confused. Because I see Leah standing there. Really standing there. I’m not imagining it. She’s there, surrounded by light, kind of outlined in it. Like one of my rendering sketches.

  I go to reach for her, ask her if she’s really here, but her image disappears, and I know it’s just my guilt and need that’s bringing her to me. Even if she can’t stay.

  I close up the paint can and take it and the medicine bottle downstairs. The paint and tools go back into the garage, and the brush gets washed in the sink. I run my hand over its stainless steel surface, careful that all the evidence goes down the drain. Finally I wrap the medicine bottle in newspaper and push it to the bottom of the trash can, making certain that it’s completely covered. One thing Leah taught me was how to hide your party.

  When I’m done, I walk back up to my bathroom and brush my teeth, trying not to look in the mirror, as if my crazy will show. I crawl into bed and try not to think about tomorrow. First day of school. I put my hands together in the prayer position and put them under my cheek. I try not to think about what I just did or worry about what it means. Sleep will help. I know I’m not coping. I’m living my life in tiny squares. Checkerboard moves. Each play means something. Each turn matters. The most important thing is to keep moving. To not get jumped. Sometimes a little NyQuil helps that. They don’t call it medicine for nothing.

  Chapter 4

  I’m almost ready for school when I hear the front door open and Emery booming up the steps. Guess she’s already had her daily dose of double espresso, two sugars. Emery on caffeine is way too much to handle—especially after my binge last night. I go into my bathroom and grab some aspirin. This is going to be a long day.

  “Hey, girl,” Emery calls. “Where are…”

  I find her staring at my wall, pointing—as if just staring isn’t enough. As if pointing will change anything. “Wow,” she says.

  “Yeah.”

  “Is that… Is it…”

  “It’s her ring.”

  Emery’s brow furrows. I know what she’s thinking.

  “I didn’t mean anything by it,” I say. “It’s just a painting.”

  “It just looks kind of like a portal, you know?”

  “It’s just a painting. I was just screwing around.”

  “Allie, I don’t know, it’s kind of…” Emery’s eyes wet, and I feel bad.

  “I’m serious. I’m not going anywhere. I promise.”

  Emery stares at my stupid paint on the wall. “You have no idea what it was like finding out.” She turns her stare on me. “How awful it felt not to know you two had planned… I mean, I still don’t know what that was all about.”

  “It was a stupid game. Leah and I… We just used to talk about it sometimes. When things were bad. But we didn’t mean it.” I stop talking, because obviously Leah did think about it. Obviously she was serious.

  Emery kisses me on the cheek. “I miss her too. She was an excellent big sister.”

  Emery, an only child, suffered from wanting what I had. Leah. And Leah was happy to lord over the two of us. She used to say having Emery was like a buy one, get one free deal.

  “Come on.” I grab my lip gloss, Trident Layers gum, and a to-go pack of aspirin for later. “We’re going to be late. And you know you hate that.”

  “I do.” She nods her head. “I hate not being there when it all starts.”

  “And you think I’m messed up?” I take one last glance at my painting, thinking about what Emery said. A portal. If only… I turn off the light.

  “Hey, your mom left you something,” Emery calls from the kitchen. I hustle to catch up and see Mom pulled her usual, leaving a note and a twenty. I wonder where she thinks I eat at school that I need twenty dollars. Is it her version of buying my forgiveness for her not making it out of bed to tell me to have a good first day? She shouldn’t worry. It’s not like I was counting on her.

  I ignore the note and take the money.

  “Where is she anyway?” Emery asks.

  “Sleeping.” I push her out the door.

  Emery starts the car, and I slide into the passenger seat. We both stare at my studio. I hope she doesn’t say anything. But I know she will.

  “Have you…”

  “No. Not yet.”

  She turns to me. “You will.”

  I nod.

  “Okay, let’s do this.” She adjusts her mirror. I look at her and see her eyes fill.

  Leah’s left a wake of pain. I wonder if she knew it would be like this. I wonder if she got how many people would be hurt.

  As we turn into the traffic jam that is the road to our high school, she says, “Oh, I totally forgot. Text Max. He wants to meet us.”

  My face heats. How come she knew that and I didn’t? I pull my phone out and see two texts from Max last night and a bunch from Emery that I ignored. I open up his thread.

  U ok?

  Then, Meet up in the parking lot tom?

  I breathe out and text him.

  On our way

  Emery pulls into a parking spot, slamming on her brakes last minute so we don’t run into the concrete parking divider. As if it snuck up on her. As if she didn’t expect it. Despite the headache that I woke up with that is building thanks to Emery’s whiplash-inducing braking session, I’m glad that some things haven’t changed. Namely Emery.

  She looks in the mirror and paints on her starlet-red lips. It’s a ritual that starts with pencil lip liner, proceeds to lipstick, and finishes with a sheer gloss.

  “It’s Bang-Bang Red. You like?”

  “What happened to Crush?” Her favorite color last year.

  “I’m over it.” She winks.

  Max’s face appears in my window, and I jump. I lo
ok at his dark, curly hair, deep blue eyes, and pink face, now tanned terra cotta after his summer gig as lifeguard at our community pool. Max’s colors are all about warmth—red, orange, pink.

  He opens my door and waits as I get out. He and Em exchange a quick glance that I catch just before she shoves her sunglasses in place.

  “I’m fine,” I say.

  Max puts his arm around me and part of me wants to play wounded so he won’t let me go. He pulls his schedule out of his pocket. “Show you mine if you show me yours?” He smiles at me lecherously.

  I have already scanned his classes. None of ours match. I’m going to be a social pariah, in all the lower classes now.

  Emery pulls her schedule out of her purse, the new Michael Kors one, tan with gold MKs all over it. Her going-back-to-school purse. Emery’s happy. She holds her schedule up to Max’s. I can see they already have two matches. Honors chem and AP psychology. I groan.

  The two of them sharing something just makes me feel even more left out. I get that Max isn’t one hundred percent mine. I just wish he were.

  “Hey, Iron Man,” one of Max’s swimming friends calls from behind us.

  He holds up a hand in a wave, then snakes his arms around both Em and I. Max is just using us as props. The guys behind us, the pack, laugh.

  Emery pulls his arm off her. “Go be with your friends.”

  He leans into me. “I’ll find you later. Be good.” He kisses my cheek and then moves on.

  “Where’s your first?” Emery asks.

  “Honors English with Miss Lafrance.”

  “I’ve got drama.”

  Emery stops walking and so do I. She grabs my schedule. “Cool, we have lunch together. Find me later, okay?”

  “Sure.”

  Emery shoots me one last look as I veer toward the two-hundred building. I pass Jennifer Skelton and Vanessa Waters. My eyes drop to the floor before I have to register the look of disdain I’m sure Vanessa will shoot me. It’s bad enough I have to be back in school without Leah, surrounded by her friends and frenemies. I hate that I have to face Vanessa. Everything shouldn’t be hard.