Angie is not stupid.
She is not stupid.
Mom calls my name again, and something snaps in my chest. Or maybe it’s in my head, my arms, my legs. Everywhere, something breaks and separates, like the stars splitting apart.
I nearly trip down the steps in an effort to get to my mother. She must hear the frantic pace of my feet, because she meets me in the hall, her reading glasses pushed into her hair.
“Honey, what’s wrong?”
She moves toward me, alarm owning her expression. I don’t even realize I’ve moved closer to her, too, but I must have because we sort of collide, my arms gripping hers and her hands on my face, wiping at tears I didn’t realize had started to fall.
“Mara, you’re scaring me.”
“Where is he? Where did Owen go with Angie?”
She frowns. “He just took her home, sweetie.”
“You’re sure? He’s coming right back?”
“I . . . I think so. That’s what he said.”
“Can you call him? I need you to call him and tell him to come home.”
“Mara, what—”
“Please!”
“What’s going on?” Dad says, coming into the hall from the living room. “What’s wrong?”
“I don’t know exactly,” Mom says. Her hands have moved to my shoulders and she presses down on them gently, as if she’s afraid I might float away at any moment. And I think I might, because that hungry something isn’t anything apart from me.
It is me.
“I need Owen to come home. He’s . . . he can’t be with her. He can’t do that. I don’t want him to be that person. She’s not stupid. She’s not. And he’s . . . he’s my brother. He is.”
I’m sobbing, molecules exploding, stardust covering the earth.
“Honey, you’re not making any sense,” Mom says while Dad smoothes my hair back from my face.
“Yes, I am. You know I am, Mom. Why wouldn’t you believe me? Why couldn’t you do that?”
Her eyes widen, but more with confusion than shock or knowledge. Because I said me. I meant to say her, but I said me and I’m not sure why or how to fix it or what it means.
“I’m not stupid,” I whisper, and Mom flinches. “Hannah. She’s not stupid. She’s not a liar.”
“We talked about this. It’s over, honey.”
“She’s not stupid!”
Mom’s color drains away as my scream echoes through the hall, her shoulders slumping. She takes my face in her hands, her fingertips gentle. “And your brother is? It’s not that simple, sweetheart.”
“No, Mom. You mean it’s not that easy. Because what happened is that simple.” And I know in that moment that I’m right. It’s a tangled mess of simple facts, a kaleidoscope of right and wrong. The aftermath—?that’s what’s complicated.
Mom searches my face, and her eyes are wet and wide and round. But before she can say anything, the front door swings open and my brother walks through, tossing the keys onto the hall table with a casual flick of his fingers. Relief assaults me, but not as much as anger. Sadness. I’m delirious with it all, with lies and men and girls and daughters and stars.
He stops in his tracks when he sees the three of us, a little knot of tears and panic in the hallway.
“What’s going on?” he asks.
