But something pulled me to her. She did look similar to Amelia in the face. Maybe that’s why I went over to her. Or maybe I was just sad, and needed comfort.
She was a little drunk, but managed to keep her eyeliner from smudging, which was more than could be said for the state of her hands, ringed with purple marker, some old cigarette burn on the web between thumb and finger.
Lillian was slouched against the bar, two empty shot glasses already lined up and a third sweating beneath her palm. Her hair, darker than Amelia’s and long enough to tangle in the little bowl of peanuts, fell in ropes around her face.
She looked like she’d given up on pretending to care.
I ordered another drink, then sidled up beside her, not even sure what words would come out.
In the muted light, her resemblance to Amelia was uncanny, but the effect was like seeing a photo after too many generations of photocopying. The lines blurred, a little more haunted around the eyes.
She didn’t look at me when she spoke, just stared into the bar mirror, lips tight around the rim of her glass. “I know you,” she said, voice flat and steady. “You’re that Baxter kid. The one makes my little sister cry.”
I almost retorted with something mean, but it didn’t land right. Instead, I took a long drink of whiskey, letting the burn recalibratemy insides. “She used to cry a lot. Now she just looks empty,” I said finally, twisting a cocktail napkin until it tore.
Lillian just shrugged. “We all lost our will to cry. Life is all about emptiness now.” She tapped the rim of her glass, empty except for a curl of melting ice. “What are you doing here?”
I shrugged and scanned the room as if the answer might be on a TV screen. “Avoiding home. You?”
She grinned, though it was a sad twist of the lips. “Me too. My mom is being a drugged up bitch. Needed to escape for a little bit.”
She looked at me finally, and there was nothing in her eyes but the weary, feral light of someone who had run out of things to lose.
“I get that,” I said. “My dad’s an alcoholic. He’s in one of his asshole moods tonight.” I didn’t really mean to say it out loud, but the whiskey was working fast and loose.
Lillian nodded in a way that told me she understood. She sighed and changed the subject before it got too dark. “You’re not even old enough to be in here, are you?”
I shook my head. “Not by a long shot. I’m eighteen.”
She seemed to like that answer, and slid her empty glass next to mine. “You want to get out of here? I got some weed and more alcohol at my place. Mom’s on a bender, so she won’t be home. Or conscious. Pretty sure Amelia left for the night to escape my mom, so we’ll be alone.”
I’d never been to the Langston house, but I could draw the blueprint from memory. The ghost of Amelia in every doorway, the quiet rooms.
I wasn’t sure what came over me, but I agreed. I needed a distraction, even if it was with the sister of my enemy.
Or maybe, just for a night, I wanted to be with somebody who reminded me of Amelia, just so I could have that sick taste of being near her, just to see what it might feel like.
I followed her out, side by side into the night. I hopped into her car since I hadwalked to the bar, and she drove in silence toward her house.
The driveway was edged with garden gnomes, their faces bleached and split by the cold. The house itself sagged at the porch, a rash of moss crawling up the shingles, the porch light dangling from a cord like a hanged man’s tooth.
Lillian waited at the door, keys in hand, her hair wild and unbrushed. She didn’t say anything until the door shut behind us.
She padded ahead on bare feet, stepping over it with practiced indifference. I caught the glint of her eyes in a hallway mirror and saw how little she cared about the mess, how little she cared about anything at all.
She led me to her room, all the way through a living room where the TV was tuned to static and a framed photo of the Langston girls glared at me from above the mantel. I didn’t look too closely at it. I didn’t want to see Amelia’s face or feel the old guilt gnawing from the inside out.
Lillian flopped down on her bed and patted beside her.
“Sit, man. You look like you’re about to bolt through the window.”
She fished a joint from her nightstand and flicked a battered Zippo to life, the flame licking up with a sweet, chemical snap.
I sat, more than a foot of space between us, and stared at the posters on the wall. Elliott Smith, some poet I didn’t know, a glossy cutout of a wolf’s head with the tongue scribbled in blue Sharpie.
She lit the joint, inhaled, and watched me through a half lid as she exhaled. “You can relax. I’m not gonna bite. Unless you want.” She grinned, showing teeth. “So. Baxter boy. What do you want to talk about?”
I took the joint when she offered. I was no stranger to weed, but this was strong, chemical and bright, and it crackled down my throat in a rush.
