Laura bolts the second Mom finishes speaking. Then Mom is gathering up Laura’s plate along with her own. Unlike her hands, Mom’s voice is steady when she addresses me.
“Brooklyn Grace.”
That choking feeling squeezes me again. I just wanted us to talk, to be able to say Jason’s name without everyone fleeing in a rage or tears, without seeing Mom struggle to hold on to her composure by her eyelashes.
“Don’t you do that again, do you understand me?”
“Yes, ma’am,” I say, quiet as a whisper, because it feels like a lie.
The plates are shaking so much that she has to rest them on the edge of the table. “Promise me you won’t mention that boy or his family ever again.”
I don’t know if the boy she means is Heath or Calvin—not that it matters. Both make it harder to deny where Jason is and why. I can’t find the words to explain myself or to tell her that just because I’m not slamming things or crying doesn’t mean I’m hurting any less; that Ineedus to talk about Jason just as much as they seemingly don’t. I stop searching for words, because Mom is pulled so tightly between Dad and Laura and Jason that I’m afraid she’ll snap if I try to tug her in another direction. And I don’t want to make any of them suffer more than they already are.
“I promise,” I say, and then I help her clear the table. We don’t mention Jason again, or Heath. Or Calvin...the boy my brother confessed to killing last year.
CHAPTER 4
In the morning, no one mentions a thing about what I said last night. It’s like it didn’t happen.
Mom is darting around the house with a phone cradled between her ear and shoulder, talking with people on the other side of the country who care only about how quickly their custom furniture pieces will be finished. Her skin is glistening with sweat, which means she’s already run who knows how many miles this morning and it’s barely 8:00 a.m. Dad is in the basement, the whirring sounds from his lathe the only noise I’ll hear from him until dinner. It doesn’t make sense that I miss him almost as much as I miss Jason—I see Dad more, even if it’s a fraction of the time we used to spend together.
Mom may be the runner, but Dad was the one behind my skating from the very start. He’s the one who used to make the three-hour round-trip to Odessa with me five days a week so that I could skate with a top coach. He never once complained, even when I sometimes did. We had a routine; we’d hit the same gas station, buy the jumbo-size peanut butter M&M’s to share, and listen to the same Blackfoot album over and over again, laughing at the looks from passing drivers when we air-guitared the solo during “Highway Song.”
Skating used to be my life, but right now, if I had to choose one thing to have back the way it was, I’d rather spend three hours in a car with a spotty A/C, tossing M&M’s in the air for Dad to catch, than compete for one more medal.
Laura is outside on the porch, bending her head over her phone instead of looking at the green and glorious world waking up in front of her. Still in the T-shirt and shorts I slept in, I push open the screen door and pad barefoot to the empty rocking chair beside Laura. She doesn’t look up when I sit, not even when I say her name. She’s too busy reading a forum thread about whether Jack Kirby or Stan Lee created Marvel Comics. I’m tempted to tread into the debate since I know which side she holds even if I don’t really understand why it matters. I’ll get a response from her, I know, but arguing over comics never earns me more than a brief flare of anger, quickly snuffed out by the apathy she wraps around herself. Instead I tap her knee with my free hand. Her gaze lifts in my direction, but not her head. She makes no move to lower the volume of whatever she’s listening to. I return her stare, waiting. Finally, she removes an earbud. One. I ignore the heaviness in my chest.
“Where’s Ducky?”
“In his cage.”
As if he heard his name through the open window of Laura’s room, he calls out, “I’m Batman.”
I close my eyes slowly, letting a smile lift my lips. It took Laura a year to get him to say that. For a while she tried to teach him to sayHulk smashwhen she shifted from being DC obsessed to a Marvel fanatic, but Jason started playing a recording in her room while she was at school that repeatedJason’s so cool, and the poor bird got confused. Laura caught on when Ducky started sayingJason smash. My smile grows. Jason had to clean Ducky’s cage for a month after that. Ducky still says it sometimes.Jason smash.Though no one finds it funny anymore.
Before she can replace her earbud, I switch topics. “I didn’t get to tell you but I finally tamed Daphne yesterday.”
“Who?”
I frown, the movement slight in comparison to the ache from Laura’s single-word response. “My car.” I gesture with my chin toward the Camaro parked in the carport. “Come on, Laur. You were here when I brought her home last week.” It was possible she’d been in the exact same spot. She rarely went anywhere besides the porch and her room these days.
“Oh.”
Oh. Her eyes are already drifting back to her phone, but I halt her hand before she can lift her earbud again. I wasn’t expecting the same house-shaking shriek from her that heralded Jason’s first car, nor did I think she’d wrap herself around my legs like a monkey until I promised her the first ride, but something more thanOh. “I named her Daphne, you know, after Jack Lemon’s character inSome Like It Hot.” It was one of the few movies we both loved. The summer before Jason’s arrest, we watched it together almost every night. Watching a lot of movies is one of the side effects of living in a town where cattle outnumber people and me not being old enough to drive anywhere. I’d wanted to watchThe Cutting Edgefor the millionth time, and she’d wanted to watch the latest superhero flick. I’m still not sure howSome Like It Hotbecame a compromise between the two, but it did. It got to the point where neither of us could fall asleep unless it was on. I’ve suggested watching it a few times this summer, but she has yet to take me up on the offer. Her closed-off demeanor this morning means I know better than to ask again.
“Anyway, I can drive her now,” I say. “I was thinking about going to Walmart. Wanna come?” Apparently, there are lots of Walmarts in Texas, but like Bigfoot and good gluten-free pizza, I have to take that on faith, because the only one I know of is an hour away down in Midland. It’s kind of a big deal to go to Walmart, so I dangle the prospect in front of my sister like the proverbial carrot I hope it is. It’s almost embarrassing how badly I want her to say yes. I don’t even try to hide the eagerness in my voice. It hurts all the more when she frees her hand from mine.
“I’m good.” She puts her earbud back in place. I might not be there anymore for all the attention she pays me.
My gaze bounces between her eyes. She’snotgood—neither of us is. I hate this lifelessness between us when we used to have so much more. I don’t want to watch my sister withering away in a prison of her own making when Jason is the one truly locked up. I have to keep trying with her. I’m afraid of what might happen if I stop.
“Then forget Walmart.” I scoot to the edge of my seat. “Let’s do something. Anything, you pick.” I glance at the superhero forum on her phone. “Find a Comic-Con within a hundred miles and we’ll go.” I am not about comic anything, but Laura is. I once told her I’d rather skate over my own fingers than go with her to a comic book convention—emphasis on the comics. I’d been only slightly exaggerating. That had always been her and Jason’s thing, not ours.
I realize my mistake. I can see Laura’s thoughts following a similar path to mine—to Jason. I shift gears. “Or we can watch a movie or go skating or swimming or we can just drive. I’ll rob a bank with you right now if that’s what it takes to get you off this porch.” I try to laugh a little, a weak attempt to hide how scared I am for her, for us. How much I miss her.
It’s too late though. Her eyes have settled on my azure T-shirt and the now-chipped blue polish on my nails. She’s gone again, even before she heads back inside.
I still go to Walmart. It would have been better with Laura, but just because she passed doesn’t mean I can. Knowing it’ll be another couple weeks or even a month before I can justify the gas to get there again, I spend way too long at the superstore. I wander the aisles and revel in the luxury of meeting a stranger’s gaze without bracing for the excruciating moment of recognition. These people simply smile—or not—and move on.
