Marc. Becky.
Pleading, tears.
More tequila.
In the bathroom again, face pressed against the cold plastic of a toilet seat.
Slurring, the world tilting on an angle.
My sister, someone’s called my sister.
Softness, warmth. I’m lying down somewhere and it smells like—
Marc. Hands. Kisses I don’t know how to return.
Pleading, tears.
I wasn’t doing anything she didn’t want.
Cold tiles.
Night air.
Fuck you.
Loud silence.
And then nothing.
—
The thing thatdraws me out of the darkness is the screaming. It’s terrible, high-pitched. My whole body aches, muscles crying in a way I’m not used to, like I’ve actually hit the gym for a change. I’m in Marc’s bedroom, which is immediately obvious from the posters on the walls: sixty percent hot women, forty percent cars. A gentle breeze is blowing in from the large window, left ajar. My legs swing out from under the sheets. The moment I’m upright, the dull ache in my head becomes a painful, looping throb.
There’s a pile of soft blankets by my feet, and I get the notion that Claire might have stayed here. Claire. Where is she?
A quiet panic slowly rises through my body. The screaming outside has been joined by more voices, all alarmed. A new screaming voice has joined the first voice, a discordant wail echoing through the house. I’m rushing out of Marc’s room and through the hall, down the stairs. The screaming is definitely coming from outside.
As soon as I step into the unusually hot summer sun, the location of the commotion becomes obvious. There’s a crowd huddled by the pool. I can hear the sound of crying, blubbing. It doesn’t make sense,but I’m suddenly terrified for my sister, that something awful has happened to her.
“Claire? Claire!” I shout.
She bursts out from the crowd and sprints to me, face wet with tears. I kiss her cheeks and look her over. “Are you okay? Are you hurt?”
She shakes her head. “No. I mean, I’m fine. It’s—it’s Marc.”
“Marc?”
My chest tightens. I rush forward, elbowing my way through the throng. On the stone slabs, two feet away from the pool, Marc lies with his head cracked open like an egg. He has a halo of blood around him and blood streaming from his nose. One arm is sticking out at an unsightly angle. It’s immediately obvious that he’s dead.
Dread sinks in my chest. I look up to the place from which he’s clearly fallen. This section of the roof is square and flat. At the back of it, facing the pool, is a large window that stands ajar. Something flashes before my eyes. I remember a voice shouting—Marc’s voice.
What the fuck are you doing?
Cold grit beneath my feet, a soundless fall.
Pleading, tears.
I’m not sure what it means. But then Becky brushes past me, wailing. She manages to stop long enough to shoot me a dirty look that lingers, scrapes to my toes and back up again, so sharp it feels like it’s raking my skin up like the peeler Mom leaves out for potatoes in the kitchen. I catch something just as sharp then. Sharper, perhaps. And white-hot. It’s fleeting, but suddenly, I think I know exactly what it means.
