for this. I’ve never been good at the emotional stuff. Except anger. Anger, I’m good at.
Not too long ago, June told me I had the thickest skin of anyone she knew. “Nothing ever gets to you,” she said, like it was a compliment. “You’re like a rock. An island.”
I told her to shut it with the poetic crap. What I didn’t point out was how completely wrong she was. Things get to me all the time—I just don’t see the point in making a big deal out of it. I learned pretty early on that no one, aside from Laney, is interested in hearing about my stupid teenage angst. Venting to her is enough of an outlet for me.
I never knew what June’s coping methods were, if she had any to begin with; I never even thought about it, really. Her life seemed so perfect from the outside—what could she possibly have to be upset about? Sometimes I’d catch her standing in front of the mirror in her room, just staring, like she was looking for imaginary imperfections. I used to think it was pure vanity, but I slowly came to realize it wasn’t that. It was insecurity.
It didn’t make sense to me. How could she be insecure, when everyone—our parents, her friends, her teachers, Tyler—always told her how perfect she was? It pissed me off, if anything. As soon as I learned, early on in life, that I could never measure up to June, I’d made it a point to be her polar opposite. June was unfailingly polite; I’m brash and don’t go out of my way to be nice to people I don’t like, ever. June spent crazy amounts of time and energy on her appearance, the right clothes and the right hair style; my default look includes hoodies, jeans, a ponytail and excessive eyeliner. June made honor roll every semester; I flirt the line between average and below average, cut class on a regular basis and there’s basically a revolving door to the detention room designed specifically for me.
When I was a little kid and used to get in trouble, Mom always used to say, “Why can’t you be more like your sister?” But I wasn’t interested in being like June, and I definitely didn’t want to live in June’s shadow. Even if mine was less impressive, at least it was my own.
I take an afghan off the ottoman and drape it over my mother, who now has one dead daughter and one delinquent. June’s unmatchable goodness and my unmatchable knack for constantly disappointing my parents used to even each other out, but now the scale is tipped, unbalanced, spotlighting my own failures more than ever. No wonder Mom’s such a mess. I tuck the afghan in around her shoulders and place a pillow under her head. She doesn’t stir at all, just keeps on snoring. She always snores after she’s been drinking.
That night, I lie in bed, miles from sleep. Closing my eyes, I think about how tomorrow will be the first day June is gone, really gone. Life will keep going and everyone will return to their usual routines, and it’ll be the first real day of living without my sister. My life is now divided into two periods: With June and After June. I can’t wrap my mind around the idea of it.
Laney’s right; it doesn’t feel real. Nothing does.
Sometime between gazing at the ceiling and thinking, I must drift off, because when my eyes open again, it’s not as dark outside anymore. Also, there’s an insistent beeping coming from downstairs. When it doesn’t go away, I sit up and listen harder. It sounds like the smoke detector. I scramble into the hall and down the stairs two at a time.
“Mom?” I call out as I make my way into the kitchen. Okay, I don’t see fire yet, but I can smell acrid smoke. My heart leaps in my chest. “Mom? What’s going on?”
I find her sitting at the wooden table with an open bottle in front of her. At the stove, dark smoke curls up off a flat pan. I rush over and grab the pan handle, shove the whole thing into the sink and turn on the tap. Whatever was cooking has burnt to an indistinguishable black crisp. I drag a chair under the smoke detector and wave a dish towel until the blaring of the alarm silences.
“Mom, are you okay?” I ask. The adrenaline’s still pumping, leaving my mouth completely dry.
Her eyes are glassy and dull, and she doesn’t look at me. “I was making eggs.”
“Oh.” I return the chair to the table and eye the mostly empty wine bottle. “Mom … how long have you been up?”
She shrugs off the question, her slender fingers picking idly at the label. “It’s just us now,” she says. “The two of us.” Finally she drags her gaze off the bottle and looks me in the eye; she looks as tired as I feel.
I know what she wants me to do. She wants me to come over and put my arms around her and tell her it’ll be all right, but I can’t. I can’t because I don’t know if it will. I can’t because the thought of touching anyone right now makes me sick inside. Why is it so hard?
Eventually I say, “Yeah. I guess so.”
Her throat works as she takes a long swallow of wine. When she sets the bottle back down, I wrap my fingers around the neck and gently pry it away from her.
“You should get some sleep,” I say. I walk around the table to help her stand. “Here. Come on, let’s go.”
She doesn’t fight me on it. With my arm around her waist, I lead her to her bedroom, peel back the covers and carefully roll her onto the mattress. She makes a soft sound as I pull the comforter over her, blinking up at me, already half-asleep.
“Harper,” she says, voice slightly slurred. “I’m sorry about the eggs. I wanted you to have something to eat.”
It’s sweet, really, that she almost burned down the house in a drunken stupor for the sake of my appetite. Fucked up, but sweet. I hope this doesn’t become a habit, though. She drank a lot after Dad left. I thought we were done with that.
“Go to sleep, Mom,” I say softly. Her eyes flutter, her gaze vacant again, and a minute later I hear her breathing deep and even, so I know she’s out.
The house is eerily quiet. All this time I thought silence would be a welcome reprieve, but it’s less comforting than I imagined. The house feels so much bigger and colder than it ever has. I consider going downstairs to clean up my mother’s mess, but the thought alone leaves me drained, so I start for my room, only to end up in front of June’s. It’s like I’ve stepped into wet cement; my feet stay rooted in place.
I stand outside the door for a while, until I feel stupid enough for being scared of a freaking door to force myself to open it and go inside.
This time I look for the last signs of life. One of her pillows is askew; a gray sweater is draped over the back of her desk chair. Other than that, nothing. I go to her desk and pick up one of the plastic bags. Again I notice the blank CD. There’s no case for it, just the disc. As I slip it out of the bag, I realize that it must’ve been playing in the car stereo when I found her.
I turn the CD over in my hands. It’s a normal blank disc, silver, with the words Nolite te bastardes carborundorum scratched across the bottom in black marker. I don’t recognize the phrase—Latin, maybe?—or the handwriting. It’s definitely not June’s, which was round and loopy and girlish. I wonder if it’s a mix Tyler had given her, back when they’d dated, but that’s doubtful. Tyler’s not bright enough to quote another language, and promise rings aside, his romantic gestures don’t usually go beyond big talk. His idea of chivalry is coming to the door to pick a girl up for a date rather than honking from the driveway.
I switch on June’s stereo, slide the disc into the tray and flip it to the first track. There are a few seconds of silence, and of all the things I expect to hear from those speakers, it most definitely is
