Sister Pact (2 page)

I meet Emery outside her house. She's in tiny running shorts and a sports bra, letting her island-girl skin take center stage. Muscles look better in tan than white. They just do. But Emery's long legs and tight booty would be fierce in any color. She gathers up her long, curly hair in a ponytail, then makes a messy bun and asks. “So, how was it?”

“Fine.” I get one last look at my cell, see no new texts, and stash it in my pocket. “Why are we doing this again?”

Emery frowns. She knows whose text I'm waiting for. The same one I always wait for. The unspoken issue between Emery and me that I need to get over—Max. I'm glad she doesn't confront that monster but instead simply says, “I've gotta get in shape. You know Mr. Carbon doesn't cast fat actresses.”

It's not like Emery's even close to fat. She's not in the ZIP code of fat. She knows this. So do I, but I also know that she's right about the drama teacher at our school. Leah used to say that he picked out the girls who gave up their ambitions over the summer for ice cream and pizza.

“Okay, but why am
I
doing this?” I ask.

“Because you're my best friend and you're supporting me.”

“More like being left behind.” Once we get going, Emery will lap me for sure.

“I'll stay with you this time. I swear.”

True to her word, Emery starts slow. At first I feel like I can do it. I can run the six miles she's got mapped out for us. “You just want to run by Taylor's house. Admit it,” I pant between breaths.

“So what? I look hot when I run.”

She's right. She does. Her hair stays in place. Her face stays the same perfect olive color. Her muscles propel her forward. She travels across the landscape more than she runs. Watching her do anything physical is like watching Leah dance.

We round the corner. “So tell me,” she says, her breath even.

“Mr. Kispert was there.”

Emery glances at the house we're running past and the thin woods behind it. On the other side of those trees is my yard. My backyard with my studio. The one Dad had built for me. At the time I was ecstatic. It felt important, as if he saw me—really saw me—and he knew I was special. But now, I get it. It wasn't a gift. It was an obligation. A promise I made to be the talented daughter who would make him proud.

We pick up the pace, and I am grateful to be moving away from all that, at least for now. My good mood sours as soon as we pass Max's house. His car is parked out front, meaning he's home. And he didn't text. He didn't check in to see how I was, even though he knew how hard today would be.

Emery reads my mood like a psychic at the county fair. “You know how he is.”

“Whatever.” This time I increase the pace, as if tiring myself out will prove I'm over him.

“Maybe you need to broaden your field.”

I concentrate on my legs, which are starting to feel like lead. I tell myself to keep going. I tell my legs to push off like Emery's do. I tell myself that if Leah were here, she'd race me to the end of the street, beat me, then taunt me the rest of the way.

She's still so with me, I can almost hear her saying,
You're slow, Baby Sister. Sloppy Seconds.

So I start racing. I sprint to the end of the street. Emery's long legs outpace me without even a struggle. I bend over and hold my side, try to catch my breath. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.

A group of guys jog our way, keeping in a tight formation, teammates in training. They're too far away to see which team. My heart skips a little. I try not to hope Max is with them. As they get closer, I see they aren't the swimmers but baseball players.

They mostly ignore me as they pass, which is totally cool. Except one of them doesn't. Nick Larsons stops, comes closer. Nick Larsons—part baseball player, part artist. I'm not sure the exact proportions of each. He has a tight first-baseman build and warm hazel eyes. He paints more realistic than I like but still decent.

Emery gives me an approving look and then takes off running alongside the baseball team, faster than she and I were running but still not even a challenge for her.

Nick looks at me like he's so glad to see me. He actually looks happy that I'm here, which, in a way, surprises me. “Hey, Allie. What's up?”

I don't answer, just start running again. “I'm slow. You can go ahead.”

He runs next to me, easy jock strides, all muscle and strength. Everything I wish I were. He turns and faces backward, jogging the whole time. “You taking studio?” he asks.

“Yeah. You?”

He smiles. “Yeah. Can't believe they let me in. Kispert's cool. But I'm in way over my head.”

I pick up my speed, and Nick turns so he's running forward again and adjusts to my new pace. “You won't have any trouble with it though,” he says.

“You have no idea.”

He laughs. I don't.

When we get to the end of the street, I stop again. I motion behind me. “I'm gonna go home. This is way too much exercise for me.”

He puts the brakes on too. “Okay. See you tomorrow. I'll look for you.”

“Sure thing.” I make myself face him, make myself ignore Max, who has just stepped out of his house. It's like I have some kind of Max radar that I couldn't turn off even if I wanted to.

“Is that okay?” Nick trips a little over the words, making me smile.

I act like I don't see Max standing in the driveway, watching me. I act like I want to flirt with Nick, like it means something to me. “Yeah. More than okay.”

Nick's turn to smile. Sweet. I wish I could make my heart skip knowing I made him smile. But I can't. It's his turn to motion behind him. “I'm gonna go catch up…”

“Yeah. Sure.”

He jogs away, turning to look at me one more time. I wave, and I tell myself not to turn around. Not to look at Max. Watch Nick, who has that silly smile pasted on his face. He turns on the jets, turbo-ing himself forward.

“So you're into baseball players now?” Max's voice comes from behind me. “That's a completely valid choice. You know, if you don't mind your men a little small.”

I still don't turn to face him. “Thanks for your approval. Not that you actually get a say.”

He drapes his arms over me, leaning his body against mine. I try not to feel how ripped he is, but I can't. It's not like his body's the only thing I love about Max, but I'd have to be dead not to notice. He whispers in my ear. “How was it?”

Tears spring to my eyes. I want to push him away and run home, pretend that jogging is my new passion. It's not like what he says to me is so profound—it's just that his concern gets inside me. Deep. It blankets me, hugging my ribs hard, massaging my heart. Max does this without even trying. He turns me, so I have to face him. He sees my tears. But it's not like he needed to. Max knows. He holds me against him, and I bury my face in his neck.

“Shh. It's okay. It's going to be okay.”

I cry more, not caring. He holds me closer. It's like there's no space between us. I want to turn my face up to his. I want to kiss him. I feel that need in every cell of my body—my Max need. Bottomless and aching and just plain stupid because I know it's not going to happen. Not after that one time last spring. That thought is the slap in the face and the punch in the gut I need to stop the tears. I pull away from him so he won't know—as if he doesn't already.

He wipes one of my tears away with his thumb. His eyes are so intense, I have to look away. “How 'bout I walk you home?” he asks.

I nod. That I can do.

I walk into my house, look at my school schedule on the counter where Mom left it for me. She's always doing that, thinking that if I can just prepare for things, I'll be okay. As if you could prepare for anything. What a joke. Leah and I planned. And see where that got us? Or at least her.

I hold the schedule in my hand and stare at the teachers and subjects I'll be taking. Junior year is my
make it or break it
year. Looking at my classes, I have no idea how I'll get into any college, let alone RISD. No one I know takes regular classes, and honors are for people headed for state colleges. Not for elite art schools.

My head throbs. The silence in the house is so loud I can't think. Anger. Shame. Guilt. Denial. Put that in a blender and mix it up. Drink it down with a calm-down pill. Keep going. Just. Keep. Going.

Lights out through the house means Mom's probably lying down. Her deal-with-it cocktail already in her. Part of me wishes that she would give it up, that after everything that happened, she would have stopped. Or Dad would have come back and stopped her. Part of me remembers how it used to be when Mom and Dad still pretended to be happy. Or maybe they actually were. It's stupid to think about the things I wish, because Mom's not going to stop taking pills and Dad's not going to change. Leah always said I was stupid about people. She was right. Clearly.

The reverberation of Leah's voice leaks into my brain, like a drumbeat synchronizing with my migraine.
You were always so starstruck, Baby Sister.

I trudge upstairs to my room. I need something to calm me down too. I need to find a little Relief.

I reach into the back of my closet. In one of my old Michael Kors bags, I've hidden the bottle of NyQuil I had Mom get me two weeks ago when I told her I had a cold. I roll it in my palm and play the game Leah and I used to:
I'll stop if
. This time it's a one-player game, but I don't let that get to me. If Max calls, I'll stop. If Leah were here, she'd call me a cheater because that's not even in the realm of possibilities. So I go again. If Emery calls, I'll stop. If Mom wakes up, I'll stop. If the phone rings in the next ten seconds, from anyone, a solicitor, a creditor, the school, I'll stop. I breathe out and count to ten. No calls. No texts. No reason to stop. I strip the plastic off and unscrew the top, breaking the seal as I do.

NyQuil is part of my emergency arsenal, strictly for code-red situations. Or when I need help sleeping. But right now, I need it to make the headache stop. I need to find some Escape. I need to heal, like Mrs. Pendrick said. I'm living my life in tiny squares, doing the best I can.

And I know how bad this is. Of course I do, after Leah, but it's not Mom drugs. It's only the over-the-counter stuff. Just as I bring the lip of the bottle to my mouth, I get a flash from that last night I saw Leah alive, the party I can't remember. God, that sucks. I suck. My last night with her, and I blew it in so many ways.

I tip the bottle and drink a big swig. The sickening medicine taste almost chokes me, but I keep it in. I drink some more and walk to the window. From here I can see my studio. It's waiting for me, but I'm not ready. So I turn up the music and drink some more.

I lie back on my bed and think about Leah. The questions I can't get out of my mind: Why did she do it without following our plan? Why didn't she tell me? Why? Why? Why? The tears threaten, but I push them away. Crying doesn't help. Nothing does except the medicine that's just starting to kick in and make the grip on my head loosen.

I look around my room, blue-haze walls and beach-white trim. Leah picked out the colors. My hands go to my head, trying to make the pain stop. But I hear her voice, a memory filling my head with its soft tones and pretty scents. I hear my sister like it's in real time, even though it was years ago.

“You need something to make your work pop,” Leah said as I painted squares of color samples from the paint store over the babyish purple I had in middle school. “I like this one.” She pointed to the blue patch.

I remember being annoyed at first. Shouldn't I get to pick the color for
my
room? But she was right. It was perfect. Like she was. She could always talk me into anything. My sister made me a little starstruck. She never minded, as long as it was her star I was following.

Liquid inspiration from the NyQuil strikes. I should paint something for Leah, let her know I get it now. Maybe I didn't when she was alive. Maybe I didn't listen when she tried to tell me things.

I open the door and look out into the hallway—lights off, TV on downstairs. Mom's checkout gives me the clear shot I need. In the garage, I find the white paint from the trim and the brushes. Everything seems really clear right now. And brilliant. I feel sort of brilliant. Like every part of my brain is working.

Back in my room, I shake the can of paint and open it with a screwdriver and hammer, trying hard not to spill it on my hardwood floors. Too late.

My curtains are in the way, so I rip them off the rod. I have to stand on my window seat to reach as high as I need. I start to paint, not knowing what I'm doing until the image forms on the wall, like magic. By the time I've painted the point of convergence on my window where the pink diamond goes, I recognize it. I painted it like it was burned into my brain. Leah's ring.

I sit back and admire my work. I hope, wherever she is, she sees this and knows I'm sorry. A pain shoots through my head and I squint at the blinding light of the setting sun. Spiky rays angle in through my painting, making it seem like it's alive.

I close my eyes against the brightness. When I open them again, I'm confused. Because I see Leah standing there. Really standing there. I'm not imagining it. She's there, surrounded by light, kind of outlined in it. Like one of my rendering sketches.

I go to reach for her, ask her if she's really here, but her image disappears, and I know it's just my guilt and need that's bringing her to me. Even if she can't stay.

I close up the paint can and take it and the medicine bottle downstairs. The paint and tools go back into the garage, and the brush gets washed in the sink. I run my hand over its stainless steel surface, careful that all the evidence goes down the drain. Finally I wrap the medicine bottle in newspaper and push it to the bottom of the trash can, making certain that it's completely covered. One thing Leah taught me was how to hide your party.

When I'm done, I walk back up to my bathroom and brush my teeth, trying not to look in the mirror, as if my crazy will show. I crawl into bed and try not to think about tomorrow. First day of school. I put my hands together in the prayer position and put them under my cheek. I try not to think about what I just did or worry about what it means. Sleep will help. I know I'm not coping. I'm living my life in tiny squares. Checkerboard moves. Each play means something. Each turn matters. The most important thing is to keep moving. To not get jumped. Sometimes a little NyQuil helps that. They don't call it medicine for nothing.