This Might Hurt(89)
Kit’s face clouds over. “She shouldn’t have done that.”
“You think?”
“We try to avoid violence here.”
I snort, then lower my voice. “When the water is safe to pass, I’m getting out of here. And you’re coming with me.”
“Oh.” She blinks a few times. “No, Nat, I’m not. I’m not going anywhere. This is my home now.”
“You know what I think? I think this is a cry for help. You want to get away from here but can’t because Rebecca has brainwashed you into thinking that leaving would be the end of the world.”
“I already told you brainwashing isn’t a valid scientific concept.”
“Let me talk to Rebecca.”
“Not a chance.” Kit’s entire body tenses. “You’re going to insult her and humiliate me. I didn’t need your meddling before Wisewood, and I sure as hell don’t need it now. I came and got you from the forest because I wanted to help you, nothing more.”
My sister’s newfound assertiveness surprises me. I point to my swollen lip. “Do I look helped?”
“You’re the one who brought your phone here.”
“That’s the big violation?”
“You lied to us.”
“You know why I don’t like to be without my phone, Kit.”
“This was an opportunity for you to get over that.”
I glare. “Where were you all night, anyway? I went to your room half a dozen times. I was worried sick.”
“I was trying to stop Gordon from doing something stupid.”
“What’s that guy’s deal?”
My sister scowls at the smoke detector. “He’s Teacher’s pet.”
And you aren’t? I think, raising an eyebrow.
She turns her head sharply toward me, and I worry I’ve voiced the thought aloud. “You don’t know a thing about me anymore, Natalie.”
I study her sheared scalp and dull skin. Her dimples have vanished; the lightness has gone out of her eyes. I try to find traces of my sister, but she’s a shadow of the whirlwind she once was. She’s harder, tougher.
I realize she’s right.
She tilts her head. “Earlier you said we needed to talk.”
“Now’s not the time.”
She squeezes her left hand into a fist, then relaxes it. “Now is a perfect time.”
“Let it go, Kit. I’m not in the mood.”
“I’ve grown a backbone since we were kids. You’re not in charge anymore. You can tell me now or not at all.”
“Fine,” I say, eager to spit the words out, excited for the pain they’ll cause, scared by my own depravity.
“Mom planned her death. And I helped her.”
38
Kit
DECEMBER 2019
I HAD NO reason to limp. Now that I’d passed my q2, I was free of pain.
Still, I stepped gingerly as I tidied the trailer after class, emptying the wastebasket and straightening chairs. To distract myself from my throbbing foot, I jotted down some quick notes—which students were stagnating, how I could help. A burning pain shot up my leg from my toe, making me wince. I hoped it wouldn’t take long for the tattoo to scab over.
Tattoo? Nat sniped. Why don’t we call a spade a spade? You’ve been branded. Like fucking livestock.
It’s a symbol. I’m not scared of pain anymore.
How can you believe in this shit? she screeched.
I gritted my teeth. My sister had been telling me how and what to think our entire lives. She thought she was smart because she didn’t believe in anything. When I was in third grade, she haughtily informed me Santa wasn’t real. Mom would’ve been happy to keep playing him—smudging thank-you letters with chimney soot, eating all the cookies—until we left for college, had Nat not ruined the illusion.
When we were teenagers my sister decided she no longer believed in God. She pointed out the logic flaws, the inconsistencies in the stories we’d grown up learning at CCD. But it wasn’t enough for her to stop believing; she also had to spurn anyone who still had faith. She didn’t see belief the way I did: as a comfort, a reassurance that someone or something was out there, keeping the scales between good and evil tipped toward good—or at least balanced. So what if I wanted to believe life wasn’t random and pointless? So what if I needed my existence to mean something? In the end, what did it matter whether the believers or nonbelievers were right? Our beliefs affected the here and now.
Nat prided herself on sniffing out what she perceived to be bullshit. She thought her doubts made her better. I thought they made her miserable. If I kept letting her butt in, she would ruin Wisewood for me the same way she’d ruined God.
I opened the trailer door. A burst of freezing air slammed into me. I tucked my chin into the warm fabric of my coat, dreading that glued-together-nose-hairs sensation this weather brought. The sun struggled to peek through clouds the color of dirty mop water.
I could see why we had so few guests during this time of year.
On days like this I missed the Sonoran Desert of my childhood—the unrelenting dry heat, the cowboy-shaped saguaros, the shocks of fuchsia and strawberry bougainvillea. Back then I had wondered why anyone would subject themselves to the miseries of winter year after year. I had become one of them, muttering for months straight about dark days and biting cold.