Girl in Snow(66)

“Go away,” I tell her. “Did I say you could come in here?”

Amy ignores me. She sits on the foot of my bed, crossing her legs beneath her.

“I’m sad,” she says.



WHAT YOU WANT TO SAY BUT CAN’T WITHOUT BEING A DICK

A Screenplay by Jade Dixon-Burns

INT. CELLY’S BEDROOM—DAY

Sister sits on the edge of Celly’s bed, her back against the headboard.





SISTER


I’m sad.





CELLY


(fed up)

Jesus.





SISTER


What?





CELLY


You think sadness is something you can hide behind. I’m tired of it.

Sister’s eyes well.

CELLY (CONT’D)

It’s not just you. It’s everyone. Everyone’s grief. You can’t truly grieve over someone you didn’t understand, Sister. None of you can. And I won’t. So please, don’t ask me to.



“I’m sad,” Amy says.

“I’m sorry.”

“Come on. You’re not sorry.”

“Fine. I’m not.”

She glances at the dead moth in my windowsill—it’s been there for months, and every day it gets lighter in color as the sun turns it slowly to dust.

“Do you think he did it?” she asks. “The art teacher? You had him in school. You know him.”

“I don’t know, Amy. Why are you asking me all these questions?”

“Just looking for the truth.”

“Fuck the truth.”

“You don’t get it, do you? You can’t just say ‘fuck the truth’ and sit there like you don’t care. Lucinda was murdered. That’s a huge thing.”

“I guess.”

“So that’s why the truth is important. And why I’m sad.”

For the smallest second, I want to tell her about Zap. I want to unload the past two years on Amy, the pretty sister, the one with the light step, the one with friends, the sister free of violent outbursts due to insecurity. I want her to carry some of the weight, to help me hold up my own miserable head. But Amy and I aren’t like that anymore.

She picks at a cuticle.

I reach for the stereo on my nightstand and turn on “Death by Escalator.” This does it. Amy gives me her classic glare, and over the deafening drums and screaming vocals, she glides out of my bedroom. The music is so loud I can’t tell if she slams the door.

I am very alone.

I pull open one curtain.

Usually when I watch Lucinda’s window, it’s with a combination of fascination, hatred, and jealousy. Today is different. There’s guilt, of course, but more than that. Three days ago Lucinda was brushing her hair in front of the mirror and untangling the laces of her ballet shoes, and now her body is being processed in the basement of the Broomsville County Hospital. I think how lonely it must be down there, and I wonder if, wherever Lucinda is now, she can feel how much everyone loves her.

Pulling the curtain wide, I watch the reception going on below. People mill around the main floor of the Hayeses’ house, and upstairs, Lex lies alone on her bed. The door is shut and a striped towel is stuffed beneath the frame. She has an arm over her eyes. Next door to Lex’s, Lucinda’s room should be empty, but it isn’t. A figure slides clumsily into view.

I know the wrinkled collar of his shirt. And the way he walks—cautious and hunched, like he doesn’t think he deserves to be standing.

The clock reads 3:41 p.m. Before I can question why Cameron is in Lucinda’s bedroom instead of downstairs—or why he’s gone to this reception at all—he disappears into the part of Lucinda’s room I can’t see from my window. He doesn’t reappear until ten minutes later, when I see him fast-walking down the driveway, sweat-shirt hood pulled over his forehead, arms crossed like he’s holding something heavy.

Sadness washes over me for the first time since all this started. I think of Zap and his grown, foreign shoulders, of Mr. O locked in a holding cell, of Lucinda sneaking out her bedroom window late that night. And finally, of Cameron. How he waited—he calculated that full minute before sprinting after her in the night. I think he loved her, he really did.

Everyone’s looking for the truth. I’m so afraid I’ll have to pry open its grave.



“Jade.” Ma comes into my room moments later, as I’m picking the polish off my nails. It comes off in chunks of shining, glittering black. “We’re giving to the church garage sale to raise funds for Lucinda’s family.”

She holds a giant plastic container filled with my old stuff, dug up from the depths of the basement.

“Now?” I say.

“Now,” she says. “We’ll bring it all over tonight. Last chance for anything you want to keep.”

She leaves the container open next to my bed.

Old clothes, from seventh and eighth grade. Outdated bell-bottomed jeans, the occasional stuffed animal. I dig through the junk—I don’t want to remember this time in my life, or really, any time in my life.

And then, at the bottom of the box: the third sign from Lucinda Hayes.

The Token.