We Were Liars(50)

Remember my name

’Cause we made history

Na na na na, na na na



I lifted my hand to take out the ear buds. The hand I saw was bandaged.

Both my hands were bandaged.

And my feet. I could feel the tape on them, beneath the blue sheets.

My hands and feet were bandaged, because they were burned.





79




Once upon a time there was a king who had three beautiful daughters.

No, no, wait.

Once upon a time there were three bears who lived in a wee house in the woods.

Once upon a time there were three billy goats who lived near a bridge.

Once upon a time there were three soldiers, tramping together down the roads after the war.

Once upon a time there were three little pigs.

Once upon a time there were three brothers.

No, this is it. This is the variation I want.

Once upon a time there were three beautiful children, two boys and a girl. When each baby was born, the parents rejoiced, the heavens rejoiced, even the fairies rejoiced. The fairies came to christening parties and gave the babies magical gifts.

Bounce, effort, and snark.

Contemplation and enthusiasm. Ambition and strong coffee.

Sugar, curiosity, and rain.

And yet, there was a witch.

There is always a witch.

This witch was the same age as the beautiful children, and as she and they grew, she was jealous of the girl, and jealous of the boys, too. They were blessed with all these fairy gifts, gifts the witch had been denied at her own christening.

The eldest boy was strong and fast, capable and handsome. Though it’s true, he was exceptionally short.

The next boy was studious and open-hearted. Though it’s true, he was an outsider.

And the girl was witty, generous, and ethical. Though it’s true, she felt powerless.

The witch, she was none of these things, for her parents had angered the fairies. No gifts were ever bestowed upon her. She was lonely. Her only strength was her dark and ugly magic.

She confused being spartan with being charitable, and gave away her possessions without truly doing good with them.

She confused being sick with being brave, and suffered agonies while imagining she merited praise for it.

She confused wit with intelligence, and made people laugh rather than lightening their hearts or making them think.

Her magic was all she had, and she used it to destroy what she most admired. She visited each young person in turn on their tenth birthdays, but did not harm them outright. The protection of some kind fairy—the lilac fairy, perhaps—prevented her from doing so.

What she did instead was curse them.

“When you are sixteen,” proclaimed the witch in a rage of jealousy, “when we are all sixteen,” she told these beautiful children, “you shall prick your finger on a spindle—no, you shall strike a match—yes, you will strike a match and die in its flame.”

The parents of the beautiful children were frightened of the curse, and tried, as people will do, to avoid it. They moved themselves and the children far away, to a castle on a windswept island. A castle where there were no matches.

There, surely, they would be safe.

There, surely, the witch would never find them.

But find them she did. And when they were fifteen, these beautiful children, just before their sixteenth birthdays and when their nervous parents were not yet expecting it, the jealous witch brought her toxic, hateful self into their lives in the shape of a blond maiden.

The maiden befriended the beautiful children. She kissed them and took them on boat rides and brought them fudge and told them stories.

Then she gave them a box of matches.

The children were entranced, for at nearly sixteen they had never seen fire.

Go on, strike, said the witch, smiling. Fire is beautiful. Nothing bad will happen.

Go on, she said, the flames will cleanse your souls.

Go on, she said, for you are independent thinkers.

Go on, she said. What is this life we lead, if you do not take action?

And they listened.

They took the matches from her and they struck them. The witch watched their beauty burn, their bounce,

their intelligence,

their wit,

their open hearts,

their charm,

their dreams for the future.

She watched it all disappear in smoke.





Part Five


   Truth





80




Here is the truth about the Beautiful Sinclair Family. At least, the truth as Granddad knows it. The truth he was careful to keep out of all newspapers.

One night, two summers ago, on a warm July evening,

Gatwick Matthew Patil,

Mirren Sinclair Sheffield,

and

Jonathan Sinclair Dennis

perished in a house fire thought to be caused by a jug of motorboat fuel that overturned in the mudroom. The house in question burned to the ground before the neighboring fire departments arrived on the scene.

Cadence Sinclair Eastman was present on the island at the time of the fire but did not notice it until it was well under way. The conflagration prevented her from entering the building when she realized there were people and animals trapped inside. She sustained burns to the hands and feet in her rescue attempts. Then she ran to another home on the island and telephoned the fire department.