Where the Staircase Ends(28)

“Road soda?” Sunny asked me, passing me an empty Snapple bottle filled with orange juice and vodka. I took a long sip as we pulled out of the driveway and smiled back at her. It was my imagination, I told myself again. I was being paranoid. Sunny was my best friend, she would never let a guy come between us.





CHAPTER TEN


IF I WASN’T DEAD THESE STAIRS WOULD KILL ME





I was mid-stride when another Sunny-ghost appeared. Unlike the other ones who usually appeared several steps ahead, this Sunny popped up right next to me, grinning her familiar wicked grin when I met her eyes.

“What do you want?” I said through clenched teeth. The image of her sent my blood into a rolling boil, and my fingers instinctively curled into fists.

The Sunny-ghost shrugged and jutted her chin out, pointing in the direction of another Sunny that had appeared several steps ahead of us. The second Sunny was younger, maybe seven, and she held on to my old bike. I noticed the training wheels still mounted to the back, and I instantly recognized which memory she was from. She was the Sunny who forced me to learn how to ride my bike after the other kids in my neighborhood called me a baby for still using training wheels.

I closed my eyes and grunted, shocking myself with the animal sound that erupted from my throat. I didn’t want to remember the good Sunnys. And even if I did, it wasn’t as if remembering them would undo the horrible thing she did.

When I opened my eyes, there were more Sunnys filling the steps. A swarm of them stood before me, an army of red hair and green eyes. I tried to step back, wanting to put distance between them and me, but I was rooted to the step, watching in horror as more and more grisly specters from my past swirled into view, each showing me the perfect pink smile I had come to hate.

“Leave me alone,” I said to what I hoped were figments of my imagination. I was tired of thinking about her. I just wanted to get to the top of the horrible staircase and be done with it. I wanted to forget.

The Sunnys didn’t stop. More of them appeared, one right after the other swirling into view up and down the steps until there were hundreds of Sunnys filling the staircase. They pushed me back against the invisible hands that forced me to face forward, pinning me like a butterfly for display. I tried to scream, but they pressed and pressed until the air was gone from my lungs and I couldn’t make a sound.

“Please,” I managed to croak, desperate to make the images disappear.

A dirt-covered Sunny stepped in front of the pack, and the other Sunny-ghosts shuffled backward to make room for her. She tipped her head to the side and offered me a warm smile, the kind of smile Sunny saved only for me. Her shirt was torn and there was a smudge of mud on her cheek, but she still grinned proudly. She was the Sunny who fought Tracey Allen in sixth grade after she stole my boyfriend.

“Remember,” she whispered.

The other Sunnys nodded and echoed the word back. “Remember,” whispered a hundred tinkling bells from a hundred different memories.

The Sunny who taught me how to swim stepped forward, her hair still dripping with pool water and her cheeks still pink from cheering after I successfully swam the length of the pool for the first time. Her bare feet slapped against the stone when she stepped back to join the others, but not before whispering that same word: remember.

One by one the Sunnys stepped forward, each taking her turn to smile and whisper the single word into the quiet afternoon. There was a Sunny from Halloween, her devil horns making her look equal parts wicked and beautiful in that way that only Sunny could; the Sunny from Thanksgiving who managed to convince my unyielding mother to let us have a glass of wine with the meal, young Sunnys, recent Sunnys, Sunnys from memories I’d long since forgotten. They stood like a militia waiting to push me back into the past as they each took their place on the makeshift stage before me.

A Sunny in pink satin pajamas, her hair pulled back in a messy bun, took her turn in front of the others. She was the Sunny from seventh grade who saved me from my mother’s wrath. As if to make her point, she opened her hand to show me the cigarette she held, and I was instantly assaulted by a memory so rich I could smell the smoke.

Remember, she mouthed. I had no choice but to do what she asked.




*




“Where did you get it?” Sunny asked me, her eyes wide and awe-filled.

It took all of my willpower to keep the surprise hidden until my mom went to bed. I smiled proudly as I watched Sunny examine the brown-speckled filter and practice holding the cigarette in her hand.

“Tracey sold it to me for a dollar. She swiped it from her mom.”

Sunny rolled her eyes when she heard Tracey’s name and handed it back to me. “If it’s from her then it’s probably diseased. Why would you give her a dollar for that thing? They make your hair smell.”


I tried not to act disappointed by her reaction. “You aren’t even a little curious?” I asked, thinking that Sunny, of all people, should be impressed. For extra incentive I added, “I saw Mark Schroen smoking with some eighth graders by the 7-Eleven.”

She stretched her legs out in front of her, wiggling her toes to inspect her freshly applied pedicure as she contemplated.

“Open the window before you light it. Your mother will flip if she smells the smoke, and I don’t want to listen to you guys scream at each other.”