You Are Not Alone(30)
A sickening crunch filled the air.
Jane and Cassandra stared, uncomprehending, as their stepbrother said, “It was gonna die anyway.”
Trey turned and walked away, leaving them kneeling on the stone patio, as their shock turned to tears.
They sobbed while they wrapped the little bird’s body in another layer of paper towels, and while they wrote TWEETY in Magic Marker on the box they’d intended as an infirmary bed but that was now a coffin. They decorated it with drawings of flowers and rainbows and picked the prettiest spot in the garden, under a yellow rosebush.
After they finished smoothing the dirt over the grave, Cassandra and Jane held hands.
“We’re sorry,” Cassandra said. “We should have protected you.”
They avoided their stepbrother as much as possible after that. But he was still drawn to them. He’d snap the strap of Cassandra’s training bra and, when he passed Jane in the hallway, call out, “Plain Jane coming through!” Even though he had a bathroom of his own, he often went into the one Cassandra and Jane shared when they were getting ready for bed.
“Just looking for the Tylenol,” he’d say as he pushed open the door without knocking. It always seemed to happen when one of them was in the shower; he must have listened for the running water. The sisters would try to cover themselves as he leered at them through the rippled glass.
* * *
But they didn’t have to avoid Trey for long. Seventeen months after their mother had put on a long white lacy dress—as if she were a first-time bride—and wept prettily while saying her vows, their stepfather kicked them out of the house and filed for a divorce.
The changes and chaos in their life bound them even more closely together, especially as their mother turned bitter and even more remote. Cassandra and Jane, entangled by secrets and similarities, never let anyone else into the protective bubble they erected around their sisterhood. They were always together. Supporting each other. Defending each other. Loving each other.
Protecting each other.
CHAPTER TWENTY
SHAY
There are 1.3 million stepfathers in the United States. More than 1,300 new blended families form each day, and more than 50 percent of children under 13 live at least part-time with one biological parent and one stepparent.
—Data Book, page 21
Twenty years ago
ON MY ELEVENTH BIRTHDAY, which fell on a Saturday, my mom took me shopping at the local mall. She told the saleswoman at Lord & Taylor that I needed a special outfit for a special occasion. I wasn’t the kind of girl who dreamed about pink ruffles or tulle—I preferred soccer and math puzzles. But when I tried on the royal-blue knee-length dress with the sash around the waist, I felt special.
I wore it right out of the store, to the nail salon, where my mom and I sat in big leather recliners and got mani-pedis. A little later, as we pulled up to the ranch-style home where we now lived with Barry, I saw my stepfather standing on an aluminum ladder, wearing faded jeans and a Bruce Springsteen T-shirt, hammering in a loose roof shingle. I felt Barry’s stare as I walked toward the front door.
“Welcome back, Fancy-Pants,” he called down to me, and I gave him an awkward wave, keeping my head low.
I was still wearing the velvet dress that felt so soft against my skin when my mom called me to dinner—my favorite, spaghetti and meatballs—so I carefully spread a napkin over my lap to protect it.
My mom usually served Barry first, but tonight she filled my plate before his.
“Hey, hon, can I have a little more gravy for my pasta?” Barry was from the Bronx and always said gravy instead of tomato sauce. After I first heard him use that term, I wrote it down along with other regional sayings in my Data Book, such as bubbler—which a girl in my class who was from Rhode Island called the water fountain—and pop instead of soda, and freeway, which people on the West Coast and especially in California call highways.
“Of course,” my mom said, spooning more tomato sauce atop his spaghetti.
Barry went through two Coors at dinner—and I’d seen him throw out an empty can on his way to the table. Two beers a night wasn’t unusual. But three or more meant trouble: He was angry … with the boss who didn’t pay him well enough, the jerk in the BMW who’d cut him off on his commute home, or the politicians who kept taxing his hard-earned money.
When my mom went to the kitchen to get dessert, Barry followed her and brought back a fresh can: The tab made a popping sound as he opened it.
“‘Happy Birthday to you,’” my mom began to sing. She held a platter with a dozen chocolate-frosted cupcakes: another of my favorites. I closed my eyes, wished for a puppy to cuddle, and blew out the candles.
“Let’s see if your wish came true!” she said brightly. “Come on, the present your dad sent is in the backyard.” She set the platter down on the table, and I was so excited that I didn’t mind waiting for the delicious-looking cupcakes.
She held my hand as we walked, still moving with the grace of the dancer she used to be. I already had two inches on her by then—and I was rapidly gaining on Barry. The only features I’d inherited from her were a cleft in my chin and a narrow, slightly upturned nose. By contrast, she and Barry—who was short and muscular, with thick dark hair and Mediterranean coloring—were a perfect physical match.