The Last Good Day of the Year (10 page)

More silence. His expression only changes a smidgen. If he's embarrassed, it doesn't show. “I know that.”

“Kind of trashy, don't you think?”

“Who cares?”

“People care.”

Remy squints at me as if he's trying to make up his mind about something. When he starts talking again, everything about him seems suddenly detached, as though he's flipped a “disengage” switch in his brain. “Okay, Sam. I'll try to conduct myself in a way that's less embarrassing for you from now on.”

“That isn't what I meant.”

“You don't know anything about me. Not now.”

“I know I don't. I didn't mean—I wasn't—I should go downstairs.” I try to rush past him, but he grabs my arm with buttery fingers.

“You don't look anything like I thought you would.” He says it like an accusation.

“Neither do you.”

Outside, someone gives a car horn three long honks.

“That's Luke.” Remy lets go of my arm, and I feel an invisible wall moving back into place between us before he's even left the kitchen. “I have to get dressed. I'll see you later, Samantha.” He doesn't even turn around to say good-bye.

“I bet his girlfriend hates your guts.” Abby rarely comes into our house unless my parents aren't here, which means it's not hard to avoid her most of the time. Tonight I'm not so lucky. My dad is out, probably drinking beer with Mike at the American Legion. My mom is at an all-day gymnastics camp with Hannah. I don't have anywhere else to go, so I'm stuck with my sister and her trusty
sidekick, who are snuggled together on the opposite end of the living room couch, a blanket spread across their laps. Abby's head rests on Gretchen's shoulder. We're eating pizza and watching
Dirty Dancing
. I'd pass on movie night with them under any other circumstances, but I'm starving, and what kind of girl turns her back on
Dirty Dancing
? (No kind of girl. Everybody loves
Dirty Dancing
. Everybody.)

“That doesn't make any sense. Remy and I aren't even friends.”

“Who said it had to make sense?” Gretchen doesn't take her eyes off the television screen.

“That is why you fail, Samantha.” Abby is still as petite as always, especially compared to Gretchen, but she's nowhere near as pretty as she was a decade ago. Her whole person, from her face and body to the way she moves and breathes, has the look and vibe of a woman who knows that whatever potential she might have possessed in her youth has long since faded away. It wasn't that noticeable at first, but it became obvious once I'd spent some time with her. Her face is a shade too thin, her eyeliner a touch too heavy; her fingernails are uneven, their polish chipped; her dark hair is littered with strands of gray. There's a weariness emanating from within her that never goes away, not even when she's cuddled up beside her best friend in the world.

I guess that's what happens when you sacrifice your whole life to take care of someone else, which is what she's doing for her father. He might live for another thirty years with Abby caring for his broken body, his working mind trapped inside without any possibility for either of them to escape until his heart stops beating. I want
to loathe her, but it feels too cruel, even though she gives me a reason to every time she opens her mouth.

“She doesn't need a good reason to hate you,” she continues. She's still talking about Heather, Remy's girlfriend. “She hates you because you're a pretty girl who lives next door to her boyfriend.”

“But I've barely even spoken to Remy.”

“You will,” Gretchen says. “You were best friends.”

“That was ten years ago.”

“Ten years isn't that long.”

“Maybe Samantha doesn't like boys,” Abby suggests, flicking her tongue at me from between her fingers. Mid-gesture, her gaze lands on my necklace. I'm wearing a silver locket that I found in Remy's basement in a shoe box filled to the brim with old jewelry, most of it too tarnished or tangled to bother with.

“Where did you get that?” Her eyes narrow in accusation.

“From Remy's basement. It was his grandma's.”

“Oh, yeah? It's pretty.”

“Thank you.”

“Whose picture did you put inside?”

I put my hand over the locket. “Nobody's.”

Gretchen laughs. “That sounds about right.”

“Shut up. I
do
like boys, you know.”

“You could have fooled me.”

“I'm busy with other things.”

Abby snorts through her perky little nose. “Well, that's a lie.”

“God, Samantha, you're no fun at all!” My sister lights the joint she's been rolling for the last ten minutes and gets it burning nice
and steady before passing it to Abby. Abby offers it to me, even though she knows I don't want any. Once I've refused, she starts blowing smoke rings in my direction and singing under her breath: “
Don't smoke, don't drink, goody-goody-two-shoes
.” She pauses before adding, “I'm talking about you, Sam.”

“Oh? I didn't realize.”

“Wait a minute, you two—stop bitching at each other. Tell me this, Samantha: have you ever been on a date? Like, a real one?”

“Why are you so interested in my love life all of a sudden?”

Gretchen shrugs. “Because you're my sister, I guess.”

For a moment, the world around me is all background noise and static, and I can only think of Noah. My parents called him my boyfriend, but that's not what he was. One night together at a Holiday Inn does not a boyfriend make, but it's not like it mattered; my parents made sure they put an end to any relationship we might have had before it ever got started. But if Gretchen knows about Noah, she isn't letting on.

Beside my sister, Abby digs through her purse until she produces an oversized bag of candy corn, which she begins to eat by the handful. The sight disgusts me. “I wasn't aware anybody ate that stuff on purpose.”

“I have to agree with Sam on this one,” Gretchen says. “Candy corn is the worst. That shit will rot your teeth faster than anything.” She works part-time as a dental assistant three mornings a week. Even if she and her husband
are
trying to “work things out,” I don't think she's planning on going back to Texas anytime soon. Otherwise, why bother to get a job here?

Abby smiles. Her teeth are already stained orange and black.
“I brush twice a day,” she says. Tiny flecks of spit go flying from her lips onto the blanket. Gretchen wipes them away.

“That isn't enough. You have to floss every time you brush, too, or you might as well not bother at all.”

“Shut up. You don't know what you're talking about.”

“Yes, I do! You know what I hear at my job at least once a week? I mean at
least
. Take a guess.”

“I don't know. Tell me, oh wise and lovely dental assistant.” They're both giggling like maniacs. Neither of them seems at all concerned that the entire first floor of the house reeks of pot. It's no surprise that Abby's not worried, but Gretchen should know that our parents would likely frown on the scene if they happened to walk in with Hannah. She hasn't even bothered to open a window or turn on the ceiling fan. If I had smoked some of the joint, would I be as relaxed as she and Abby seem right now? I can't imagine how it feels. I've never smoked marijuana, although I've smelled it plenty of times. I've never even been drunk.

“I hear, ‘Is that a popcorn kernel? I don't even remember the last time I ate popcorn.'
 
”

Abby laughs with her whole body. She butts her head against Gretchen's shoulder and kicks her bare feet with glee. “That happened to me! I swear to God, it happened to me the last time I had my teeth cleaned!”

“Popcorn,” Gretchen repeats. “It's always stuck between molars or below the gum line. People are always so surprised. ‘How did that get there?!'
 
”

“Stop!” Abby throws a handful of candy corn into the air like confetti. “It's too funny! I can't take it! I can't breathe!”

“You're making a huge mess,” I say, picking pieces of candy corn from my hair. “It's getting all over the floor, Abby. Who's supposed to clean this up?”

“You are!” she screeches, throwing another handful. I look at Gretchen for help, but she couldn't care less. She taps the ash from the joint onto the floor and tilts her head back while she sucks in another lungful of smoke, which she's still holding when Silver Pickup turns onto our street a minute later. The song “Get It Together” is blasting from the truck's open windows. The vehicle barely comes to a full stop long enough to let Remy jump out before the driver makes a U-turn in the cul-de-sac and speeds away.

“Excuse me.” I stand up and start walking toward the kitchen as casually as possible. “The smoke is bothering me.”

“Bring me a beer, Sam,” Abby shouts, but my hand is already on the back door. I need to get out of this house. I need air, and a place where I can be alone. From the edge of our yard, I can still hear Abby's laughter carrying on the breeze.

I don't have my driver's license. Even if I did and could leave the house by myself, it's not like I have any friends in this town. There's nowhere for me to go. For a millisecond, I think of calling Noah, but that's a terrible idea. As a kid, I always hid in the playhouse whenever I needed time to myself. Why can't I do the same thing now?

The playhouse door isn't locked. Inside on the floor are a pillow, a short stack of books with an ashtray resting on top, and the
Star Wars
sleeping bag that Remy has had since we were toddlers. There's a half-empty gallon jug of red wine and a deck of playing
cards. A small hummingbird feeder hangs from a loop of silver wire in the window.

It's a warm night; the sleeping bag is enough to keep me comfortable for now. Remy's bedroom light shines through his open window at the back of the house. I watch him pacing the room in slow circles while he talks on the phone, pausing once in a while to look at himself in the mirror or flip through the channels on his TV. His conversation lasts about five minutes. After he hangs up, he strips down to his boxer shorts and walks out of the room, probably heading to the shower.

It gives me a strange thrill to be in here, watching him, without his knowledge. I know I shouldn't be doing it, but it's not like I'm hurting anyone. Besides, it's really Remy's fault for not closing his blinds. I settle deeper into the sleeping bag. I gather a handful of fabric in each fist and feel the rough, worn-out cloth in my hands, convinced that I've earned the right to trespass, that a part of Remy still belongs to me—will always belong to me—whether he likes it or not.