21. Eloise
21
ELOISE
The thing about an illegal street racing tournament is that there isn’t a listed schedule. There’s no group chat or email invitation. I hadn’t thought much about that until now. They gave us the vaguest directions at the Alley, with the whole “we’ll reach out to you if you’re selected” spiel. Great. When, though? Am I expected to just sit in this dreaded fog of purgatory forever? Any kind of timeline would’ve been helpful. A day, a week—hell, even if they’d said a month, at least I’d know.
Instead, for the past two days, I’ve found myself checking my phone every hour or two. It’s exhausting, and it’s not the kind of dependency I want in my life. I already have enough burner phones to keep track of for Seven Pines as it is.
I knock on my sister’s bedroom door. “Vivie? Can I come in?”
“Yeah, I’m just reading,” she calls back.
I push open her door, wincing at the loud creak it makes. Mentally, I add it to the never-ending to-do list that comes with this house. Sure enough, my youngest sister sits in the middle of her bed, bent over a book on her lap, wet hair dripping down her back.
I step into her room, toeing the door closed but stopping it right before it creaks. Margot is studying in her room across the hall, and I don’t want to disturb her. “What’re you reading?”
“It’s an action-adventure. Sort of fantasy, I guess.”
“Ooh, that sounds fun. Tell me more. Still want me to braid your hair?”
“Sure,” she says, scooting over and giving me her back. “It’s about this girl who lives in, like, a magical time, right? And she’s the last princess, but she doesn’t know she’s a princess or the last of her name. She thinks she’s just some random girl. But it’s all about to change because she just inherited some powers, and I just know she’s gonna . . .”
I make a few quiet agreements, asking a few more questions to get her to keep talking while I weave her hair into twin Dutch braids. They’re more like sisters than twins, I guess, but it’s a good enough job. Vivie has the best hair out of all of us. Long, thick, and the richest chestnut shade that glows red in the sun.
It’s in these soft moments that I feel it. The quiet moments of normalcy, of just being a big sister, ground me in a way few other things can. They remind me of why I made the choices I did, even when doubt threatens to creep in.
The validation I always seem to be searching for flows toward me like the tide. It laps at my ankles and crawls up my calves. It seeps into my pores and settles something restless inside of me.
I wrestle with my conscience on a weekly basis, wondering if I did the right thing by taking her and Margot away from our mother. Hoping that I’ve created a place for them that’s safe. Somewhere they can have the space to grow and figure out who they are.
Somewhere Vivie’s allowed to be a kid.
When I was her age, I was already working full-time, going to school, and taking care of my sisters.
Vivie isn’t my daughter, but she’s more than just my sister. Our relationship exists somewhere in between. Those early days with Mom and Vivie as a newborn were rough—the kind of days that sear into your soul and become core memories. But the thing about core memories is that they can be good and bad.
They shape your flaws and your strengths, your instincts and resilience. They leave marks that remind you not only of what you’ve endured, but also of what you’re capable of overcoming.
The weight of those memories settles heavy in my chest, but I push it aside, focusing on the present moment with Vivie.
“Hey, Viv,” I say as I secure the last hair tie around the braid.
“Hm?” she asks, but she doesn’t pull her face from her book.
“You’d tell me if you needed anything, right? If you weren’t happy or felt like you were missing out on something? You’d come to me if you had questions?”
She lays the book in her lap, her fingers keeping her page. She hesitates. “Yeah, I would.”
“Good. I’m just saying, if you ever have questions about anything, you can always come to me. No matter what it is. No matter where I am. Okay? I’m here for you. Always.”
“Even about Mom?”
I tense without thinking, fear slamming into me from all angles. I exhale through my nose. “Did something happen?”
She fiddles with the edge of the page. “No, not really. Just some kids at school.”
I curse under my breath. That fucking school is the best in the area; I didn’t think we’d have to deal with any of that shit. I guess it goes to show it’s not the school, really—it’s the kids. And, maybe, the age. Middle school is just a tough age in general.
I slide off her bed and sit in front of her, taking her hand in mine. I wait until she meets my gaze. “You can ask me anything you want about Mom. I’ll always be honest with you, okay?”
She bites the side of her cheek, her big brown eyes flicking back and forth between mine. “Yeah, okay.”
“Now, what did those little assholes say?”
A smile tugs up one side of her mouth, and she huffs a small laugh. “It’s nothing, I’m sure. Joey D. said he saw Mom behind the bowling alley in town . . .”
I clench my teeth to stop myself from saying something I might regret. She needs someone in the house to be level-headed, and since Margot will pop off at the slightest provocation, that leaves me.
“Lots of people go bowling. What’s so bad about that?”
“No,” she says with a sigh, her cheeks turning red as she looks over my shoulder. “He said he saw Mom behind the bowling alley . . . doing stuff with his uncle.”
I tsk. “Sounds like bullshit to me, Vivie. Why would this kid even be out walking around like that on his own?”
“Don’t worry about him or any other punk at school, okay? I’m going to talk to Principal Heyward tomorrow, and we’re gonna figure it out. But until then, don’t let them get to you. You know why kids lash out like that? Why they make up lies and say mean things to other kids?”
She shakes her head.
“It’s a learned behavior. This is all they know. Their parents or siblings or family talk like that to one another, and then they pick it up. So, every time what’s-his-face tries to talk shit to you, I want you to remember that he must have a very sad life to say such things. And then you?—”
“Punch him in the face,” Margot says from the doorway.
Vivie and I both startle, turning to look at her at the same time. Laughter bubbles up in my chest before I can stuff it down. I know I shouldn’t encourage Margot’s go-to plans for these things, but I’m tired. And I already gave Vivie the “right thing to do” pep talk.
“I wasn’t gonna say all that, but you know what we always say: We don’t start fights, but?—”
“We finish ’em,” the three of us say at the same time before we all laugh.
“All right.” I push up from Vivie’s bed, squeezing her hand once and bending down to kiss the top of her head. “I’m going to go pick up the kitchen. Lights out in twenty minutes, okay?”
“Yep.” Vivie flops onto her back with a dramatic sigh. “I just hope I get to read the part where this one guy realizes his mistake before bed. I’ve been waiting on this reveal for like half the book.”
“I hope so too. Have a good sleep, Viv. Love you.”
“Love you, Louie,” she sing-songs back, her face already in her book.
Margot calls her goodnights and follows me down the hall. I can practically feel the questions eating away at her. She’s been like a dog with a bone these last couple of days.
When my foot hits the linoleum of the kitchen, she blurts, “Well?”
I chuckle and start filling up the sink to do the rest of the dishes. I think I’m gonna do a little baking tonight, and our kitchen isn’t big enough to bake in if it isn’t clean. “Well, what?”
“Oh my god, Louie, don’t play games with my heart right now. Did you hear from them?”
For a split second, I think she’s talking about Beau, but I shake my head, dispelling that thought. It doesn’t even make sense.
“Nope. I told you I’d let you know the moment I heard.”
She sighs, this big noisy heave of breath that sounds like a deflating balloon. “Yeah, I know.” She slumps over on the counter, elbows on it, head planted in her hands. “Wishful thinking, I guess.”
I shrug and start washing the pans. I cooked a weird casserole dish for dinner, and the bottom stuck to the pan, hard grains of rice burned to a crisp. I guess I need to add more water next time. Didn’t know that making jasmine rice has a different water ratio than other rice.
“I might not make it, you know.” It’s a gentle reminder for the both of us.
“Nah, I refuse to believe that. This is your destiny, sis. This is your ticket outta here.”
“Yeah, well, it might not be. I’m not gonna tie all my hopes and dreams on it, ya know?” I don’t look at her, keeping my focus on scrubbing the pan clean.
It’s quiet, but I don’t hear her footfalls, so I know she’s not done yet. It’s not like my sister to bite her tongue, not when it comes to me. We’re not close enough in age to have that kind of sisterly relationship I always dreamed about, the kind you see on TV shows and movies. But trauma has a way of bonding anyone, and while she was never quite young enough for the sister/parental line to blur like it did with Vivie, she and I are in this gray area.
I look over my shoulder, and sure enough, she’s staring right at me, her lips rolled inward like she’s physically stopping herself from saying whatever’s on her mind.
“All right, out with it.”
She expels a breath, letting her arms straighten out. “It’s just . . . I wasn’t sure if you had them. Hopes and dreams.”
“Ah.” I hum with a few short nods, my sinuses tingling as embarrassment prickles along the back of my neck, hot and sweaty. I refocus on rinsing the pan and setting it on the drying rack next to the sink.
She clears her throat. “All I’m saying is, it’s okay to have them, you know? To hope for something more than Avalon Falls for yourself. To have dreams. And you can, you know, share them with me or whatever. I won’t think differently of you or anything. It’s just, I know how much you sacrificed to take on me and Vivie.”
I spin toward her quickly; the water sloshing out of the sink with the sharp movement. I point a sudsy finger at her. “You two were never a burden. Taking the two of you out of her house was the best decision I ever made. The only thing I regret is waiting so long to do it.”
She tosses her hands up, palms toward me. “All I’m saying is I get it now, you know.”
I’m feeling hot and uncomfortable, and I don’t know what to do with my hands. It’s cowardly, I’m sure, but all I can do is nod once and turn back around to wash the dishes.
Margot taps the counter a few times with her palm. “All right, I’m going to get back to studying now. Just let me know if you hear anything, yeah?”
My shoulders feel tight, and I’m afraid that if I turn around now, I’m going to cry. The worst part is, I don’t even know why I would be crying.
I swallow it all down, shoving it into the black pit in my gut with all the other emotions I don’t have time to deal with and finish the dishes.
An hour later, and the nervous, frenetic energy still buzzes in my veins. I’m not tired enough to fall asleep, and not even my favorite baking shows are easing my nerves. If it wasn’t ten o’clock, I’d hop into my car, crank up my favorite playlist, and go for a drive.
Instead, I decide to make chocolate chip cookies. Because one thing my dad taught me was that everything is better with a cookie.
I bring my laptop into the kitchen, the low murmuring of the competition show keeping me company. I go through the pantry and collect all the ingredients I need for chocolate chip cookies. It’s the basic recipe, the one on the back of the chocolate chip bag, and nothing like the kind of thing these bakers are making on TV.
I found a bag of walnuts tucked behind the baking soda, so those are going on half the batch. If it were up to me, I’d put them in the whole thing, but Vivie claims they’re gross.
I listen to the baking show as I assemble my cookies, the quiet of the night pressing in on me. There’s a big misconception about Seven Pines, the neighborhood. Sure, it’s affiliated with the crew, but it’s not parties twenty-four seven. Mostly, it’s just a regular neighborhood with respectful neighbors.
Once the cookies are in the oven, I clean up. Washing and drying the dishes, putting everything away. I still have a few minutes on the timer, so I wipe down the counters and refill the soap dispensers. I snagged this fall-scented dish and hand soap a few months ago, and I’ve been patiently waiting for the seasons to change enough so I could use it.
Rifling through the basket of stuff under the sink, I pull out the plastic bag. Inside, next to the two bottles of pumpkin br?lée scented soap, is a box of peach hair dye.
With the cookies cooling, I find myself drawn back to the box of hair dye, my fingertips tracing over the image of the smiling model with her vibrant peach-colored locks.
I don’t know what possesses me to do it. Maybe it’s the restless energy still thrumming through my veins, demanding an outlet.
Maybe it’s the memory of Beau’s fingers tangling in my hair, his husky voice whispering “peach” against my skin.
Maybe it’s the desperate need for a change, for something that feels like my choice in a world where so much is decided for me.
An hour later, I sink into bed with a warm cookie in hand and peach-colored hair, feeling content.