Chapter 29
Dominic
I knew better than to open the box.
I did it anyway.
It was the impatience that did me in. The type of gut-churning restlessness that trails an unfinished conversation with your sworn nemesis—the unrequited love of your life who, with a single sentence, had managed to decimate your entire world.
“I just didn’t want to love you anymore.”
My pulse scattered, my chest blazing with emotions I wasn’t allowed to feel.
She could have been lying.
Or not.
My tongue slashed over my top teeth as I finally caved, ceasing my pacing across the kitchen so I could rip the cardboard open.
For someone so unwilling to throw out other people’s trash, Robert had surprisingly few reservations about digging through garbage bins. My rib cage hammered as I retrieved the crumpled ball of paper crowning the assorted pile of junk. Peeled it open.
The stains were still there. From when the clown had wiped his fake tears with it.
Funny, no?
I didn’t quite get the joke until Alice spilled a couple of beans I didn’t realize had been missing from my neat little stack but maybe I’d be able to appreciate it once I figured out what the fuck was going on.
I tossed the letter into the garbage before reaching back into the box.
A deflated soccer ball (tossed). Faded baseball cap (tossed). Gaming headset with a broken mic (tossed).
A crinkled program for a school play.
My eyes gravitated to her right away, like a moth to a flame. She was beaming at the camera, long hair cascading down the side of her bright velvet Renaissance gown as she squeezed the life out of one of her castmates, a mousy brunette whose name I couldn’t recall.
My mouth twitched.
Alice’s rendition of Juliet was one of the funniest end products to come out of our old dare streak.
Due in no small part to the fact that she’d found me in the audience straightaway and had no apparent qualms about pausing in the middle of her lines and declarations of eternal love to glare daggers at me anytime she heard a peep, even if I wasn’t the one responsible for making it.
I got booted from the auditorium when Romeo died, and was still wheezing outside when the audience finally started to clap.
Later that night, Alice had pounded on my bedroom window and vowed retaliation for, and I quote, “cackling so hard at her impeccable performance that it, quite literally, without an ounce of exaggeration, sounded like a goose was choking in the audience.”
For weeks after the fact, I’d randomly burst into hysterics, thinking about her trying to squeeze out a single tear for the death of her counterpart.
As for her promised vengeance, she’d broken into my gym bag the night before a big game and swapped out my soccer shorts for her tiny gym ones. Not wanting to give her the win, I’d worn—and flaunted them, along with my amazing legs—proudly.
She’d almost keeled over in the stands from laughter, all the tears she’d failed to produce for Douchebro Romeo streaming down her face as she fought for breath and took pictures until her phone died. One of the photos was taped to the inside of her locker for a while.
She had one standard, smiling snapshot of her family taped in there, one of her and my mom, and one with Rachel. The rest of the space had been overstuffed with every unflattering picture of me she could get her grubby little hands on.
Her boyfriend in junior year had hated it. The relationship was short-lived, though later he would play her counterpart in a high school production of Shakespeare’s most famous comedy, Romeo and Juliet, where she’d almost pop a blood vessel trying to shed a tear for him.
I rubbed at my mouth, trying to wipe the smile away.
It didn’t go anywhere.
Garbage.
All of it.
After spending the better part of an hour rummaging through Robert’s box of manipulation, I had no doubt in my mind that, in addition to emptying my old trash bin straight onto the pile of nothings, Robert had searched every last square foot of our old house with a magnifying glass, handpicked the most useless, worthless pieces of old junk he could find, and flew it all the way across the country for me to throw out.
Take, for example, an old, half-torn exam schedule with yellow gum stuck to the back.
Or the ancient camera Robert had insisted on filming his ridiculous YouTube videos with, because “that wasn’t what phones are for.
Stop arguing with me, Dominic. I was there when they were invented.
” Meanwhile, I’d been stuck with the irritatingly time-consuming process of transferring, converting, editing, and uploading.
Other notably useless items included:
A couple of old comic books Alice had defaced after I drew a goatee on her beloved Cristiano Ronaldo poster.
(She’d been obsessed with him for reasons unknown.
He wasn’t even that good, according to eight-year-old me.) (Two weeks later, I’d finally convinced Coach Mittal to let me on the soccer team, even though I’d missed the signup deadline.)
A pouch full of seashells I’d spent four days gluing back together after Adrien had accidentally stepped on them.
Thirteen-year-old Alice had been pretty choked up about it, given she’d spent years on the collection.
There was at least one from every beach she’d ever been to up to that point.
I’d meant to give the pouch back to her, but I’d lost my nerve, convinced she’d take one look at my clumsy glue-work and laugh.
Same thing with the necklace I’d bought for her sixteenth birthday.
She’d been flipping through a magazine at Heathrow while waiting for her phone to charge, paused when she saw the picture of a dainty rose-gold choker, mumbling a barely audible “cute” under her breath.
So I took up tutoring and saved up for a few months…
only to realize, halfway through her massive sweet sixteen party, how laughably naive I’d been to think she’d like it.
By the time she’d opened—and gushed over—the third Cartier bracelet someone’s parents’ assistant had bought and wrapped for her, I’d quietly gathered my gift from the pile and slipped out a back door.
Except my exit hadn’t gone unnoticed. People had started trickling out shortly after, citing the party was “lame.” Alice hadn’t spoken to me for almost two weeks after that one, finally breaking her silence to inform me I desperately needed a haircut because she didn’t want people to think, and I quote, that “she’s the type of person who’d own a mop dog.
Or a yak or whatever the cows with shaggy bangs were called. ”
As a peace offering, she’d taken the initiative to book the appointment for me.
It was a pet groomer. They’d been very confused when I’d shown up not holding a black Silkie chicken named “Dommy with a u.”
Like I said, garbage.
There was a reason I’d left this shit behind.
My jaw worked, a familiar burn dragging through my veins and gathering in the pit of my ribs as I tipped the box, peering inside.
A half-empty pack of cinnamon gum, a worn, water-stained walkie-talkie user guide, the Mortal Kombat game Alice had “gifted” to “me” for Christmas one year after her parents told her she was too young to play a game with that much gore, and an old, broken action figure Alice had mutilated after I beat her at tag.
She’d sawed off his leg with a box of plastic knives at the tender age of seven (her most homicidal and bloodthirsty year, without question), covered the severed limb with hot sauce, and left it on my pillow as a direct threat to me.
When confronted, she’d eyed me up and down like a Victorian-era queen might regard a clown who’d bored her and accused me of cheating at tag.
Because of my growth spurt.
Again, she was seven.
I began dumping everything I hadn’t already trashed back into the box. Shuffling through it had been a waste of time. What I really needed was to talk to Alice.
I was about to chuck the last item into the cardboard and fish my phone out of my back pocket when the base of my palm grazed an odd, unexpected texture.
I looked down at the ancient camcorder, shifting my hand to see a sharp, glossy triangle poking out of the closed LCD screen.
A folded Polaroid picture fell out as soon as I flipped the screen open, and I instinctively bumped it with the top of my foot, bending to snatch it before it hit the ground.
Scribbled on the back, in Robert’s squiggly cursive, were the words: May 22. Prom night. On the bright side, this was the first time she’d slept in almost a week.
Frowning, I peeled the film apart. The photo showed Alice curled up on the upholstered sofa in my mom’s old bedroom, a small yellow device clutched to her chest. She was sleeping, her cheeks stained with dried tears and mascara, and her forehead pinched like she was having a bad dream.
Wearing my soccer hoodie.
A bear trap snapped shut in my chest. I thumbed the edge of the picture, staring at it for far, far too long.
“Something’s not adding up” may have been the understatement of the fucking century.
After carefully slipping the picture into my wallet, I turned my attention back to the open screen of the camcorder, where Robert had stuck a PLAY ME label. I ripped it off and did as I was instructed, my heart attempting to suffocate me by obstructing my airway.
The scene was instantly recognizable. Alice and Robert sitting side by side on a telltale burnt-orange couch, surrounded by a variety of plants within a custom-built, sheltered patio where they used to film their videos. Though I didn’t think I’d seen this one yet, just based on the raw footage.
I certainly didn’t remember editing it.
Or ever seeing Alice look so… deflated. On or off camera.
“Hello. Welcome to another episode of Gampy’s Gummies, where I eat edibles and answer a variety of questions, some of which you asked, and some of which are better than what you asked,” Robert started, shoving at the thick frame of his glasses.
“But first, we have some sad news to share. Dominic, our trusted camerakid, is no longer with us. He’s not dead; he’s just choosing to spend this time studying for his upcoming exams instead.
It should be noted that he has not received a single grade lower than an A minus since the second grade.
“But don’t worry, because my lovely granddaughter, Alice, who, coincidentally enough, has not received a single grade higher than an A minus since she swapped her take-home math quiz with Dominic in the second grade, has no such concerns and will be with us for the full duration of the video.”
At this, Alice snorted a weak laugh, covering her face with her script. A smile pulled at my own lips. Robert remained stoically in character, though I could have sworn his shoulders relaxed when Alice laughed.
“Anyways, before Dominic left us, he did inform me that the channel has officially reached 189 subscribers, which means I’ll be culling the list again.
I can’t deal with the demands of being a social media sweetheart on top of maintaining my New York Times crossword streak.
Some of you are bots, and some of you are real people, but that’s a sacrifice I’m willing to make.
Please don’t come back to watch these videos after you’ve been deleted.
My views keep going up, and I’m rather irate over it.
Now, without further ado, let’s get to the questions. Alice?”
Alice cleared her throat, but her voice still came out an octave quieter, less confident than I was used to from her.
“Okay, our first question today is from Isnoozetolose22. ‘Hi, Robbie (can I call you Robbie?). I would start off by telling you I love the show, but I know how much you hate that. So I’ll just get to the point: I’m thinking of getting an African gray parrot. Good idea or bad?”
“Well, considering that Maxwell shit in my coffee this morning and I didn’t realize until my grandson—who’s visiting us for the first time in over four months—almost fell off his chair laughing, I would say bad idea. And do yourself a favor and skip the grandchildren while you’re at it.”
Another weak giggle from Alice.
“Next question, this one from Goosevomit. ‘Dear Gampy. I’m writing to you from Calgary and just wanted to say I’m your biggest fan! I’ve been culled from your subscriber list 3 times! My question for you is: can you drop the skincare routine?” Alice’s smile widened. “You do have great skin.”
And just as Robert started prattling on about the anti-aging benefits of “not being racist,” Alice’s attention drifted to something off camera, and what little joy there’d been in her eyes instantly disappeared.
She cleared her throat, tucked a loose piece of hair behind her ear, and fixed her eyes down on her notes. Her entire demeanor shifted into a shy, almost embarrassed sort of defensiveness I couldn’t reconcile with my memories of her.
Then Robert said, “Oh, look who’s back early. Hello, Dominic. Did you forget someth—”
The footage cut off, the screen going pitch-black before lighting up again. This time, Robert was facing the camera alone. He was sporting the newer pair of glasses I’d seen on him today.
“Did you see it yet?” he asked the camera. “I’m guessing not, seeing as how you’re still here. Let’s try again, shall we? And this time, try to get your head out of your ass and actually pay attention.”
The original footage rolled again. I scanned the setting, the background, listening more carefully. But I still had no idea what he was talking about.
The video cut off at the same spot.
“Still haven’t caught on? Need it spoon-fed? Here.” With an angry scratch at his mustache, he held up a printed still shot of the video, capturing the moment when Alice was just about to tuck her hair behind her ear. “Corporate wants you to find the difference between this picture and this one.”
The second image was a twin copy of a picture that made my blood run cold. A pair of jade earrings, a diamond bracelet, and a vintage Rolex tucked inside the dashboard of my mom’s old Hyundai.
My shoulders tensed, an instant rush of fury tinting the edges of my vision an unnatural red. Her hand was right there, holding the dashboard open while she snapped the picture with the same Polaroid camera Mom had gifted her for her seventeenth birthday.
“News flash, Dumbass,” Robert snapped, shoving the images closer to the camera, forcing the lens to refocus. “They’re the same picture.”
What the fuck was he on about? The old man had lost it if he thought these two had anything…
And then I saw it.
And my mind went black.