Chapter 25
Twenty-two years ago
I’m eight years old.
Dad left on Tuesday for a book convention, and Mom’s at the office, as always. Which means I’m stuck with Beth.
She’s splayed out on our living room couch like a corpse, one leg draped over the armrest, licking the cream out of an Oreo—my Oreos.
Crumbs litter her shirt and nest in her frizzy red perm like dandruff.
Three rows of cookies are already gone. She’ll probably finish the last row too. She always does.
She’s watching The O.C., or one of those awful grown-up shows where everyone’s tan and crying about something. On my TV.
I sit at the kitchen island with my journal, waiting for the show to end so I can watch SpongeBob. The minute the credits roll, I hop down and grab the remote.
“What are you doing?” she snaps, digging a fingernail into a pimple on her cheek.
“I’m turning on SpongeBob. You said I could watch when your show was done.”
“Oh, no. There’s a bonus episode tonight. So it’ll be another hour. Sorry.”
She snatches the remote out of my hand, flips the channel back, and pops another Oreo into her mouth, humming through the crumbs like some smug little vacuum.
She says “Sorry,” but her lips, curved around a fresh Oreo, hold a self-satisfaction that belies the word.
I slap the Oreos off the table.
Crumbs scatter, and the plastic tray skids across the hardwood. Her eyes widen. The remote slips from her hand.
“You little brat,” she shrieks.
I grab the remote and run.
“I’m telling Mom you said that!” I yell as I bolt upstairs.
“Oh no you’re not!”
Her footsteps stomp up the stairs behind me. I race down the hallway, tears already pricking my eyes, and fling myself into my bedroom. I try to slam the door, but she jams her foot in the frame.
We struggle for a second—me pushing, her pushing back—until she overpowers me and shoves it open. Her face is cherry-red, her chest heaving.
“Give. Me. The remote.”
“No!” I scream and kick her in the shin.
She yelps and grabs her leg, and I seize my chance. I dive into the closet and slam it shut behind me.
Pitch-black surrounds me, except for a thin sliver of light on the floor. Dust floats in the air. My clothes sway gently from the impact, brushing my cheeks and hair. The space is tight. I can’t even raise my elbows.
I hear her footsteps, and I brace myself. I grab the handle and yank backward as hard as I can. She tugs from the other side.
The doorknob rattles violently.
Then…
Silence.
A soft click. She’s locked it.
“Fine. You wanna play in the closet? Go ahead. Play in the closet.”
Her footsteps vanish down the hall.
“Beth?” I whisper.
No answer.
“Beth?” My voice shakes.
I turn the knob. Nothing. It won’t budge.
I pound on the door. “Beth! Please! I’m sorry! You can watch your stupid show!”
The air thickens. My breath shortens. The closet shrinks around me.
The odor of dust and old shoes invades my nostrils. Clothes press against my face. A scarf slips loose and lands across my eyes, trapping me in velvet darkness. I swat it away, but it clings like static. I can’t breathe.
My arms flail, knocking coat hangers and winter jackets. A scream claws its way up my throat, and I let it rip.
“Beth, please! Let me out!”
Still nothing.
I cry hard now, panicked, snot running down my face, throat raw. Dropping the remote, I curl into a ball and shake.
Then I hear footsteps. The click of the lock.
The door swings open.
Beth stands there with an Oreo halfway to her mouth, her lips curled into a smirk. She’s vibrating with triumph. She doesn’t say a word. Just pulls the door wide.
I tumble out and collapse on the floor, sobbing, gasping for breath, the air hitting my lungs like winter.
She stands above me. “The remote.”
I point into the closet, still hiccuping. “I dropped it…”
She sighs and steps inside, bending to look.
That’s when something takes over. A spark in my chest that burns through my body, taking over my movements.
My hand grabs the doorknob and slams it shut behind her.
My fingers turn the lock. I watch from outside myself, in disbelief at what I’ve done.
The pounding starts immediately. “Very funny. Now let me out,” she yells.
“No!” I shout in a deep voice, not my own. “Now it’s your turn.”
“You’re gonna be in so much trouble!”
I press my back against the door and close my eyes.
Her fists pound. Her voice shrieks. Then pleads.
Then cries.
And something in me…quiets.
A voice inside me whispers. A voice that knows I’ll get in trouble but doesn’t care. That’s in control. That says no.
I don’t know how much time passes, but eventually I return and decide it’s enough.
I unlock the door.
But when I try to open it, it won’t budge.
“Beth?”
“LET ME OUT!”
“I’m trying. It’s stuck.”
“Don’t lie to me.”
“I’m not.” I yank the door harder. Nothing.
Beth screams louder, her voice hoarse and quivering.
I run downstairs and call my mom.
She gets home thirty minutes later and uses a screwdriver to jimmy the door open. Beth stumbles out of the closet, face blotchy, eyes swollen. She looks at me like I’m something inhuman. Like a monster.
She turns to my mom.
“I’m done with her.”
And storms out.
Her words strike a nerve. I’m done with her. Like I’m a piece of trash she’s discarding. Heat rises in my chest.
I want to scream: She started it.
But instead, I just fold in half and cry.
My mom kneels down, pulls me into her lap, strokes my hair, kisses my cheeks.
“It was an accident,” she whispers. “It’s not your fault. Mom will make it better.”
And I believe her because I want to.
I need to.