Eighteen
My fight with Blue hangs heavy over us at dinner that night, poisoning every course. The polite clatter of silverware against porcelain fills the silence, and I push green beans around with my fork until I can finally escape to my room.
“I saw Grandpa today,” Momma says, valiantly trying to carry the conversation. “I’ll have y’all know that they’ve made a new CSI—I think it’s in Montana or one of those square states, and I’m now aware of every single case during the first season.”
I look up, throwing her a bone. “Montana? Is it all horse-smuggling rings, and oil-millionaire murders?” I grasp for another option. “What’s in Montana, again?”
Momma shrugs. “I think they’re banking on none of us really knowing.”
“Fancy that.” Blue smiles between bites of mashed potatoes. “We’ve found something that Marlowe doesn’t know.”
“I don’t know why you’re being so nasty today,” I retort.
“You’re being nasty.” She scowls, a smear of potato collecting in the corner of her mouth.
“Girls,” Momma warns, eyes narrowing between us both. “What is going on with you two tonight?”
I smile back, a blank slate. “Nothing.”
Stu coughs, trying to resuscitate the conversation. “Anyone have any fun plans this weekend?”
Blue sits up straighter. “I was hoping to go to Becca Hightower’s cabin in the mountain this weekend. We’re going to bake, do puzzles, hike, and—”
“—and hang out with boys,” I finish for her.
Her face purples and she chokes on a green bean.
“Is that true?” Stu asks. “Are her parents going to be there?”
“Yes,” she says quickly. Her expression is thunderous, and she tells me with her eyebrows that I better shut my mouth.
“Nope,” I say blandly, cutting another piece of chicken.
“You think you’re so smart,” she hisses across the table. “You think you know everything, but you don’t, and you just want to make everyone as miserable as you are.”
I’m fully aware that snitches get stitches, and the venom in her voice means that she thinks I ratted her out over jealousy and not concern. You’re older. Be better. I’m so tired of this anger settling between us, and I’m starting to worry it’s going to become permanent.
“I went to this party last year,” I say slowly, keeping my gaze steady on hers. “I know what goes on there, and that there wasn’t a single parent or rule to be found.” I blush a little, turning to Momma and Stu. “You can ground me if you like, and I should have called when I saw how bad it could get, but I spent most of the weekend taking care of more than one person who was flirting with alcohol poisoning.”
I grimace, turning back to Blue. “You want to talk miserable? Try spending the weekend in rubber gloves. I’m not your enemy here. That cabin is bad news, and I’m always going to try to protect you.”
“I don’t need your protection,” she grinds out. Her face is flushed, and she refuses to look at me. “May I be excused?”
“No,” Stu says, looking between the two of us. “Y’all are on kitchen cleanup until you can work out whatever this hatefulness is between you both.” He pushes his plate toward Blue. “You should listen to your sister; she has a good head on her shoulders.”
I sigh, leaning forward and collecting his plate and mine. He gives me an encouraging nod, but he’s already made it ten times worse.
We barely make it through the door to the kitchen before she lets loose.
“You can’t even help yourself, can you? You always have to be so smart, and so perfect, and you can’t leave anything for me.” She dumps her plates in the sink and spins around, her cheeks wet.
I’m stunned. I’m so far from perfect, it’s a joke. In fact, I narrow my eyes at her, looking for the irony. The insult hidden beneath. “Are you making fun of me?”
“What?” Her voice wavers, and I catch her so off guard, she forgets to yell.
“There is not a single thing about me that’s perfect,” I say flatly. My brain, my relationships, my mismatched-size feet, or anything in between.
“Poor Marlowe,” she says, finding her second wind. “Perfect grades, perfect skin, perfect fancy college that you’re going to get into and leave all of us behind. Boo-hoo.”
“You want to talk about perfect?” I meet her volume, our angry words ricocheting across cabinets. “You’re Momma 2.0! How am I supposed to compete with that? They never even bothered to ask if I wanted to do pageants or equestrian camp.” I absolutely did not, I think I’m allergic to hairspray, and horses will literally bite you in the face, but that’s beside the point. “You’re the perfect daughter she always wanted; one exactly like her. You’re probably going to be prom queen, and I can’t believe you have the balls to pretend you’re jealous about anything that I have.”
I’m angry, and hurt, and my breath is so rapid and shallow I feel lightheaded. I wait for the next volley of abuse from her side of the island, but she deflates. And when she starts to cry in earnest, I feel my own eyes start to well.
“What’s wrong?” My voice catches. “Bluebell?”
She shakes her head, and slides to the floor, and it takes me about ten seconds to join her on the black-and-white marble.
“Hey,” I say, softly. “Talk to me.”
“I don’t even care about pageants,” she wails.
I scoot closer, massively out of my depth. “Okay? That’s fine.”
She hiccups. “I don’t even know if I want to cheer anymore.” She swipes at blotchy cheeks and refuses to look at me. “What if I want to play soccer?”
I have whiplash from this entire conversation, but I manage another “Okay?” I brave the likely rejection and wrap an arm around her. “So quit the squad and play soccer. I promise I’ll come to your games.”
She pulls in a ragged breath. “And tell Momma that I want to quit? She was captain of the squad.”
I feel a few tears drop against my arm and pull her closer. I’m not a smart girl. If I were smart, I would have seen my baby sister getting smothered under all these expectations I’d so readily refused to carry. These characteristics and talents that I thought made her a perfect River Haven girl, and all the while a small part of me had resented her for it and never bothered to ask if she even liked it.
“Momma would understand,” I say, firmly. “She just wants you to be happy.”
“I’m not good at anything else, though.” She sniffs, rubbing her face on her sleeve. “My grades are average, and nobody’s going to care if I’m just me.”
That pitiful “me” almost sends me over the edge, but I squeeze her until she looks up at me. “I’m sorry,” I say, voice wobbling. “I should have checked in with you more. I thought all of this was effortless to you, and that you loved it.” I shake my head. “You’re so talented and strong, it’s hard to remember sometimes that you’re just fourteen.”
“Almost fifteen,” she says, narrowing her eyes. Her bottom lip starts to wobble again. “And I think I’m failing geometry.”
“That’s an easy fix,” I say, pulling her to her feet. “I’ll tutor you. You’re going to pass geometry, you’re going to find a hobby that makes you happy, and you are enough without any of these other clubs or medals or trophies.”
“Easy for you to say.” She looks down, her sock tracing the edge of the tiles. “I’m sorry too, about Josh. All my friends want to hang out with his group, and I didn’t think you would care.” She finally meets my gaze. “I promise they’re not talking bad about you or anything, you know I would tell you. It’s just that I couldn’t really choose—”
I wave her off. “I don’t care about that. I don’t want my breakup to force you into anything, I just want you to be careful. When he dumped me, every single one of those people just went back to pretending I didn’t exist. I want you to ask yourself if that’s the type of friends you want. If those are the type of people you want to surround yourself with.”
She nods, looking uncertain for the first time, and I can’t help remembering how easily she used the word “freak” only hours before. How some, or all, of those people stepped on Spencer so easily, and his only crime was being good at something he loved.
“I want you to promise me that if you ever see something that feels wrong to you, that you won’t sit on the sidelines and pretend it’s not happening. That you will say something or do something.”
I don’t expect a blood oath, or her to really listen to my warning, but when she finally speaks, I believe her. She doesn’t blink, and slips her sticky hand into mine. “I promise, Marlowe.”