Page 41 of Play Nice

Daphne leads me to the kitchen. She rips off a few paper towels, runs them under the faucet, and hands them to me. Then she opens the freezer.

“There’s nothing in here except for an empty bottle of vodka,” she says.

“It’s not empty. There’s a little bit left.”

Now, now Leda uncovers her eyes, looks at me. It’s not a good look.

“Does it hurt?” Daphne asks. “You’re already bruising.”

“I think it’s broken.”

Leda sighs. “Do you have health insurance?”

“Yes, I have health insurance.”

“She’s still on Dad’s.”

“If she apologizes, maybe,” Leda says.

“Why are you two here?” I ask, leaning back against the counter, holding the paper towels under my nose to absorb the blood. “How did you know I was—”

“You’re livestreaming,” Daphne says. “You’re on Insta Live. People are calling me, asking if it’s a joke, if you’re okay.”

“I’m not on Live,” I say. “I’m not. I didn’t…I’m not…”

If I say it enough times, maybe it’ll be true.

I move to go get my phone, which I’m pretty sure I left downstairs, but Daphne holds me back.

“Wait,” she says. “I’ll go get it.”

She leaves, and in her absence there’s just me and Leda and the tension between us.

Leda starts opening and closing the kitchen cabinets to have something to do.

After a minute, she says, “Dad saw. I’ve never seen him so upset.”

“Dad saw what?”

“Your Live. Amy showed him,” Leda says. “I mean, you’re clearly inebriated. Stumbling around, muttering to yourself, looking for something that isn’t there. Isn’t here.”

“Stop. Just stop,” Daphne says, rushing up the stairs, setting my phone screen down on the counter. “This can’t be what it is. We love each other. What are we doing? What are you doing, Clio? You’re not okay.”

“No, I’m not. And I’m not allowed to not be okay.

I have to be okay. I have to be pretty and fun and together and nice to look at and good to be around.

But I’m not any of those things anymore.

Because I have this problem . Because I’m having some trouble .

And no one believes me—they just think it is me. ”

Daphne pushes her hair out of her face, tucks it behind her ears. “I’m sorry.”

“We’re here, aren’t we? Here for you.” Leda says. It’s obvious from her tone that Daffy talked her into this. She didn’t come willingly, didn’t volunteer.

“Please,” Daphne says. “Come back to Dad’s with us. We don’t need to talk about any of this shit right now. Let’s just be together. It can’t all be for nothing.”

“What do you mean?” I ask. I pull the paper towel from my nose. It’s soaked through crimson. I nudge Daphne out of the way so I can throw it in the trash.

“We didn’t suffer all this”—she gestures around—“as kids to grow up and, like, hate each other.”

“Hate?” I ask.

“We should probably take you to urgent care,” Leda says, wincing at the sight of my face.

“What’s that?” Daphne says. She moves toward the saloon doors, pointing.

She sees it. The smiling face on the wall.

Leda turns around, and the two of them exchange a look.

“I didn’t do that,” I say. “The demon did.”

If they stay in the house long enough, maybe it’ll show up. Maybe it will say hello.

“Um, okay…” Daphne says.

“What’s this?” Leda goes through the saloon doors. I think she’s going for Mom’s book, but she goes for the lighter. “Why do you have this?”

“I was smoking. Cigarettes, like a true degenerate.”

Leda scoffs. “Do you realize how traumatizing it was for us to watch you hurt yourself? We were helpless then. And I resent that you’re making us feel the same way now.

You don’t give any consideration to our feelings.

You act out, and there’s nothing we can do.

And then you do the Mom thing. You point to something to blame, something that no one can see but you, and when we question it, you freak out. ”

“I can’t see it. I can only hear it. In the house,” I say. “And you said, ‘Mom.’?”

“What?”

“You didn’t say ‘Alexandra.’ You said ‘Mom.’?”

She picks up Demon of Edgewood Drive and stares at the cover. She ignores what I said, starts flipping through the pages of the book.

“What do you mean, you hear it?” Daphne asks.

“It communicates,” I say, going out through the saloon doors and pointing to the wall. “At first, without a voice. Then with a voice. One time.”

“Do you recognize how that sounds to us? Do you—” A door slams somewhere in the house. “Wait. Fuck. Is someone else here? There was another car in the driveway.”

“Connecticut plates,” Leda says.

Right. Roy.

I reach up to my face, gingerly feel my nose. The pain is nuclear. A mushroom cloud erupts between my eyes.

“I called Roy,” I say.

“ Roy is here?” Leda asks.

“I can’t find him. That’s who I’ve been looking for. Not the demon.”

Another door slams. Startled, Leda drops the book.

“What do you mean, you can’t find him?” Daphne asks. “That scumbag is somewhere in the house slamming fucking doors, trying to scare us.”

“That’s not him, Daffy.”

“Meet me halfway. It’s the middle of the night, and I came here—to this place I never wanted to be ever again in my life—to come get you. We’ve already been through hell. Don’t drag us back through it.”

“Wha…what?” Leda says, distracted by something. She steps to the side to look down the upstairs hall. She narrows her eyes. “He’s in our room.”

She storms forward. I follow her.

“He isn’t,” I say. “I looked. He’s not in there.”

“He is. He’s opening and closing the door,” she says, throwing her arms up as she makes her way to the end of the hall, to her childhood bedroom. I look behind me, and Daphne stands at the other end of the hall, her shoulders hiked up to her ears, arms crossed in front of her like a shield.

She’s afraid.

Leda might have gone to Harvard, but Daphne’s the smart one.

“Roy!” Leda goes for the knob, but she doesn’t need to. The door flies open. The lights flicker off and on and off and on again.

The twin beds are stood up vertically, headboards on the floor, legs against the wall, with the mattresses perched precariously on top, stretching up toward the ceiling. They frame the word carved deep into the wall.

HOME

Leda grips the doorframe, leans forward.

Daphne comes up behind me. “What…”

“Roy!” Leda says, stomping into the room. She spins around to the closet. It’s open, and it’s empty. “He did this. He’s the one drawing on the walls. Not the demon. He exploits vulnerable people. That’s what he does.”

“Fair point. He does exploit people. But he didn’t do that,” I say. “He didn’t—”

I’m interrupted by banging.

Leda pushes past me and Daphne, barreling down the hall. She stops dead in her tracks.

“Leeds?” Daphne calls out, her voice tinny.

Leda, the most rigid person I know, collapses to the floor as if her bones have dissolved inside her skin. Just to witness it is so unnerving, I experience a sudden wave of nausea.

The banging continues, the pacing of the noise more and more chaotic.

Daphne grasps for my hand. I give it to her and allow her to drag me forward toward the puddle that is our sister.

We make it to her and see what she’s seeing. The kitchen cabinets fly open and smash shut. There’s no rhyme or reason, no cadence, no pattern.

“See?” I whisper, my chest swelling with gratitude, with affection. It’s showing them. It’s proving itself. “See?”

“This is…” Daphne says.

Leda gets up and staggers into the kitchen, closing each cabinet as soon as it opens, just for it to open again. Her face goes red. “It’s a trick! This is…there’s a machine somewhere. Roy. Roy put it in. He…Where is it?”

She goes on mumbling, attempting to rationalize the irrational. Now she’s the one opening the cabinets, but they close before she can look inside.

“We should get out of here,” Daphne says.

“Do you believe me now?” I ask her, more smugly than I intend.

“I…” She shakes her head. “I think…Leda? Come on. Stop that.”

Daphne steps into the kitchen. She reaches for Leda, trying to pull her away. But Leda is obsessive, and now that she’s intent on figuring out the mystery of the cabinets, she will not be dissuaded.

Her platinum bleached hair has come loose out of its tight bun. Her neck breaks out in red splotches that match the violent hue of her face.

“Leeds,” Daphne says, gripping her arm.

Leda smacks her. Backhands her across the face. It might have been an accident, but it doesn’t matter.

The cabinets slowly, simultaneously close themselves. The house is quiet. The demon quiet.

Daphne holds her face. “You hit me.”

Leda should say something. She should apologize. She really should. But she doesn’t. She just stands there breathing like she just ran a marathon.

“You fucking hit me!” Daphne pushes her.

“Hey!” Leda says, shoving her back.

Daphne’s hip collides with the kitchen island. She groans in pain. “What’s your problem?”

“I didn’t even want to come here!” Leda shouts. “You made me.”

“I asked you! And not because I wanted to. Because if I didn’t, you’d bitch about how you were left out because you’re so deeply insecure about being the least favorite sister. Because you are!”

Leda lunges forward, grabbing Daphne’s hair. Daphne tries to wriggle free, untangle Leda’s fingers from her curls, but Leda’s relentless. Daphne kicks her shin, and still Leda doesn’t let go.

It’s shocking to watch. We’ve never gotten physical with each other like this before. Not even when we were little.

“Let go of me!” Now Daphne’s got Leda’s hair. Clumps are coming away in her hands. “Stop!”

I hear the laughter. It’s so loud it shakes the house. But Daphne and Leda don’t notice, and a sudden understanding cuts into me.

The demon isn’t doing this for my benefit, isn’t revealing its presence to my sisters to vindicate me and Mom. It hasn’t been communicating with me because it likes me, wants to engage with me, get my attention and give it in return.

It’s doing it because it wants to. Because it’s bored. Because it enjoys watching us suffer.

Our suffering is entertainment.

I’m only its favorite because I’m game, down to play. Because I’m a good pawn. The easiest. The most fun.

“Okay, yeah. Enough,” I say, hurrying into the kitchen to break them up. I wedge myself between them. “Enough.”

I catch a stray elbow to the side of the head, and everything disappears.