Page 34

Every now and again, for the next month, she caught glimpses of herself.

Sometimes, they were in the reflection of Barrett’s television screen in his living room as he positioned her fingers over the guitar strings. Or even in the slowed spots of time when their eyes met and she could make out her silhouette in his dark irises.

Occasionally, it was in the mirror in Toni’s garage as the band practiced song after song and she curled up on a beanbag they’d brought over for her to sit on.

And every so often, it was through the hazy smoke coming from her mouth, whether it was by the quarry, outside her house, or anywhere else she could find.

She could feel the blood rushing through her again, could smile without it hurting.

Paulie once said she looked like she’d gotten tanner. Barrett would smile, and her heart would pound through her whole body—evidence that she was alive.

Most of the time.

The rest of the time, on those dark weekends when she was sitting in her room alone, she was back to that shell. No better than a corpse.

She wanted to scratch it off of her. Find something beneath it. Something that wasn’t so hollow.

The only thing that filled that shell when there was no one else was that smoke and that booze.

The weekends were deafening. She wanted banging drums and strumming guitars, and Barrett’s jokes and laugh. But it was silent.

It was maddening .

And each time hurt worse than the last, taking her higher and higher and dropping her back to earth harder and harder.

But paper was what killed her.

Paper was what sealed the deal on a Sunday afternoon at the end of September.

Fragile, worthless, sheets of paper, folded up and stuffed into the trash with the words: 6-Month Anniversary of Gemsburg Girls’ Deaths .

Living.

How dare she?

Her father’s whiskey had her slumped on the couch, barely able to hold her head up at 3 p.m.. Everything else, she had ran out long ago.

The couch was not her first choice, but there was nowhere else to go. She couldn’t even escape on her bike far away enough, stuck within city lines.

She was vaguely aware of a door opening and the heavy footfall of church shoes. There was a pause and quickened pace, then she was lifted up like a child and rushed out of the living room into her bedroom.

She opened her eyes as a wave of grief and alcohol subsided long enough to catch a look.

Her father stood above her, still dressed in Sunday best, his brows furrowed, and he took in her half-conscious appearance. He closed her door and laid her down.

“Daddy?”

He flinched. “What have you done to yourself?”

She blinked slowly, trying to make out his expression, but all she got was a soft blur of blond and a frown. She couldn’t feel enough to worry about the punishments and reprimands.

In the background, another door opened, and the clack of kitten heels on tile signaled her mother. Her father stilled, then relaxed as it passed by her bedroom door, mumbling something about her mother not finding out.

It wouldn’t be strange for him to check on Nell since she’d already claimed to be sick earlier that day to avoid having to face all those faces in church.

She closed her eyes again, unable to bear the light coming in through the window.

A hand brushed over her forehead.

“I don’t know what to do,” she mumbled.

The hand disappeared, and she heard a deep sigh. She was wrapped in something soft and cool, tucking her into the final lull of the alcohol.

“None of us ever do, sweetheart. That’s the problem.”