Page 34

Sistine

Age Seventeen

“ I t’s my big eighteen, and we’re stuck inside for it.” Atta was lying on her bed, layers of clothes on, even a hat, one leg propped on the other, staring at the ceiling, rocking slowly back and forth on her back.

“We can watch movies, listen to music, eat more cake,” I suggested.

She laughed. “You love to eat.”

I laughed with her. This was true.

“I told him I would meet him. What if he thinks I’m uninterested because Mamma refuses to let me go?” She turned toward me. “In America, eighteen is the legal age, you know. I shouldn’t need permission!”

Zia Bianca had told Atta she was not to meet the guy named Rattler.

I had met him once and did not like the way he looked at me.

I could tell he was not worth Atta’s time or her heart, even if it was only a crush.

I did not like this word that was supposed to represent what was supposed to be sweet.

“Crush” implied someone getting hurt. I did not want it to be my cousin.

She and her family had been through enough hurt, with her grandfather, father, and uncles all being taken in a car accident not that long ago.

“Perhaps she is just trying to protect you,” I whispered.

She shrugged. “I can take care of myself, Sis. I’ve been doing it for the last couple of months.

” She shook her head. “I need to feel something other than hurt. I’m…

starting to feel numb. Like when you sit on your leg too long and have to shake it to get the feelings back.

I need to shake my life up. I need to feel… happy, just for a little while.”

She became quiet, staring at the ceiling again, and I left her room, going to the kitchen, cutting two slices of cake and pouring two glasses of milk.

On the way back to Atta’s room, I passed Hannah, who had a thick quilt around her shoulders.

It was winter, yes, but I had never seen her keep one around her shoulders nonstop before.

I passed Zia Bianca, who, even though she had told Atta no about going out, was walking the halls as if she was lost in them. Ty was in his room, music blaring.

We had all sung to Atta, but after, the main house felt as if it had turned into a ghost house. A chill floated in the air that was not there before.

Atta’s room was empty. The smell of her lingering perfume reminded me of a ghost itself. She left a note on her bed for me.

Sis,

Going to meet Rattler. I’ll leave the keys in my truck if you decide you want to meet us. You know our secret spot.

Atta

I sighed, making me a spot on the floor, watching television and eating both pieces of cake, finishing off both glasses of milk.

My eyes started to droop, probably from the sugar, and I fell asleep.

I did not sleep well, and before I knew it, I had to relieve my bladder from all the milk.

When my narrowed eyes checked the time on the bedside table, it surprised me to realize three hours had gone by.

It was late into the night, the house completely quiet, except for the creaking ghosts.

Atta was not home yet.

An uneasy feeling swirled in the pit of my stomach.

I bundled up. It was December, and the roads were not visible, only thick snow. It fell in layers, except for the swirls twirling in the wind. I padded out, sounding like a ghost myself, and found Atta’s truck parked closer to the guest cottages.

She often parked there. I wondered if it was because she did not want anyone to hear her leave. It was rare for Zia Bianca to check on us at night, but the starting of an engine might be heard.

Four tries, and the truck refused to start. I wondered if it felt as frozen as I did. Even with layers, my teeth chattered. My hands felt glued to the steering wheel, the gloves almost feeling useless.

Finally, the ignition turned, and I put the truck in gear. Smoke billowed from the exhaust pipe, and it took miles, it seemed, for the heater to start pumping out warm air.

The warmth did nothing to melt the tension in my chest. Atta needed to feel happy, but she had never stayed out this late. She had a curfew, and even if she was not listening to Zia Bianca, I knew she would not have broken that. Or, at the very least, not stayed out this long.

Visibility was slim, the headlights barely touching the roads, only highlighting the swirls of snow.

I tried to rush but take my time at the same time.

My eyes cut to the area where Atta and Ty’s grandfather, father, and uncles had died in the accident, and a feeling colder than the weather, one of heartbreak, hit me, followed by a rush of panic.

My foot hit the gas, and the truck seemed to complain to me, grumbling some.

A faint smile came to my face when I remembered the last time I had heard it do that. When Zio Bear had taught me how to drive. He also taught Atta and me how to change a tire. He had always been impressed with how well I could shoot a gun as well.

I reached underneath the seat, feeling for the gun Zio Bear had kept in Atta’s truck. My hands were as heavy and stiff as ice blocks, and I was not sure if what I was feeling was the gun or the holder.

I sucked in a breath and swerved when something darted across the road, righting the truck before I crashed.

I would wait until I arrived at my destination to search for the weapon and hide it on myself.

I was wearing so many layers, even the seatbelt strained.

It was still cold, even with the heater.

Or perhaps my exposed nerves made me feel the chill bone deep.

Perhaps Hannah was right. It was hard to find warmth on the ranch, or anything to do with it after the deaths of the men who had seemed to keep the fires burning.

A sigh of relief escaped my mouth when I found the spot Atta had been talking about. An old barn she had shown me on one of our drives. It was somewhat off the beaten path and a place Rattler told her he used for parties and to hang out.

The truck bumped along the frozen dirt, rocking from side to side, my hands instinctively gripping the wheel.

My eyes narrowed as I tried to find signs of life.

The door was cracked open to the decrepit barn, and I found movement.

One of Rattler’s brothers was standing by the door, smoking a cigarette.

The cherry glowed red, and a line of smoke drifted against the darkness.

I was not sure what their real names were. I only knew that their family owned a cattle ranch. A wide creek separated their property from Watt Ranch.

The four brothers were almost identical looking. I was not sure what nickname belonged to which brother. I only knew the one who went by Rattler. Atta thought he was cute. I was not so sure. He had mean eyes.

He was dangerous, and perhaps this was what made her feel when nothing else could, not after she had lost so much.

Rattler’s brother narrowed his eyes against the truck when he noticed the lights. I turned them off, but the element of surprise was gone.

I should have turned them off.

Should have parked at the entrance of the drive.

Walked it by foot.

Hid in the brush around the barn, holding the gun from underneath the seat, picked them off one by one—if I only knew.

It was too late for me to go for the gun by the time Brother One had reached the truck, knocking on the window. He had already alerted the other three. Another one was standing guard by the door.

He made a motion for me to roll it down.

I did, only a crack. “Where is my cousin?”

He smiled at me, a smoky breath coming from his mouth. It smelled like smoke. “ Where is my cousin? ” He mocked my accent, smiling after. “She’s entertaining us.”

“It is time for her to come home,” I said. “Her mamma sent me to get her.”

His laughter barreled out. “That girl snuck out to meet Rattler.” He went to open my door, but it was locked.

“Open the door, Italy. Your cousin’s not coming out until you do.

And don’t even think about going for that piece of justice underneath the seat.

Bear kept them in all his vehicles. Once bitten twice shy. ”

My hand was curled around the handle to the door. My eyes kept flickering from Brother One to the barn door.

“You’re thinking too much, Italy. Open the door. Or Atta Girl doesn’t come out.”

“She’s not coming out anyway. I’m going in.”

“Yeah,” he almost sang. “You can give her a break, from the, uh, entertaining.” His smile spread slowly, and then he winked at me.

I flung the door open so fast and hard, it hit him, pushing him back a step or two.

He was not expecting it. I took the opportunity to turn, reach underneath the seat, going for the gun.

My fingers were frozen, hardly able to bend, so numb, I was not sure if the pain came from frantically searching for the gun, or something else.

It was something else.

Brother One had me by the hair, yanking me backward. My boots dragged the ground as he hauled me toward the barn. I refused to fight, to give him what he wanted, and when I opened my mouth, the threat came out smooth, calm. “I will kill you for this. Just wait and see.”

“What’s that, Italy?” He pretended to put his ear closer, as if he had not heard me. The top had a chunk of cartilage missing. “Say it again, but this time in English.”

Had I spoken Italian? I was not sure. My panic could have been coming out in not the usual ways.

It was the same as the anger and hurt I would feel when my sister would always get her way even when she was not right.

I had found that my system took in situations that caused me stress and translated them into ways that did not always make sense, such as the laughter when the situation was not funny.

I cleared my throat, my scalp on fire from his grip. “I will kill you for this. I vow it.”

“ Ohhh , you vow it, little girl? What are you going to do? Make me bad pasta?” He laughed at himself, the sociopath.