None of this mattered, the money, and the stuff, and everything her mom and this Lacey seemed to care about. Brooke sat on the floor of the stupid wedding place’s dressing room. She’d only come because her mother had forced her to. Sisters, her mother had gushed. She’d rather die.
She was sixteen now, just, and wanted with all her heart to walk out the store’s front door and never see any of them, not ever again. She turned another page in her book to make it look like she was really reading. But there was no way to leave. She didn’t have money. She didn’t have anything.
She kept track, every day in her little secret diary, of how many words she said to her father, and how many to her mother. She could not go over one hundred. She had to live with the two of them because she needed food and shelter, and because she wasn’t stupid. But she wasn’t a pawn. They had actively tricked her, actively deceived her, and then, like, thought she’d just accept their murder of her child—because that’s what it was, wasn’t it? The murder of her very child? And their grandchild! Like it was nothing? She could feel herself getting angrier, but that’s not who she would be. She would not waste her energy on parents who thought she was invisible. She would use her power for something else.
She sighed, staring at the capped white toes of her red shoes. She’d loved Liam, though. And now her heart was too heavy to carry in her body. He’d ignored her. Erased her. I love you more than the moon and stars, he’d said. Something like that. But she guessed he had lied to her too. Everybody lied. Liam would never miss her, no matter how much she missed him. She turned a page in her book like she was turning a page in her life. She’d tear the Liam page out, if she could.
But. She thought about, really thought about, what her brother Trevor would do if she vanished. Her parents would get over it, pretend to be sad and then go on with their selfish dumb lies and lives. But not Trevor.
When she was seven and Trevor was twelve, they’d made wishes under their backyard oak tree. Even now she could remember the warmth of the grass and the bumpy tree roots and the sun on her bare arms as they’d sat outside on a strangely warm March day, trying to find four-leaf clovers.
“Found one!” she crowed. “And I wish—”
“Don’t say it out loud!” Trevor stood, looking down at her, with his too-long hair and his dopey Star Wars T-shirt. “You can’t say your wish out loud, midget.”
“Can too,” she insisted. “And I’m not a midget. I wish we could stay here forever, just you and me. Be like, you know, in Narnia. And you could protect me, be my big brother forever.”
“You’re so weird,” he said. “Okay, then, you’re a smidgen. That’s smaller than a midget. And there’s no Narnia. That’s a dumb wish.”
“Is not!” She’d jumped to her feet, standing her ground. “I swear on this clover we—”
“You can’t swear on a stupid clover, smidgen.”
She pouted, almost cried, because you could, and then Trevor had found a clover too.
“Found one!” he said, holding it up. Then he’d shaken his head in what she now recognized as affection. “I’m your big brother anyway, Smidge, you don’t have to wish that.”
He’d teased her forever, after that, and did all the dumb stuff like short-sheeting her bed, and pretending he didn’t like her in front of his cool friends, which drove her crazy, and even telling her she was adopted since she came so late, which was not true, totally not, and her parents had reassured her that it was just a brother thing and to ignore it. And she did, because Trev loved her, he truly did, and she was his Smidge, and now he was getting married to Lacey, who was so full of herself Brooke wondered why she didn’t spill out over the edges.
But somehow Trevor loved her, whatever that meant, and he personally had asked Brooke to be a bridesmaid.
Not Lacey. Who she tried to stay away from as much as humanly possible. Easy enough because it seemed like all Lacey did was put on makeup and fuss with her hair and change clothes. At least Brooke wouldn’t really have to deal with her much. She and Trevor were moving to Washington, D.C., right after the wedding. He’d told her that too.
She slid the envelope out from between the pages of The Lovely Bones, the book’s cover bent and battered from its travels in her backpack, and looked at the letter from Trevor again. She knew the letter by heart, but seeing his words, all misspelled because he was probably typing so fast, made her hear his voice, talking to her.
Smidgen, it said. She heard him saying that, especially. You are such a rock star, and I know you think I’m nuts for getting married, but someday you’ll understand what love feels like. Lacey is great, and you two will be great together, and you know I’m not much for words, but you’re terrific. Even for a kid. Even for a dumb sister. Kidding! Ha ha.
So anyway, I’m not leaving you, even though we have to move to D.C. Don’t tell Lacey, but I’d rather stay home with you all, but marriage is compromise. I learned that, too. And we’ll see you, I know we will, and now, Smidgeroo, one big favor.
And then he’d asked her to be a bridesmaid and do whatever they do, I know, it’s girl stuff, and you’re not much for that, but I promise it’ll be great.
She was doing this for Trevor, and Trevor only. And she would save this letter forever.
Lacey was preening in front of the big mirror now, acting all happy and bridey. Brooke knew, or maybe she just wanted to know, that Lacey was a bitch. She tucked the letter away. But maybe it was simply that Lacey had everything, like her brother and a future. And Brooke had only sadness. And hopelessness.
No. She had plans. She closed her book, staring at the cover, a book about a girl who died, and then watched how her family dealt with it. Now Brooke had to deal.
She’d have to live at home until college. No way out of that. Then she’d go to school somewhere far away, and untangle herself from her hideous murdering lying parents as soon as she could.
She’d seen on TV, from an old Star Trek from before she was born, where Spock told Captain Kirk a Klingon proverb that said “Revenge is a dish best served cold.” She’d asked her dad what it meant, and he’d told her to look it up. Now she understood. It meant she didn’t have to hurry. In fact, it was better if she didn’t hurry.
She watched the performance in front of her: silly Lacey, all googly and puffy in that ridiculous dress. Her mother having another pink drink and pretending it wasn’t vodka.
Brooke was sad, a little, that her brother had chosen this life. To live like their parents lived, and to be like they’d wanted her to be too. But she would never be that. Not for real.
When she was a little girl, she’d trusted them. Even the times when she didn’t want to do what they told her, she secretly believed they were right. They had cared for her and were trying to do what was best for her. But this time, what they’d done wasn’t best. What they’d done was worst. She thought about what happened after her own mother gave her those disgusting horrible murder pills. Horribly horribly worst.
But they’d also done this to themselves. And they’d be sorry.
As soon as Brooke could make sorry happen. And she was patient.