Rain

Twenty-four hundred.

I take the last bottle of prenatal vitamins out of the plastic Huckabee Foods bag and place it on the floor of my tree house next to the others.

Twenty-seven hundred.

I don’t know how far along I am, but I’m guessing that two thousand seven hundred prenatal vitamins is more than enough to get me through.

I slump back in my beanbag chair.

If Wes had seen me, he would have been so proud.

And so pissed.

I smile, remembering how mad he got the last two times we went to Fuckabee Foods. He told me I was “impulsive” and had a “death wish.”

Yeah, and he got shot in the shoulder because of it.

My face falls.

And I let the wound get infected.

I pull my hoodie sleeves over my hands and press my fists against my mouth.

And then he almost died in Carter’s house fire because I rushed back in to get his medicine and he couldn’t find me.

I close my eyes and inhale through my nose. My sweatshirt smells like the vanilla candles I used to burn in my bedroom. The ones he brought with him when he came back to get me from the mall.

It’s all I have left of him now. These memories … this smell …

My stomach churns again, reminding me of one more thing he left me with. Something that, unlike a scent or a memory, will only grow bigger and stronger with time. Something that, God willing, I’ll be able to keep forever and ever.

My gaze drifts over to the spot across the yard where the red dirt is piled up in two neat rows as long and wide as coffins. The spot where the people who made me now lie. I stare at it for what feels like hours, waiting for the panic to come—the grief I’ve been running away from ever since that night—but it doesn’t.

All I feel right now is the still, silent, soul-crushing weight of acceptance.

I climb down the ladder and trudge across my backyard, picking my feet up high as I wade through the knee-high grass. The sun is directly overhead now, but it’s shady under the oak tree where Mama and Daddy are buried. I realize once I get over to them that I don’t know which is which. Wes buried them while I was passed out on the bathroom floor. The mound on the left looks a little bigger, so I decide that that one must be Daddy. I turn away from him and face the mound on the right.

“Hi, Mama.”

A squirrel peeks out at me from behind a branch.

“I don’t know if you know this, but … I’m gonna be a mama too.”

A bird chirps in response.

“I probably won’t be as good of one as you”—I ball up my sleeves in my fists—“but I’m gonna try.”

The wind chimes I made in art class tinkle and twirl.

“I got vitamins today … prenatal ones. And fruits and veggies, too.” I beam through my sudden tears. “Aren’t you proud of me?”

A gentle breeze whips around me, ruffling my hair like one of Daddy’s noogies.

Silent tears stream down my face, but I don’t fall apart. I wipe my runny nose on the sleeve of my sweatshirt and tell my parents what I came over here to say, “I love you guys … I’m so sorry they did this to you.”

The moment the words leave my heart, I feel a little bit lighter. Not because the weight of my grief has lessened—I don’t think it ever will—but because I’m carrying it differently now. It used to feel like a ball and chain around my ankle, but now, I’ve picked it up and put it on like a backpack.

I feel a little bit stronger.

A little bit more capable.

And for the first time in days, I feel really, really hungry.

I don’t want to leave them. I don’t want to go back into that house with those people and all that stuff that isn’t mine, but I have to start thinking about more than just myself. Everyone I’ve lost has a chance to live on through this baby. Their blood flows in its tiny veins. If I can bring it into the world safe and sound, I might even get to see them again.

The baby might have my mother’s mischievous smile or my father’s button nose. I might be able to gaze into Wes’s pale green eyes again or run my fingers through his soft brown hair.

My heart skips a beat as I turn and head for the back door.

Water. I need water. And a can opener. And a spoon.

I jiggle the handle and sigh when I realize that it’s locked. Of course. I knock on my own damn door and wait for someone to let me in.

Seconds later, I hear the click-clack of the deadbolt. The door swings open, revealing one squeaky-clean Carter Renshaw wearing nothing but a pair of loose athletic shorts, as shiny and black as his sopping wet curls and bruised eye.

“There you are.” He tries to smile but then hisses as his fat lip splits open again. He dabs the cut with his finger and steps aside to let me in. “We were looking for you everywhere.”

“Really?” I deadpan as I walk past him into my dining room. Their dining room.

The sight of Carter with his shirt off used to instantly turn me on.

Now, it just pisses me off.

“Where were you? My mom made pancakes.”

My mouth waters instantly as I pass through the doorway into the kitchen. The aromas of pancakes and sausage and coffee fill the air. My eyes land on Mrs. Renshaw, drying her hands on a dishtowel as Sophie wipes down the counter.

“Well, good mornin’, sunshine.” She beams, turning to face me.

I’m shocked at how different she looks. She must have found a wig in the wreckage of their old house because her hair is suddenly sleek and shoulder-length, like she used to wear it, and I swear she even has on mascara. Her dress is ironed. Sophie’s, too. And they’re both wearing probably every piece of jewelry they own.

“Rainbow!” Sophie cheers, bouncing over to give me a hug. Her plastic bracelets rattle with every step.

I mechanically wrap my arms around the girl and glare at her mother over her head. It’s the first time I’ve seen Mrs. Renshaw since Wes was taken yesterday, but my urge to stab a utensil in her eye is put on hold when she grins and lifts a plate in my direction. My stomach growls out loud when I see what’s on it.

“How did you—”

“When life gives you a box of Hungry Jack, runnin’ water, and a freezer full of thawed deer sausage, you make breakfast! And lucky for us, y’all had pancake syrup!”

Sophie releases me and skips back over to the counter to get me a fork and knife from the drawer.

“Thank you,” I say to Sophie instead of her mother, accepting the cutlery as Mrs. Renshaw’s sparkling eyes land on her son.

“Carter, why don’t you keep Rainbow company while she eats?”

The intention I see in them makes my stomach turn and my jaw clench but not enough to keep me from devouring this food.

I walk back into the dining room with Carter on my heels and sit down without acknowledging his presence. Not that he even notices. He plops down across from me and begins rambling on about everybody he saw at Burger Palace last night.

“Yo, you remember JJ, right? From the football team? That motherfucker is swole now. He was standing right out front, sellin’ steroids and workout videos! Can you believe that shit? And I swear to God, I saw Courtney Lampros blowin’ somebody between two parked cars. I’d know that fake red hair anywhere.”

Yeah, I bet you would.

I swallow my last bite without even tasting it and hear someone begin talking even louder than Carter up in the living room.

“Good morning. This is Michelle Ling, reporting live from inside the Fulton County Courthouse.”

My fork clatters onto my plate as I dart up the five or six stairs to the living room, where Mr. Renshaw is sprawled out on the couch with his poorly splinted leg propped up on the coffee table, messing with the remote control. He points it at the TV, mashing buttons with his knobby thumb in vain.

“Gotdamn it! I was right in the middle of watchin’ Hillbilly Handfishin’! Now I ain’t gonna know what happens!”

“We are hours away from today’s public execution—”

“Then why in the hell are you interruptin’ my show now?” Mr. Renshaw barks, chucking the now-worthless remote onto the coffee table.

“But we are going to start bringing you even more exclusive, behind-the-scenes footage from the capitol as Governor Steele works tirelessly to enforce the new law”—her face is sallow and lifeless, and she sounds as if she’s reading from a script, no doubt prepared by the governor himself—“beginning with the first-ever televised sentencing.”

Michelle Ling sweeps an apathetic hand out beside her and pushes open a massive wooden door. It swings wide, revealing a courtroom as big as a grocery store and as empty as church on Monday.

There’s no jury.

No plaintiffs or defendants.

No witnesses waiting to be called forward.

The pews are all vacant, except for a few uniformed officers.

And there, standing next to the raised wooden judge’s podium, is a tall, slender, bald man I recognize instantly as the bailiff from the executions.

Upon seeing the camera, he adjusts his uniform, lifts both hands as if he’s about to conduct a symphony, and shouts, “All rise! The honorable Governor Beauregard Steele is presiding.”

The two officers in the front row stand as Governor Steele breezes in through the doorway behind the bailiff. He’s wearing a black judge’s robe, but he left it wide open in the front to accommodate his sizable belly, and the sleeves are about three inches too short.

“Be seated.”

The chair behind the podium squeaks loudly as Governor Steele sits and taps the tiny microphone in front of him, “Ladies and gentlemen, I declauh that the Georgia State Superiuh Court is now in session. I hereby call to order the case of the People Versus …” Governor Steele shuffles a few papers around on the podium until the bailiff comes over and whispers something in his ear. “Wesson Patrick Parkuh!”

He slams his gavel down, and I feel the blow directly in my own chest.

No. No, no, no.

“Bailiff!” He swings his gavel in the direction of the man on his right with the enthusiasm of a game show host. “Bring out the accused!”

I’m no longer in my body. I’m not even in my living room. I’m in the back row of that courtroom, clutching the smooth wooden bench in front of me so hard that my knuckles turn white as the bailiff pushes through the door behind him and reenters the room, dragging Wes by the elbow.

My Wes.

The camera zooms in on his beautiful face, and thanks to the power of HDTV, I can count every black eyelash as he stares at the floor, every stubborn strand of hair that refuses to stay tucked behind his ear, and every worried crease in his lips as he chews on the corner of his mouth. He’s right there. Larger than life. So close I can touch him.

So, I do.

I step toward the TV as Mrs. Renshaw and Sophie and Carter come running up the stairs. Wes’s eyes stare back at me the moment my fingertips graze his cheek, but they’re not happy to see me.

They’re downright hateful.

“Rainbow! Get away from there!” Mrs. Renshaw snaps. “Jimbo, don’t just sit there! Turn that godforsaken thing off!”

“I tried, Agnes! They’re broadcastin’ it on every damn channel!”

“Well, try harder!”

“Your Honor.” The camera cuts away from Wes and over to the judge’s stand, where one of the police officers in the front row is now addressing the governor.

I yank my hand back and stumble away from the screen.

“The accused has been charged with violating the one and only true law, the law of natural selection, by procuring and administering life-saving antibiotics to a mortally wounded citizen. The evidence will show that an open bottle of Keflex was found at the scene of the crime with the accused’s fingerprints on it, and the accused was identified on sight by an eyewitness. I motion to find the accused guilty as charged.”

Governor Steele leans back in his chair and folds his hands across his stomach. “Very good then. Very good. Does the, uh, defense have anything to say?” He turns a beady eye on the second officer in the front row, who stands at attention and violently shakes his head.

“Jimbo! Turn! It! Off!”

“I’m tryin’, woman!”

“Very well then.” Governor Steele nods at the mute officer in approval, and his chair squeaks loudly as he leans forward and breathes into the microphone. “Mistuh Parkuh …”

The bailiff drags Wes over to the judge’s stand, but Wes doesn’t hurry. He crosses the courtroom on long, lazy legs, taking his time as the bailiff jerks on his elbow. With his hands cuffed and ankles shackled, he still manages to make that orange jumpsuit look cool as he stands in a carefree pose before the governor. Wes, the Ice King. He only acts that way when he feels threatened. It makes me want to reach into the TV and hug him from behind. Wrap my arms around his waist and rest my cheek on his back, like I used to when we would ride through the woods on his dirt bike.

Back when we thought the world was going to end.

Right now, I wish it had.

“Mistuh Parkuh, in the face of such irrefutable evidence, I hereby find you guilty of defying the one true law, the law of natural selection. You shall be sentenced to death by public exe—”

The screen goes black as Mrs. Renshaw yanks the plug out of the wall behind the TV stand.

“There!” she huffs, smiling at her son’s busted face. “Justice is served. Now, let’s all get back to enjoying this beautiful—”

I lunge. One look at Mrs. Renshaw’s painted red lips, spread in a wide smile, and I see red everywhere. I let out a primal, soul-deep scream as we both tumble to the floor, synthetic hair and synthetic pearls flying as I wrap my hands around the neck of the woman who single-handedly took everything from me that April 23 hadn’t already claimed.

“Rainbow! What the fuck?”

“Stop it, Rainbow. You’re hurting her!”

“Gotdamn it, child! Get offa her!”

Mrs. Renshaw’s eyes bulge out of her face, but I only squeeze harder, unable to stop myself even if I wanted to. Her arms flail, slapping, clawing, and tugging at my arms and wrists, but I’m too far gone. All I hear is her voice over and over in my head.

“Justice is served!”

“Justice is served!”

“Justice is served!”

I jerk her neck after every declaration. Just as her arms go limp and her eyes roll back in her head, I feel a pair of hands as big as dinner plates wrap around my waist and lift me off of her lifeless body.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Carter shouts as he jerks my arms behind my back, tangling them in a knot so tight I feel like the slightest move might break my shoulders.

Mrs. Renshaw comes to with a gasp, blinking and panting as she rubs the red marks around her neck.

Sophie picks up her mother’s lost wig and kneels by her side, gently helping her sit up so she can place the nightmarish thing back on her head.

“What in the Sam Hill has gotten into you, child?” Mr. Renshaw asks as he hobbles over to help his wife stand.

Smoothing her dress over her wide hips, Mrs. Renshaw adjusts her wig and levels me with a lethal stare. It’s the same look she saved for the really bad kids back when she was an administrator at our high school.

“Carter, Sophia … tie her up.”