Dear Kurl,
I finally woke up at 7 p.m. Merle Haggard was on the turntable, and I could smell Lyle’s spaghetti sauce on the stove. I stood under the shower a long time, letting the water sting my shoulders and back. I had the creepy feeling that the music and the food scents were terrible deceptions designed to disguise the fact that our house was cracked through the foundation and would, at any moment, collapse on our heads. As soon as I descended the stairs, I would see floodwaters engulfing the front hallway. The funnel cloud was just on the horizon, already veering toward us to peel off our roof and toss our furniture into the air like lawn clippings.
Shayna brushed past me when I emerged in a towel from the bathroom. She was dressed to go out: short skirt, crop top, eyeliner.
“How’s the hangover?” I asked.
She slammed the bathroom door behind her.
I stood there facing the shut door, and all at once I wanted to smash it in. I wanted to smash the door, and then keep right on going and smash my sister, too. I wanted to smash Shayna to pieces for all the times she’d shut the door on me, shut me out, shut me up. For doing whatever she wanted, without ever asking me what I thought. For taking whatever she wanted, without asking. For taking you.
“How was it, having sex with Kurl?” I asked.
There was no answer.
“I’m just curious,” I said. I raised my voice in case she wasn’t listening. “Was sex with Kurl amazing?”
Silence. It felt good, shocking her. Shayna didn’t know until just this moment that I’d seen her with you. It felt powerful, wielding that knowledge like a sledgehammer against her.
“Did you plan it for a long time? Or was it a sudden breakthrough? ‘Oh, all I’ve really wanted all this time is to get with Kurl. Now’s my chance!’” I used a nasty soprano voice to imitate Shayna’s voice.
“What are you talking about?” Lyle’s voice behind me made me jump. I had assumed he’d be downstairs in the kitchen, supervising his spaghetti sauce, not up in his bedroom. He had tired pouches under his eyes. “Shay?” he called. “What is your brother talking about?”
“Fuck off, Lyle,” came Shayna’s voice. “It’s none of your business.”
Lyle asked me, “What happened between Shayna and Kurl?”
And just like that, my powerful sledgehammer feeling evaporated. I felt weak and sick.
“What can I say?” Shayna flung open the bathroom door and came out. She stood in front of Lyle and me. “I guess I’m a selfish, fucked-up, piece-of-shit slut, just like her.”
“Like whom?” Lyle said.
“Like Mom.”
Lyle gripped her arm. “Watch your mouth!”
“What are you going to do,” she said, “throw me out on my ass like her?”
He grabbed her other arm and shook her hard, until her head snapped back, then forward. “Shut your goddamn mouth,” he roared.
She wrenched out of his grasp. “Don’t worry; I’ll be fine. Maybe I’ll move to LA!”
Then she was down the stairs and out the front door.
I turned my back on Lyle, stalked into my room, and slammed the door.
“Jonathan?” he said.
“Leave me alone, Lyle,” I told him.
Then I sat down here at my desk and started writing it out, all of it—every terrible thing that happened from the moment I first showed up at Bron’s party until exactly this minute. I’ve been sitting here writing for hours, Kurl. My head is aching, and my injuries are throbbing, and I honestly can’t bear to write another word. But I’m terrified to stop writing, too, because I have no idea what else to do. What do I do next? What do I do now?
Yours,
Jo