I choose to ignore this, picking up the fork from the sheets and starting to scoop rice into my mouth. It’s obviously the end of the pot—too few chickpeas, oiler than normal—but I can’t complain since I’m getting special treatment. Plus, since I walked out of school before lunch, I haven’t had anything to eat since this morning.
My sisters watch me eat, showing no signs of leaving. Nora looks around the room greedily, a burglar scouting her next score. I don’t know why she thinks that my stuff is any better than what’s in her and Izzy’s room, except that she doesn’t see it quite as often. I slide the iron rose under my pillow. I don’t want her getting any ideas about taking it. Riley needs it to live, and I worked hard stealing it for myself.
“I need a favor,” I say, swallowing hard and wishing I had something to drink. Bits of rice and chickpea skin cling to the back of my throat. Dad must have cooked tonight; he never shucks the chickpeas. “Can you catch seven to ten moths for me? Big monstery ones. Like from the front porch light.”
I quickly go back to eating, sawing into the chicken breast on my plate and ignoring how the temperature of the room changes. I didn’t think it was possible for my sisters to look at me any harder, but curiosity sharpens their attention. I think if they could, they’d carve my secrets out of me with the side of a spoon like guts from a pumpkin. I don’t think they would like what they found, though. Other than one plan to resurrect my dead friend, it’s mostly sex dreams about Xander and wishing I had cool clothes from Torrid like Aniyah Dorsey.
“Is this for magic?” Nora asks, still too young for tact.
I remember being eleven. At eleven you still tell everyone everything. At eleven I told my whole family how cute Riley’s big brother was and how I wanted to go to Fairmont Academy just like him. I’m sure Nora has told the entire sixth grade that her sister is a witch. I hope it doesn’t get her ass kicked.
“No,” I lie blithely, helping myself to another bite of chicken.
“Mom doesn’t allow magic in the house,” Izzy says. She sweeps her hair over her shoulder and looks toward the kitchen. It feels like a threat.
“That’s why there isn’t any,” I say, my tone cultivated to be the height of blasé. I’ve had more practice than either of them.
Nora has nervous hands, like me, and they fidget and twitch against her stomach. She’s been learning origami, but she presses her seams too tight without checking for clean lines.
“I’ll do it,” she says.
Thank the Goddess. I would let out a sigh of relief, but I don’t want to spew dinner all over my sheets.
I start to say thank you, but Nora cuts me off, pointing at my dresser.
“I want your Moana doll.”
My head snaps toward the precious stuffed pig standing guard over my seldom-used retainers. “My Pua?”
“You’re too old to have so many stuffies,” Izzy says from the door.
“Whoa,” I say. “I don’t police your toys.”
“That’s because I don’t have that many toys,” Izzy says. “They’re for babies.”
“Pretty snarky for someone who put out cookies for Santa last year.”
“I did that for Nora!” she snaps.
“I’ll get your moths,” Nora interrupts, louder than I want. I check the door for signs of Mom or Dad but only see Izzy’s eyes roll. “But I want Pua. You don’t even sleep with it.”
She’s right. And it’s a small price to pay.
“Fine,” I say, heaving my shoulders like this is the greatest of burdens. Nora likes to feel like she’s really triumphed over the rest of us. “But you’d better keep those moths alive until I need them. Make sure they have air and food.”
“Okay.” She skips over to the dresser and yanks down the stuffed pig. Is it my imagination or does he look sad to leave with her? “If Mom asks, tell her it’s for science.”
“It kind of is,” I say to her back as she shoves past Izzy to go put her prize pig in a place of honor in their room.
Izzy hovers in the doorway, watching as I dig back into dinner. She flips her hair to one side. The yellow highlights one of her friends bleached into the black glint in the light from my ceiling fan. I wish the highlights didn’t look so good. They make me question keeping my hair its natural color.
“You waiting to take my plate?” I ask her.
“No.” She snorts and folds her arms over her chest. I know everyone is a snot in the eighth grade, but as the second-born Flores, Izzy has had this too-good-for-everyone attitude from the moment she was born. She has already informed our parents that she has too many friends to follow me to Fairmont next year. She wants to go to Cross Creek High. And, really, good for her. I wouldn’t want to follow me to school either.
“So?” I ask, my cheeks bulging with rice. Not that they need help. Looking at Izzy is a reminder that Mom’s chipmunk cheeks are an inescapable family curse. I could keep two days’ worth of food stored in these babies. “I’m not going to bribe you into not blabbing to Mom and Dad about the moths.”
She casts a sneering look around the room, eyes darting from my Stay Weird poster to the collection of washi tape above my desk to the pile of eyeliner pencils on top of my nightstand. Her gaze finally lands on my rumpled purple sheets. “I don’t want any of this stuff,” she says, before pushing herself off the wall and walking over to me. She reaches into the pocket of her pants and pulls out a black ponytail holder. She holds it out, within my reach.
“Um,” I say, deeply confused. It is not the first time that Izzy has complained about my hair—according to her it’s too long and thick and straight and boring—but it is the first time she has interrupted a meal to insult me. I set down my fork with a sigh. “Thanks?”
“My friend Emma wears one of these when she gets depressed,” she says, the words too fast, like she rehearsed them and her speech isn’t going according to plan. One of her front teeth digs into her lower lip. “She snaps it against her wrist when she starts to feel numb. I thought . . . I don’t know—here.” She thrusts the piece of elastic into my hand. “When you scream—even when it’s into your pillow—it freaks everyone out. Nora, mostly. But also all of us? Just try something else, okay?”
I take a second, the band pinched between my thumb and forefinger. Anger flares in me, as hot and fast as a lighter blazing against a candle wick. Shame sweeps in behind it. I imagine my sisters on the other side of my bedroom wall, hearing every scream and sob of the last week. Mom and Dad forbade me from talking about Riley’s death in front of Izzy and Nora because the topic was “too mature.” I didn’t consider that they might not be scared of death as much as they’re scared of what’s happening to me.
“Yeah, okay,” I say quietly. I roll the band over my wrist. There’s a long black hair attached to it, and I don’t know if it’s Izzy’s or Nora’s. Or maybe it’s mine, a ghost of ponytails past. I pull it off before it can fall onto my plate. As it floats down to the floor, a jolt of inspiration hits me.
I know where to get a piece of Riley’s DNA.
SIX
THE DRIVEWAY AT the Greenways’ house curves up the side of the lawn, the concrete immaculately smooth and wide. It ends under a carport with stone pillars next to a set of double doors that, when open, lead either to the showroom on the main floor or to the morgue in the basement, depending on how alive the passenger is. Today, the gleaming black hearse is missing from the top of the driveway. Mr. Greenway must be out—retrieving or delivering, I’m not sure.
Xander’s car, a silver Honda with a license plate number I may or may not have memorized, is parked beside the neighbor’s red elderberry tree. In the branches, I spot the white fur of Binx, Riley’s outdoor cat. I make a quiet clicking sound to see if I can lure him out of the tree, but his eyes watch me with lazy disinterest. Ungrateful asshole. I’ve fed him so often over the years, even though wet cat food smells like dumpster custard.