Luna crawled over to the door, trying to decide whether to speak or keep hiding. The threat hadn’t fully arrived. She could at least answer and buy some time.
“No moon for me,” said Luna, her mouth a kiss away from the doorframe. Despite her name, or because of it, Luna was willfully indifferent to planets beyond Earth.
Luna thought she sounded normal.
“But what if it’s the last moon?” said Casey.
“Fuck the moon,” said Luna.
Casey heard it that time, the wobble in Luna’s voice, the precipice of tears. Casey wasn’t going to leave now, no matter what kind of moon the sky had to offer.
“Open the door,” Casey said.
Luna tried to ignore her. Casey began knocking. Quiet, steady beats like a woodpecker on the job.
“I can do this all night,” Casey said. “I have titanium knuckles.”
Casey wouldn’t stop. Of that, Luna was certain. She scrambled to collect the letters spread across the floor and unlocked the door. Luna crawled into the small empty space between her bed and her dresser. She snatched the near-empty bottle off the floor and pulled the blanket from her bed. She covered herself and her hate mail with it.
“Thank you,” Casey said, entering the room. She shook her right hand, which stung from the pounding. “As it turns out, I don’t have titanium knuckles.”
Luna said nothing. She uncapped the bottle and drank, even though she was already feeling queasy. Focusing on her physical discomfort seemed far superior to the sick shit that was going on in her brain.
“Gimme some of that,” Casey said, mostly to get the bottle out of Luna’s possession.
Casey took a couple of heavy swigs. She never made a face after drinking booze straight. When Luna wasn’t overcome with dread, she would marvel at Casey’s strong disposition.
“This isn’t about Ted. I know that,” Casey said.
“No,” Luna said, extending her hand for the bottle. She didn’t so much want to drink it as hold it for comfort, like a degenerate’s teddy bear.
“I can keep a secret like no one else,” Casey said.
“How about Mason?” Luna asked. “Can he keep a secret?”
Casey had been spending some time with Mason. The fact that his name came up when Luna was clearly distraught caused her some concern. This, whatever had caused Luna’s turmoil, couldn’t possibly be about Mason.
“What does Mason have to do with anything?” Casey said, her voice on guard.
It was all going to come out anyway, Luna reasoned. She wanted to be the one to tell Casey, if Mason hadn’t already.
“He knows my secret. I thought maybe, because you two are—what are you two?”
“That’s still to be determined,” said Casey. “Well, I guess he can keep a secret, if that means anything to you.”
“Good to know,” said Luna.
Casey was, by nature, a patient person. She sat with her hands folded, resting her eyes, until she heard papers shuffling. She turned to Luna, who handed her a yellow and battered newspaper clipping. It was a piece about the murderer John Brown. Casey had a vague memory about the trial, or at least about the second one. Casey skimmed the piece, her memory refreshing. Luna was always referred to as the sister.
Luna searched Casey’s eyes for that look—the hate, the horror, the realization when someone discovers they’ve been sharing space with an accessory to murder. Technically, an accessory after the fact, although Luna couldn’t be that generous with herself. But Casey gave away nothing. She was trying to imagine what she would have done in the same situation. She couldn’t answer honestly. No one can.
“Say something,” Luna said.
Casey crawled next to Luna and got under the blanket with her. “That’s a hell of a thing to live with,” Casey said.
“I got pretty good at not thinking about it,” Luna said.
“So, what happened tonight?”
Luna felt under the bed for Owen’s phone. She checked it again. Not another word from Scarlet. “Scarlet knows.”
“How?”
“Don’t know,” Luna said. “She’s been texting Owen. Wants to tell him about me. But I have his phone and I deleted her messages. Which was stupid. She’s going to tell everyone now.”
“The hell she will. Let’s call her,” Casey said, scrolling to Scarlet’s number on Owen’s phone.
“Don’t,” Luna said.
“Too late,” Casey said, as she pressed the SEND button.
Luna vomited in her trash can while Casey listened to Scarlet’s phone go to voicemail.
“Hmm, maybe she’s over it,” said Casey, ending the call.
“Doubt it,” Luna mumbled.
Casey got up, dropped the phone on Luna’s desk, and pointed at the trash can. “You done?”
“Yeah.”
“I’ll be right back,” Casey said.
It was past two a.m. when Luna next checked the time. Scarlet’s discovery had retreated in her mind. Front and center was a spinning room, which felt like a horrible ride she’d taken at an amusement park years ago. You stood inside a round chamber and it spun faster and faster, flattening you against the wall. Even if you wanted to vomit, the centrifugal force would likely keep it inside you.
Casey returned with water and crackers, which Luna devoured by the fistful.
“You look like Cookie Monster,” Casey said.
Luna heard only the word monster.
* * *
—
Owen woke to a loud banging on his door. He checked the clock by his bed: nine a.m. Saturday morning, if he remembered correctly. It was socially acceptable to sleep until at least eleven on a Saturday or Sunday.
“Come back during business hours,” Owen said.
“Scarlet, are you in there?” said a female voice, which Owen identified as either Amber or Bobbi.
Owen tossed the covers over his head. He thought they would go away if he ignored them. They did not. There was knocking and more knocking. Female voices shouted Owen’s name, then Scarlet’s name.
“Maybe he’s out,” said Pete, Owen’s RA.
“He just told us to go away,” said A or B. “This is important. Do you have the key?”
There was further conversation, which Owen couldn’t decipher. Then another knock landed, duller but more powerful.
“Owen, open up,” said Pete.