I brought the tops of my knees to my chest, feeling the thing inside lessening, leaking out of me like a slow drip. My shoulders sagged around me and my feet slid down heavily. “I’m fine,” I murmured. “I want to be alone.”
“Come on, Arlene,” Dad said in a low voice. “She just needs some time.”
I could hear Mom hesitate, as if she was about to say something more, and then the soft sound of their footfalls as they made their way back downstairs. I lay down flat on the floor and stared up at the ceiling. A pulse inside my head throbbed like a wayward electrical cord. My chest hurt. Even my fingertips hurt. I closed my eyes, as if the action might ward off the pain, but it did nothing except make the room darker. I kept them closed. Dark was what I wanted.
When I opened my eyes again, it was black outside. I glanced at the clock next to my bed. 4:45 a.m. A wind rustled through the leaves of the trees outside, making a low, whistling sound against my window. My cell phone blinked and buzzed on my dresser. I picked it up and flipped it open. Seventeen missed calls. All from Zoe.
I pushed the off button and threw it on the floor.
Outside, the wind blew mournfully, trying to get my attention. Purple light, fragile as an iris petal, hovered behind the trees outside. The throbbing in my head had dimmed to a dull ache. I got up to get a drink. The floor creaked beneath my feet. Just the sound of the rushing water made me wince. The water itself felt like a thick sliver of ice inside my parched mouth. I drank for a long time, and then went back to bed.
Maggie.
I hadn’t dreamed that, right? Had they really told me I’d had a sister once, years ago, who had died? A real person they’d somehow—and purposely—kept from me for seventeen years?
“When you were born, Julia, it was like we’d been given another chance at life. We wanted to make things as perfect for you as possible.”
Perfect for me?
Or perfect for them?
Was there a difference?
Maggie. I couldn’t get the name out of my head. Maggie. Short for Margaret, I guessed. There was no face to attach to the name, no visual to flood my head. The only baby I’d ever known in my life was Goober. Little Goober, who had a face as red and wrinkled as the skin of a pomegranate when she’d been born, whose blue eyes were so dark they were like looking into deep water.
What had Maggie looked like when she was born? Had she been a peanut like me? Tall and skinny like Sophie? Black hair? Blue eyes? Maybe she had looked like Goober. I didn’t know.
I didn’t know!
I hadn’t been told.
I’d been kept out for some reason, left outside the inner ring.
Maybe that was what some people called protection.
Me, I just called it lying.
A sharp rapping on my door a few hours later woke me up.
“Julia?” It was Dad. “You have a visitor. Please get up now and come downstairs.”
I peered at the clock. 11:06 a.m. “Who is it?”
“Zoe,” Dad answered.
“Tell her I’ll call her later.”
The sound of Dad’s footsteps descended down the steps. I could make out just the faintest sound of conversation between Mom, Zoe, and Dad. God only knew what they were telling her. Probably that I got food poisoning or something at the party last night, which was why I was still in bed. There was the sound of pounding footsteps suddenly, and then a sharp banging on the door.
“Julia!” Zoe yelled. “Let me in! I have to talk to you!”
I slid out of bed, wincing as my feet touched the bare floor, and opened the door a crack. Zoe was dressed in blue jeans that she had cut off at the knee and a bright yellow T-shirt, emblazoned with the question what’s your problem? on the front. A tiny gold butterfly barrette cinched a lock of hair against her forehead. She raised her eyebrows as I opened the door a bit more, and then strode into the room.
“What?” I asked.
“What do you mean, what?” Zoe glanced around slowly, as if looking for contraband.
I lifted my arms and then let them fall heavily against my sides. “Zoe, you just came running up the steps, yelling and screaming that you had to talk to me. What’s wrong?”
“I want to know why you ran off last night.” Zoe planted herself on top of my bed, crossed her flip-flops at the ankles, and leaned back on her palms. “I texted you like eighty times, but of course you didn’t answer. Now what happened?”
“Nothing happened.” I grabbed my robe off the back of the door and tied it tightly around my waist. “You know I hate parties like that. I just wanted to leave.”
“That’s bullshit, and you know it.” Zoe lifted her knee and began to examine her toes, which were painted the same bubble-gum pink as her fingernails. “Come on, Jules. Spill.”
“Can you please leave? It’s…” I looked around, bewildered. “God, what day is it?”
“Friday,” Zoe said nonchalantly.