I open it up and am only mildly surprised to see a needle, spoon, and stretch of elastic nestled in with a slender bag of snowy powder. Zelda was always going to try heroin eventually. This part of the world is having a minor opiate renaissance: Rich white kids get hooked on Oxy, and heroin is a cheaper fix. I wonder if Zelda waited until I was gone or if she was using before. I’d like to write off her whole dalliance with Wyatt by that simple explanation: She was high. But that wouldn’t be the whole story. I’m unwilling to think about the whole story. In fact, I never want to think about it again.
Heroin isn’t what I’m after, though. Zelda always said that deep down I was conservative, timid, that I would never live wildly, even though I fancied myself a bohemian. I resented it then, but she was right. I’m surprised that my search for Xanax comes up empty. That used to be one of Zaza’s favorite come-down drugs. Instead, I settle for a Valium, which is almost as good. She has lots, probably lifted from my mother’s supply. There is a zip-lock bag filled with them, clearly labeled with a Sharpie. I swallow two, take off my clothes, and crawl into her bed, waiting to fall asleep. The exquisite prandial sun is beating violently down on the white tin roof of the trailer, and just as I’m drifting off, I imagine I can hear it sizzling, crackling, scorching.
9
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: Irritating, right?
June 24, 2016 @ 3:00 PM
Inimitable, Impeccable Ava,
Having fun yet? I bet you are, in your heart of hearts. You always liked to pretend that you were above games, that you couldn’t stand manipulation, wheeling, dealing. Sordid political jousts for power. You mocked Wyatt in high school for his fondness for winning, for getting first place. Do you remember when he wanted to run for student council and you virtually forbade it? He was crushed, but he did everything you asked him to, as always. He was such a good, obedient boy. Until you left him and he thought you weren’t coming back.
Have you caught on yet? Have you figured out what’s happening? You’re a sharp, clever girly, so it’s not impossible. But if I had to guess (and I have to, since I obviously can’t just pop up and ask you), I’d bet you’ve been too single-mindedly blotting out consciousness to have paid really close attention. But I’ve given you time to process and mope; from now on, you’ll have to focus harder and figure out what I’m up to. You’ll stumble across the rules of the game eventually, I’m confident. But here’s a nudge, to get you to the next step: What’s the thing you’ve always been the most afraid of?
I know your thoughts have immediately leapt to that old juvenile fear, the titanesque sturgeon ruffling their extra-large gills along the bottom of our lake, and I recognize your yawning, primordial terror, I do. Remember when we went out in the rowboat with Dad? And he began spinning his tall tales? (Ever the fabricator, our pops!) This one involved something about industrial runoff from Cornell creating these marine dinosaurs that had developed a taste for human flesh. You wouldn’t even know they were beneath you and—bam! They’d nibble off your feet or maybe swallow you whole. Your face went totally pale, and you begged and begged us to paddle to shore. And then, laughing mischievously, Dad dumped you into the water, just picked you up by the torso and chucked you in. You screamed and screamed, splashing in terror, and Marlon almost relented because it looked like you might drown. You pulled it together, though, and you swam, furious and panicked, back to the rocky banks of safety, storming off to the house without a backward glance, looking like a miserable drowned rat. You refused to speak to us for nearly a week. Silence always was your favorite weapon. You never remembered that I swam after you.
But, no, I don’t mean the sturgeon. What is the thing that you’ve feared and avoided your whole life long, that you’ve scampered away from at every opportunity? Another hint: I don’t think it’s coincidental that you’re irrationally afraid of a cold fish.
When you figure it out, you’ll know where to look.
Your inspired, innovative, indefatigable sister,
Z is for Zelda
—
I roll out of Zelda’s bed feeling groggy, as well as deeply annoyed. Zelda’s trailer has turned into a sauna. I’m surprised she doesn’t have an air conditioner down here, though not entirely: Zelda loves extremes. I’ve napped for several hours, and my hangover is largely dissipated, though Zelda’s most recent communiqué has left me feeling nauseous and irritable. Goddamn her. I don’t want to play her fucking game. But it’s too late. I’m already all in, and she knows it. She understands that the reason I never played games is because I have to win. I am my mother’s child, and I can’t handle defeat. Zelda is fully aware that she’s enticed me to play, and now I can’t let it go until I’ve figured her out, found her, looked her in the eyes and told her that I know her BEST, that I GET HER. Which, of course, is how she will win too. Zelda never plays a game she’s not certain of winning.
As kids, we were always wary of playing against each other, of competing; someone else was always on the opposing side. We refused to beat each other. For us, no card games or long rainy days filled with Monopoly or chess. Whenever there was a game of tag or capture the flag at a birthday party, we were always on the same team, and we would win. No matter what. Zelda once chipped a little girl’s tooth, refusing to be taken prisoner in capture the flag. During one obsessive summer, she got her hands on an old Nintendo and played The Legend of Zelda alone in her room—she was fascinated with the heroine who bore her name, and at some point she wanted all of us to call her Hylia. She wouldn’t let me near the game.
Once, disastrously, we played Scrabble. We were in ninth grade. So certain was I of winning, with my clever, bookish brain, that I sat down in front of my sister with nary a qualm. I excelled at school, got fabulous grades and glowing reports from teachers, while Zelda terrorized them and turned in homework on a schedule that could only be described as capricious. Confident of my success, I agreed to a dangerous bet, certain that I wouldn’t have to honor it. Zelda played a lackadaisical first few words (harp, try, gasp) until I was lulled into complacency. She then swept back into the game with dazzling ease, tossing down big scorers (gherkins, blowzy, and, distressingly, za). I challenged this last word, which she had slapped on a double letter score, only to meet Zelda’s smug expression as she handed me the dictionary.
“There’s no way you could have known this is a valid Scrabble word,” I pointed out, trying to get a handle on my rage. I was realizing just how effectively she had played me.