The Night Sister

“Relax, Margot,” Piper said, squeezing her sister’s arm. She had to be the big sister here, the right kind of big sister, the kind she’d seen in movies and read about in books. The older sister who was selfless, wise, who knew just the right thing to say. She owed it to Margot, to the baby, to do the best she could.

Margot leaned back against her pillows obediently, but her face was set stubbornly. “You do know. So we have to figure out what really happened up at the motel and what it means.”

“We? You’re not figuring out anything,” Piper said. “You’re going to do what the doctor and Jason say and stay in bed and watch cooking shows and read articles about proper breastfeeding technique and cloth diapers versus disposables.”

“Right. Which means it’s all up to you,” Margot said, eyes glittering.

“And what exactly am I supposed to do?”

Margot bit her lip. “Maybe you can talk to Amy’s daughter.”

“What makes you think the kid will talk to me at all?”

“Jason said she seems really stunned, like she’s in shock still. She keeps repeating her story like a robot. But maybe…maybe if you give her some kind of hint that you know her mother didn’t do this…maybe she’ll open up and tell you what she really saw and heard that night.”

“I don’t know—”

Margot gripped Piper’s hand tight. “Please. Do it for me. And for Amy.”

Piper blew out a breath. She remembered being in the tower with Amy, Amy’s hand gripping her own, pulling her farther back, into the shadows.

“Okay. I’ll try,” Piper said reluctantly. “But if Jason finds out what I’m up to, that you and I are even talking about Amy or her family, he’ll have me on the next plane home—you should’ve heard the lecture I got on the ride here.”

“I know. We’ll have to be careful. Keep everything secret. But we’re good at that, aren’t we?”

Margot gave Piper a bittersweet smile.

And just like that, Piper realized she’d already failed. She was not being the responsible older sister. Here they were, back in their old roles, sharing secrets, chasing trouble: foolish girls once again on a wild-goose chase, Amy egging them on, taunting them, saying: I dare you.





1989





Piper


“Jason Hawke and I kissed,” Amy whispered to Piper. “With tongues.”

“Ew!” shrieked Margot. She leapt up and skated off to the deep end of the empty swimming pool, the wheels of her skates rattling against the pocked and flaking blue concrete. Margot, who was only ten, always lost patience with truth-or-dare when things got good and turned to crushes and kissing. Her hair was in messy pigtails that stuck out from beneath her helmet, and her eyelids were coated with the neon-blue eye shadow Amy had put on her earlier. They’d have to wash it off before they went home or their mom would have a fit. Margot wore the knee and elbow pads Mom had bought for her. She’d bought them for both girls, but Piper never wore hers. She didn’t because Amy didn’t. Amy didn’t even own any.

Amy’s little transistor radio was resting on the edge at the shallow end of the pool, tuned to WQVT, “All hits, all the time.” Guns N’ Roses’ “Sweet Child of Mine” started—one of Amy’s favorite songs. Amy liked any song where the singer poured his soul out—even some of her grandma’s old Perry Como and Frank Sinatra records. Totally cheesy, but somehow, when Amy sang along with them, she made them seem cool.

“What was it like?” Piper asked, leaning closer. Amy smelled like Love’s Baby Soft and strawberry lip gloss. She had on a tight Ghostbusters T-shirt and ragged cutoffs.