Was she fucking serious?
“And most important,” her dad quipped, “no fun.”
Only Caitlin giggled. Her mom studiously ignored the crack.
“When you’re under our roof, you’re our responsibility,” Kim continued. “I expect you to abide by our rules.” Hannah felt humiliation burn her cheeks. God, the woman was uptight. Thankfully, her mom turned to leave, but then she paused. “And don’t try sneaking any boys in.”
“How could we?” Hannah sniped. “There’s not even a door down here.”
“I just want to be clear.”
“You’re clear!” It came out pissier than Hannah had intended and she felt a frisson of fear run through her. Kim stared her down for a moment, and Hannah knew what to expect: a lecture on appreciation, on being grateful that her parents were letting her have four friends sleep over, buying them pizza and sodas and cake, and, in return, expecting nothing but a little respect for their rules. She knew the speech was circulating in her mom’s head. But she also knew there was a slim ray of hope that she wouldn’t humiliate Hannah, in front of her friends, on her sixteenth birthday.
Kim’s voice was cool. “Great . . . We’ll be upstairs if you need anything.” She exited, leaving a subtle guilt trip in her wake. Her dad made a “Heil Hitler” salute to her departing back, but the girls were too on edge to do more than smile.
When they were gone, an awkward silence hung over them. Finally, Ronni reached for her soda. “Fuck.”
Lauren reached for a piece of pizza. “Your mom is scary.”
“She’s not that bad,” Hannah tried. “She’s all talk.”
Caitlin’s voice was thin. “If she catches us . . .”
“She won’t,” Hannah snapped. Caitlin could be such a buzzkill sometimes. Maybe Hannah was outgrowing her oldest friend?
Marta spoke in a hushed voice. “We’d better not do anything until they’re asleep. In case they—”
Lauren interrupted with a fierce “Shhhhhhh!”
In the abrupt silence, they heard the feet on the stairs and then Hannah’s dad hustled into the room. Hannah looked up and caught his eye: a mischievous sparkle. In his hands, he held the cake box from Tout Sweet. Under his arm, was a paper bag with a bottle inside.
“Unlike some people,” he said, as he set down the cake box, “I remember what it’s like to be sixteen.”
He pulled a bottle of champagne from the bag. It had pink foil around its glass neck and a fuchsia stiletto on the label. Hannah felt a rush of love filling her chest. “Thanks . . . ,” she said, her voice hoarse.
“Don’t tell your mother,” her dad said, handing her the bottle. “And make sure the music’s up loud when you pop the top.” And with that, he was gone.
kim
THAT NIGHT
Kim should have heard it, would have heard it if she hadn’t installed earplugs and taken half an Ambien. The girls were two floors below, but she’d anticipated giggling, music, a few late-night trips to raid the fridge. . . . To ensure a sound sleep, she’d nibbled a bit of the sedative, despite having had two glasses of white wine after dinner. She’d done it plenty of times without incident. She’d always been a light sleeper and, lately, adequate rest had become imperative for Kim. There were too many hormones wreaking havoc with her humor. And there was far too much tension in her marriage to handle without a good night’s sleep.
“Mom! Dad!” Kim dragged herself up from under the warm, wet blanket of sedation. It was Hannah’s voice, tearful, close. . . . Kim opened heavy lids and saw her daughter at the end of the bed. Tall, pretty Hannah wearing a nightie that looked like a football jersey, the number 28 across her chest. It was Hannah’s birthday today—sweet sixteen—she was having a slumber party. So why was she here, in the small hours of the morning? Why was she crying? As Kim struggled for lucidity, she realized something was terribly wrong. Tears streamed down Hannah’s face and there was something on her hands . . . something dark and wet, glistening in the faint glow of the LED clock radio . . .
Blood.
Kim bolted upright, adrenaline decimating any tranquilizer left in her system.
“What’s wrong? Hannah . . . Oh God!”
Jeff was awake now. Unlike his wife, he’d always slept soundly with no pharmaceutical assistance. “What’s going on? What’s happening?”
“Is that blood? Are you okay?” Kim could feel the panic rising, filling her chest.
Hannah’s voice, though choked with tears, sounded calm in comparison. “I’m okay. But you have to help Ronni.”
Kim flew down the stairs. Her feet seemed to move effortlessly, floating on a surge of dread, fear, adrenaline. . . . The moment felt surreal and dreamlike. It was the shock. Or the Ambien. But the quiet sobs of her daughter behind her and the heavy thud of her husband’s feet in front of her grounded her in the now. She felt thankful that Jeff was there, that he was calm and solid and leading the way.
When they burst into the basement room, the first thing that hit her was the smell: Alcohol. And vomit. Normally, she would have been angry, but relief sagged her shoulders. So that’s what this was about. The girls had been drinking; Ronni must have been sick. It was disappointing, of course, but normal for sixteen-year-olds. Tony’s prediction flashed in her mind. He’d been right after all. Then she remembered the blood on her child’s hands.
“Jesus Christ,” Jeff breathed, and Kim snapped to attention. Her stomach plummeted as she caught a glimpse of the crumpled body on the living room floor: Ronni. Jeff rushed toward her, with Hannah on his heels, but Kim hung back, frozen. Just for a moment, she considered hovering near the door, sparing herself the sight of vomit and blood and the inert form of Hannah’s friend. She noticed Marta, pale and crying, huddled in a far corner of the couch. Their eyes met for a brief moment, and their mutual desire to flee or dissolve reflected back at each other. But Kim’s sense of responsibility was too great, her inherent need to make things better too strong. She was a mother. She moved toward Ronni.
Her view was partially obscured by Jeff, Hannah, and Caitlin, who was crouching on the floor next to Ronni’s body. Through them, Kim could make out Ronni’s lifeless form: her long, spray-tanned legs splayed like a broken Barbie doll’s; a splatter of blood on the pale-pink shorts and tank that she wore as pajamas. “Ronni . . . Ronni, wake up,” Jeff was saying with no response. Kim shifted to get a better view of Ronni’s face, and that’s when she saw it. The glass coffee table was shattered, jagged shards clinging to the frame like the teeth of some giant, prehistoric shark.
Jeff addressed the sniveling girls. “What the hell happened?”
“She got sick,” Caitlin said. “She was weak. And dizzy.”
“She tripped and fell on the coffee table,” Hannah whimpered.
“It broke.” Marta added the obvious.