Page 117 of Play Nice

“Yeah. Wow.”

“Daisy made them. The donuts.”

“I’m sure they’re amazing,” I say, kicking her off the bed so I can pull up my covers. “I’m sure they taste like new love. And cat dandruff.”

“You don’t get to be mad at me. I’m mad at you,” she says, crossing her arms over her chest, lording over my mattress.

“I’m not mad. I have no emotions. I’m a sociopath, remember?”

“That was Leda, not me.”

“Leda and Thomas,” I say. “I’ve never felt so betrayed.”

“Dad says you haven’t left your room. You’ve just been up here. Alone. Brooding.”

“I don’t brood,” I say, which is true. But it’s also true I’ve been locked in my room all week, sleeping. I almost put out a statement that my Instagram was hacked, but then I decided I’d just pretend like it never happened, proceed as usual. But I haven’t posted anything since those stories. I haven’t responded to any messages or emails either. The longer I put it off, the less I want anything to do with it, with my life. The more I sleep.

“He says you haven’t eaten.”

“Haven’t been hungry.” I emerge from under the covers. “Wait. Why are you mad at me?”

“Let’s save it for therapy.”

“No,” I say, reaching for her. “Tell me now.”

“Fine,” she says. “You couldn’t help yourself. You had to go and tear open an old wound. For all of us.”

“Mom died,” I say. “That’s the wound.”

“You insisted on going to her funeral. Going to the house. Reading her book. You couldn’t let it all die with her.”

“And I’m the one accused of being callous,” I say, turning my back to her. “You can leave now. I don’t want any of your girlfriend-of-the-month’s donuts. You should go eat them all to spite Mom. And to save Leda the anguish of depriving herself.”

“You know, Dad thinks you’re having some sort of nervous breakdown. But I know better. I know you better. You’re just a fucking bitch.”

For some reason, this makes me laugh. Sets me off giggling.

Daphne doesn’t say anything else. She storms out of the room, slamming the door behind her.

The sound of her crying in the next room interrupts my fit of laughter, sobers me to the ugly reality of what just happened.

I’m making everything worse. I know I am, but I can’t stop. Daphne’s right. I can’t help myself. Watching the damage unfold feels startlingly familiar. It feels like home.

—

Leda and Tommy arrive early afternoon. Their muffled voices temporarily stir me from my nap. Our appointment is at four p.m., and I don’t intend to leave my room a minute sooner than necessary. I set my alarm for three fifteen and go back to sleep.

I snooze through my alarm and wake up to Dad pounding on my door.

“Clio? Clio, time to go.”

“Coming,” I groan. I put on a pair of old jeans and a T-shirt. The clothes hang off me.

I go downstairs expecting a full house, but it’s just Dad.

“Where is everyone?” I ask.

“Daphne and Amy went with Leda and Tom. They left ten minutes ago. They’ll be on time.”