Page 68 of Play Nice

It’s real, and now I know it. But I also know that no one will believe me.

21

Dad and Amy went all out for their Memorial Day barbecue. If I were to be cynical, I’d suspect it’s because they can sense there’s something rotten in Denmark and are trying to settle the kingdom and lift spirits with racks of ribs and expensive steaks and a variety of mayonnaise-based salads.

I’ve been avoiding my family for the past two weeks. It’s not like me to be unresponsive, and it’s got them in a tizzy.

I have to admit, I kind of like watching them squirm. Because the thing I want to talk about—the specter waiting patiently in the dark to emerge, hiding behind every word, every thought—is the very thing they don’t want to talk about. Will never want to talk about.

So what is there to say?

I’ve been back to the house twice since the sketchpad incident, both times with Austin. We painted the office, Daphne and Leda’s old room, and the upstairs hall.

There have been no strange happenings, no attempts at communication, which is almost disappointing. I’m being deprived of a witness.

Or maybe the lack of action has nothing to do with Austin’s presence. Maybe whatever is in the house is just waiting until I convince myself that it actually doesn’t exist. When my doubt conquers my fear, then it’ll reemerge. Pass me another note.

I haven’t spent the night in the house. I sleep at Austin’s.

I have successfully purchased another copy of Mom’s book off eBay. I caved in the immediate aftermath of the note ordeal, whatever reluctance I’d had about finishing crushed by a newfound sense of urgent curiosity. My initial order was canceled, the seller skeptical of the shipping address. But it’s on its way now. I told Austin, for some reason, and he offered to sit with me while I read. Which is pretty sweet, but I sincerely can’t think of anything worse than reading about my fucked-up childhood in the presence of someone I’m fucking.

“I hear you have a boyfriend,” Amy says, fixing us vodka lemonades.

“Clio! That’s great!” Tommy says. He’s got white splotches of sunblock all over his face. “Who’s the lucky guy?”

“Your sources are mistaken,” I say, pulling down the brim of my hat.

“You’re not dating someone?” Amy asks, handing me a blue Solo cup with a bendy straw. A lemon wedge floats inside. I stab it with the straw.

“I don’t even know what ‘dating’ means,” I say. I take a sip. It’s strong. “And I don’t really care to.”

“As long as you’re happy,” Tommy says, getting up and heading inside, probably to see if Dad needs help. He tries to be the son that Dad never had, but Dad doesn’t know what to do with him.

“Thank you, Tommy,” I call out after him. He gives me a double thumbs-up before closing the back door.

Amy sits next to me on the sofa. The patio furniture smells musty from being locked in the shed all winter, and Amy smells like candy, her cheap gourmand perfume. Then there’s the distant scent of charcoal. Chlorine from the neighbor’s pool. The citrus from the lemonade. Summer.

Leda is taking a walk around the block, and Dad is in the kitchen marinating meat or something. Daphne’s not coming because she had to work.

There will be neighbors over at some point, friends of my dad and Amy, but for now it’s just us under a blue, blue sky and tyrannical sun.

Amy stands up and adjusts the umbrella.

It could be my intrinsic proclivity for deviousness or just that the opportunity has so seamlessly presented itself. Or both. “Not everyone has a great love story like you and Dad.”

“Aw,” Amy says, blushing. She gives up on the umbrella and sits back down beside me, taking a sip of her vodka lemonade.

“Maybe part of me is holding out for what you two have. For romance,” I say, resting my head on her shoulder. I drop my voice to a whisper. “He told me. He loved you from the moment he saw you. I know.”

She puts her arm around me and draws me in close, starts to play with my hair. Says nothing.

“He wants me to find someone. You know he does,” I say, vodka burning my throat. “He doesn’t want me to be jaded because of Alexandra. And don’t worry. I understand. Their marriage was over long before he met you.”

She withdraws her arm, holds her drink with both hands. I wait for her to speak. She takes a series of small nervous sips. Somewhere in the neighborhood, a child cries.

“Amy. Relax. I couldn’t care less. It all worked out, for everyone,” I say, knocking her knee with mine. “Love is only a losing game for the losers, you know what I mean?”

“Clio, I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she says. The problem is she’s got no poker face. I’ve caught her off guard. The sun beats down; that kid is still crying.