Bad Girls Don't Die (6 page)

“When Mimi broke her arm, that was an accident, right?”

Kasey was quiet for a moment.

I swallowed hard. “I mean, Pepper’s totally stupid, I just thought I’d ask.”

“They’re
both
stupid,” Kasey said. “Stupid Pepper and stupid Mimi.”

“Right,” I said. “So you aren’t friends with Mimi anymore?”

Kasey scooped Mr. Teeth off the bed and threw him at the headboard. “Mimi Laird is a fathead liar! She has no idea what she’s talking about! She’s just clumsy. She’s a
liar
. A clumsy liar.”

“Calm down, Kase,” I said. “Forget it. I believe you.”

“I hate Mimi, and I hate her stupid sister!” Kasey said, running out and slamming the door. The whole house shook.

I guess that could have gone better.

I settled back onto my pillow and let my eyes close, lulled by the sound of the blinds rattling in the wind.

I dreamed I was standing on an island in a swamp full of alligators. I could see their backs floating in the water, like logs. And then I saw Kasey swimming toward me, blissfully unaware of the predators that surrounded her. So I pulled out a rifle and shot any alligator that got close to her. Then Kasey was with me on the island, braiding my hair and singing me Christmas carols. And a battered doll in a ripped petticoat came out of the water and walked over to us, but Kasey couldn’t see her. And the doll pointed at Kasey and looked at me and said,
Your sister is crazy.

A
H, DINNER AT THE WARREN HOME.
At best, an adventure in awkward silence, punctuated by the occasional screech of a fork on a plate. At worst, an apocalypse. That night it seemed like we might be in for an easy ride.

I was in the kitchen when Dad showed up with Chinese food from the Golden Happy Family restaurant, which is like a huge joke. I doubt they would let us eat their food if they knew how far we were from being a golden happy family.

“Hey,” he said.

“Hey,” I said, turning away.

Dad and I used to do all the father-daughter groups and camping trips and all that. But as I got older we stopped hanging out. Sometimes it feels like he’d rather spend all his time watching football and forget he even has a family. But every once in a while I miss the stuff we used to do together. He’d always made me laugh.

Lately he had this permanent sad-dog expression on his face, like he wished we could still be buddies or something—and I was pretty sure he didn’t know he was doing it. I couldn’t even look at him. Like now, I stared at the floor instead.

“I talked them into extra fortune cookies,” he said.

I didn’t want to see the “please be my friend” look in his eyes.

“Great,” I said, and ducked out of the kitchen. He stood there with his briefcase in his hand, his jacket draped over his arm. It was like a little knife stabbing me in the heart, to think I was hurting his feelings.

Oh well.

“Where’s Mom?” Kasey asked, slinking into the dining room and sitting in her usual chair.

Dad set the containers of food down in front of us. “Off saving the world from a critical stapler shortage.”

I stabbed my fork into a piece of pepper beef. For some reason it doesn’t bother me when Kasey and I talk about our mom, but when Dad does it, it feels . . . wrong. He’s supposed to defend her, not make fun of her.

Mom is a district manager for a big office supply company. She’s been trying to make the jump to vice president for, like, two years. Which means she’s
always
at the office—and when she’s not, she’s grouchy because she can’t stop worrying about being at the office.

We spooned our food out in silence. Kasey’s plate was mostly rice, with the tiniest bit of kung pao chicken. She hates spicy food, but the rest of us eat it, and as usual, she just lets everybody steamroll her. It’s like she thinks we won’t like her anymore if she says what she really thinks. Or that our parents will think she’s “bad”—bad like me.

We always eat our fortune cookies first. I unwrapped mine and broke it in half, then read the slip out loud:

“‘Home is where the heart is.’”

Kasey shrugged, unimpressed, and unfolded hers. “‘You are a very trusting person.’” She balled it up and tossed it over her shoulder.

“These aren’t even fortunes,” Dad said. “They’re just sayings.” He cracked his cookie open and looked at the little paper. “‘Neither a borrower nor a lender be.’”

The front door slammed. Mom’s heels clack-clacked past us down the hall as she dumped her briefcase in the living room. She came back, sat down, and started serving herself.

“Well, look who’s on time,” Dad said. He picked up a fortune cookie and pretended to nod. “‘Confucius say: paper clips more important than family.’”

Mom dropped her spoon with a clatter. “Darrell, please don’t start with me tonight.”

Dad shrugged and went back to his food.

“I get to go see the Homecoming parade on Friday,” Kasey said.

“That’s interesting,” Dad said, completely uninterested. “Who’s Surrey playing in the game?”

All eyes on me.

“Oh, please,” I said. “You’re kidding, right? Like I care.”

“It wouldn’t hurt you to show a little school spirit,” Mom said. As if she were a fan of high school football. Mom can take a simple observation, such as saying that it wouldn’t hurt for a person to show a little school spirit, and say it in such a way that she might as well be saying, “It wouldn’t hurt you to stop clubbing those baby seals.”

“I think they’re playing West Hardy,” Kasey chirped. “Aren’t they?”

“I have no idea,” I said, even though there were about a hundred trees’ worth of “Go Eagles! Beat the West Hardy Wolverines!” posters plastered around campus.

“Are you going to the dance?” Mom asked. Somewhere deep down inside she held on to the hope that one night I’d show up with my brown hair back, a pack of preppy friends in tow, and turn into Teen Princess Barbie, homecoming court, star tennis player . . . like she’d been in high school.

“Oh, yeah,” I said. “My only problem is trying to decide who to go with—the captain of the football team or Zac Efron.”

“If you went, I bet you could be the Homecoming Queen,” Kasey said.

I almost said something rude, but then I saw her shining eyes and how a hint of a smile turned her lips up at the corners. She really meant it.

“I’d need a fairy godmother,” I said. Kasey laughed.

“You’d need a miracle,” Mom said down to her plate. Then she glanced up in surprise. If we were on a sitcom, she would have said, “Oh, did I say that OUT LOUD?” and the canned laughter would have kicked in.

Silence sank over us. The only sounds were chewing and Mom’s knife sawing through her chicken. My mother uses a knife and fork on foods that were never meant to be eaten that way. I personally think a psychologist would have a lot to say about it.

“Kasey, I don’t think a plateful of rice is an acceptable meal,” Mom said suddenly.

Kasey ducked her head down as Mom spooned a heaping serving of spicy beef onto her plate.

“She doesn’t like that stuff,” I said.

“This has nothing to do with you, Alexis,” Mom said.

“Tell her you don’t want it, Kasey,” I said.

Kasey was tracing figure eights in her food. She clearly didn’t have the least intention of eating any, but she didn’t protest.

Mom let the subject drop. I think she felt like she’d done her motherly duty, and now she could go on with her life.

She stuck a final forkful into her mouth and pushed her chair away from the table.

“Sorry to eat and run,” she said. “I just have a bunch of reports to look over. We have a consultant coming in tomorrow, and I need to brush up on some quarterlies out of the sales department.” She says this stuff as if it means anything to us. “I’ll be in my bedroom. Knock if there’s an emergency.”

“Mommy,” Kasey said suddenly. “I need to talk to you.”

Mom looked only slightly concerned. “Is everything okay?”

“I need help with a project.” Kasey stared down at her food. “It’s for school.”

“Can we talk about it later this week?”

“No,”
Kasey whined. “I don’t have very much time.”

Mom sighed. “Look, Kase, I’m totally swamped. Maybe Alexis can help you.”

“Hey!” I said. “I have my own stuff to do.”

“But it’s extra credit,” Kasey said. The Holy Grail of middle school academics.

“Then your father can help you.”

Dad was reading the sports page by this point. He looked up, bewildered. “What? I’m going to Jim’s to watch baseball tonight.”

“Dad didn’t grow up in Surrey,” Kasey said. “It needs to be someone who grew up in Surrey.”

Mom looked around helplessly. “I don’t know what to say, sweetie. I wish you’d come to me sooner. You should have sent me an e-mail.”

“Nobody likes me,” Kasey said, staring down at her plate, which was overflowing with food she couldn’t eat.

“Don’t be silly,” Dad said in his best “Dad” voice. Then he looked at his watch. “Better hit the road. Don’t wait up.”

He hopped out of his chair, kissed Kasey on the top of her head, and patted me on the shoulder, which made me squirm. The only thing worse than parents who don’t pay any attention to you is parents who pat you on the shoulder on their way out the door.

He didn’t say good-bye to Mom, but she didn’t seem to notice. She was staring down at Kasey.

“Tell you what,” Mom said.

Kasey looked up, a glimmer of hope in her eyes.

“If you can promise me that you’ll use your day planner and write down all of your assignments and let me know
in advance
when you need help, I’ll help you out with this extra credit.”

Kasey perked right up. “I promise!” she said. “I’ll go get the questions!”

Mom’s face fell. “Oh, Kasey,” she said. “I didn’t mean
tonight
. Sweetie, there’s just no way I can do it tonight.”

I had to turn away so I didn’t see Kasey’s expression.

“We need to work on our planning skills,” Mom said. It was the kind of thing she would say to one of her underlings at work, but in the sad voice of the disappointed mother.

Mom shot Kasey a regretful look and then walked out. Her footsteps thumped up the stairs, and the bedroom door closed.

It was just my sister and me.

“Hey,” I said. “I grew up in Surrey. Do I count?”

She looked up at me, her eyes heavy and dull.

“Why don’t you go get your questions—”

“I can take care of myself,” Kasey said, shoving her plate away and laying her head down on the table. A fat tear rolled down over her nose and landed on her sleeve.

Feeling stung, I stood up out of my chair and headed upstairs, trying to figure out why that sentence seemed to drill right into me.

Oh, yeah.

It was what I’d said to Carter in the clinic.

I
WENT INTO MY ROOM
and sat down on the bed, facing the door. I was restless. Part of me wanted to let my sister cry it out. I can’t be Mother Teresa all the time, you know? She didn’t want my help. Fine. Let her work through her issues on her own.

Right. So I wouldn’t look for her.

I sat in silence for a minute.

Okay. I grabbed my camera. Here was the plan—I would go out and take a few pictures, and if I happened to find Kasey, I
might
talk to her, depending on how I felt at the time.

I slipped the camera strap around my neck and headed out into the hallway, making a lot of noise so she would know where I was.

The dining room was empty.

“Kasey?” I called quietly, stepping into the dark living room.

No answer.

I went back to check the kitchen—maybe she was sitting on the floor in the corner, eating ice cream out of the carton (it’s been known to happen).

Nope. I opened the garage door. “Kase?”

I heard a thump below my feet.

The basement.

I’m no fraidy cat, mind you. I’m very open-minded about snakes, clowns, airplanes, and many other things that scare the bejeezus out of most people.

But I don’t like the basement.

In fact, Mom doesn’t like it either. It’s the one thing we agree on. Going down there is highly discouraged on the basis of Mom’s having found a nest of black widows two years earlier. The spiders were long gone, and the exterminators, who dutifully show up the third Thursday of every month, claim that they’ve never been back, but it’s still off limits. I can’t say I blame Mom. Knowing my luck, I’d find the one black widow strong enough to resist the chemicals. And I’d find it with my bare foot.