Where the Staircase Ends (12 page)

“Stop checking your hot ass out in the mirror!” Sunny called from the bottom of the stairs. “And grab a roll of toilet paper on the way down!”

I smeared on some lip gloss and took one more look in the mirror, smiling a bit as I let my buzz wash over me, and I thought about how stupid I’d been acting. The tension I’d felt with Sunny was all in my head.

I grabbed a roll of toilet paper from one of the bathroom shelves before heading downstairs. The major downer about The Fields was the lack of bathrooms. We’d unofficially designated the backside of a half-finished house as The Ladies’ Room, but it was BYOTP unless you liked the feel of pee trickling down your leg or you wanted people to call you
Yellow-Leg The Pirate
like they did to Missy Springs after the unfortunate toilet paperless incident. People still hadn’t forgotten that one. Sunny’s favorite thing to do whenever she saw someone walking in the direction of The Ladies’ Room was to yell “ARRRRRrrrrr you going to the bathroom?” in her best pirate voice while squinting one eye and making her finger into the shape of a hook. It made me laugh every time.

The girls were already in The Bee when I got downstairs; I could hear them giggling through the open door leading out to the garage.

“No way,” said Jenny. My skin prickled with irritation as I realized she might have taken my regular spot in the front seat. “How did she take it? Isn’t she, like, still in love with him? God, he’s
so
hot.”

It was hard to make out all the words over the rumble of the car engine, but Sunny said the next sentence loudly enough so the words made their way through the open door and into the kitchen where I eavesdropped.

“She doesn’t know,” she said, and then they all giggled the way girls do when they have a secret. “So don’t say anything, okay? I’ll break it to her later, once I’ve had a chance to talk to him tonight and confirm it.”

Jenny let out another giggle. “Oh, please! In that dress, there’s no way he’s picking her over you. It’s not even a fair competition, really.”

“Oh, stop it,” Sunny scolded, but the giggle that followed said she really didn’t mean it.

I told myself they could be talking about anyone. There were hundreds of girls in our high school and hundreds of boys to choose from. Sunny was my best friend. She wasn’t talking about me.

But as soon as I walked into the garage the giggling stopped and they all exchanged looks, the way girls do when they think they’re being discreet but really they’re as obvious as a bulldozer.

Jenny quickly scrambled out of the front seat so I could take my usual spot.

“You take the front,” she offered, “I was just keeping it warm for you.” She gave me one of her big phony smiles and fluffed her mass of curls. She looked at me the same way I looked at other people right after Sunny said something about them.

“Thanks, Jenny,” I said, my teeth clenched and my smile tight. It was my imagination, I told myself. I was being paranoid. But just in case, I grabbed the lever at the bottom of the passenger seat and yanked it up, moving the seat back as far as it would go so Jenny had minimal leg room. She squeezed into the back seat without a word, and it gave me satisfaction when I looked in the rearview mirror and saw her all scrunched up and uncomfortable against the seat. Now she looked like a Christmas ham jammed into a Ziploc sandwich bag and shoved into the back of the refrigerator.
Ha
.

“Road soda?” Sunny asked me, passing me an empty Snapple bottle filled with orange juice and vodka. I took a long sip as we pulled out of the driveway and smiled back at her. It was my imagination, I told myself again. I was being paranoid. Sunny was my best friend, she would never let a guy come between us.

IF I WASN’T DEAD THESE STAIRS WOULD KILL ME

I was mid-stride when another Sunny-ghost appeared. Unlike the other ones who usually appeared several steps ahead, this Sunny popped up right next to me, grinning her familiar wicked grin when I met her eyes.

“What do you want?” I said through clenched teeth. The image of her sent my blood into a rolling boil, and my fingers instinctively curled into fists.

The Sunny-ghost shrugged and jutted her chin out, pointing in the direction of another Sunny that had appeared several steps ahead of us. The second Sunny was younger, maybe seven, and she held on to my old bike. I noticed the training wheels still mounted to the back, and I instantly recognized which memory she was from. She was the Sunny who forced me to learn how to ride my bike after the other kids in my neighborhood called me a baby for still using training wheels.

I closed my eyes and grunted, shocking myself with the animal sound that erupted from my throat. I didn’t want to remember the good Sunnys. And even if I did, it wasn’t as if remembering them would undo the horrible thing she did.

When I opened my eyes, there were more Sunnys filling the steps. A swarm of them stood before me, an army of red hair and green eyes. I tried to step back, wanting to put distance between them and me, but I was rooted to the step, watching in horror as more and more grisly specters from my past swirled into view, each showing me the perfect pink smile I had come to hate.

“Leave me alone,” I said to what I hoped were figments of my imagination. I was tired of thinking about her. I just wanted to get to the top of the horrible staircase and be done with it. I wanted to forget.

The Sunnys didn’t stop. More of them appeared, one right after the other swirling into view up and down the steps until there were hundreds of Sunnys filling the staircase. They pushed me back against the invisible hands that forced me to face forward, pinning me like a butterfly for display. I tried to scream, but they pressed and pressed until the air was gone from my lungs and I couldn’t make a sound.

“Please,” I managed to croak, desperate to make the images disappear.

A dirt-covered Sunny stepped in front of the pack, and the other Sunny-ghosts shuffled backward to make room for her. She tipped her head to the side and offered me a warm smile, the kind of smile Sunny saved only for me. Her shirt was torn and there was a smudge of mud on her cheek, but she still grinned proudly. She was the Sunny who fought Tracey Allen in sixth grade after she stole my boyfriend.

“Remember,” she whispered.

The other Sunnys nodded and echoed the word back. “Remember,” whispered a hundred tinkling bells from a hundred different memories.

The Sunny who taught me how to swim stepped forward, her hair still dripping with pool water and her cheeks still pink from cheering after I successfully swam the length of the pool for the first time. Her bare feet slapped against the stone when she stepped back to join the others, but not before whispering that same word:
remember
.

One by one the Sunnys stepped forward, each taking her turn to smile and whisper the single word into the quiet afternoon. There was a Sunny from Halloween, her devil horns making her look equal parts wicked and beautiful in that way that only Sunny could; the Sunny from Thanksgiving who managed to convince my unyielding mother to let us have a glass of wine with the meal, young Sunnys, recent Sunnys, Sunnys from memories I’d long since forgotten. They stood like a militia waiting to push me back into the past as they each took their place on the makeshift stage before me.

A Sunny in pink satin pajamas, her hair pulled back in a messy bun, took her turn in front of the others. She was the Sunny from seventh grade who saved me from my mother’s wrath. As if to make her point, she opened her hand to show me the cigarette she held, and I was instantly assaulted by a memory so rich I could smell the smoke.

Remember
, she mouthed. I had no choice but to do what she asked.

* * *

“Where did you get it?” Sunny asked me, her eyes wide and awe-filled.

It took all of my willpower to keep the surprise hidden until my mom went to bed. I smiled proudly as I watched Sunny examine the brown-speckled filter and practice holding the cigarette in her hand.

“Tracey sold it to me for a dollar. She swiped it from her mom.”

Sunny rolled her eyes when she heard Tracey’s name and handed it back to me. “If it’s from
her
then it’s probably diseased. Why would you give her a dollar for that thing? They make your hair smell.”

I tried not to act disappointed by her reaction. “You aren’t even a little curious?” I asked, thinking that Sunny, of all people, should be impressed. For extra incentive I added, “I saw Mark Schroen smoking with some eighth graders by the 7-Eleven.”

She stretched her legs out in front of her, wiggling her toes to inspect her freshly applied pedicure as she contemplated.

“Open the window before you light it. Your mother will flip if she smells the smoke, and I don’t want to listen to you guys scream at each other.”

I slid the window open and leaned out, leaving room for Sunny to follow. The dollar bought me one cigarette and a book of matches, but I should’ve asked for a lighter. I had to scratch my way through most of the book before I finally managed to get the thing lit.

Sunny shook her head when I offered to let her try it first, so I braced myself against the window sill and sucked on the end until smoke filled my mouth, then leaned out farther to release the cloud into the night. I sat back to look at Sunny, pleased with myself. My mouth tasted gritty, but otherwise I didn’t feel any different.

“You didn’t inhale,” Sunny said, fanning the window with a pillow to keep smoke from coming into the room.

“Yes I did. At least I think I did. How do you know if you inhale or not?”

“It should come out of your nose. You blew the smoke straight out. I don’t think that’s how you’re supposed to do it.”

I tried again, pulling the smoke into my mouth and gulping it down my throat, like I was swallowing an oversized piece of meat. My lungs immediately exploded, wracking my body in a series of choking coughs so violent that I forgot to lean out the window, releasing plumes of smoke into my bedroom.

“Lean out the window!” Sunny hissed, pushing me toward the night air and taking the cigarette from my hand so I wouldn’t drop it. She passed me a glass of water, and I sipped it gratefully, sliding back into my bedroom once I was sure I’d expelled all the smoke from my lungs.

Sunny watched me curiously and held the cigarette as far out the window as her arm would allow.

“That was awful.” I said in response to her questioning look. My voice was raspy, and my mouth felt like the inside of an ashtray.

“I think you inhaled that time,” she offered. I gave her a
duh
look. “Try it again, only this time don’t inhale quite so hard.”

“No way,” I said, shaking my head. “That was terrible. You try it.”

“Why would I try something you think is terrible? That’s like saying, ‘smell this, it stinks.’” She made a disgusted face and moved to flick the cigarette out the window, but I grabbed her arm.

“Not in the front yard! My mom will find it. Here, give it to me.” I scraped the cherry against the brick ledge, then hid the remaining evidence at the bottom of my trash can.

We lit a few scented candles to mask the remaining smell and left the window open to dispel any smoke that might have wafted back inside.

“That’ll teach you to trust Tracey Allen.” Sunny gave me a pointed look before grabbing the nail polish from my nightstand. “Give me your foot.”

She was applying a topcoat to my newly bright-pink toes when we first noticed the smell. I thought it was from the candles, but the look on Sunny’s face told me otherwise.

“Shit, Taylor. Shit!” Sunny jumped to her feet. I spun around to see what she was gawking at, smearing my freshly polished toes across the carpet.

Puffs of smoke billowed up from the small metal receptacle where I’d trashed the cigarette, and I could just make out the tip of a small flame licking up the side of the can.

“Oh my God!” I shouted, shrinking back toward the opposite side of the room. “OhmyGodohmyGodohmyGod!” I stared dumbly at the scene, unable to make my brain work through what to do.
Stop, drop, roll.
No, that wasn’t right.

Sunny let out a squeal and dumped her glass of water on the smoldering can, then ran to the bathroom to refill the glass.

“Don’t just sit there!” she scolded, dousing the trashcan with another blast of water. “For crap sake, help me!”

I stood on spindly legs and ran after her, vaguely aware of the “ohmyGods” still spilling like vomit from my mouth. We filled every container we could find and drenched the can, one after the other, until the air was filled with the scent of wet ash and we were certain any hint of fire was stamped out. It probably took all of thirty seconds, but it felt like an eternity before we finally collapsed against each other in relief.

“What in the world is going on in here?” My mother’s voice boomed through my bedroom doorway, her face creased from sleep. Her tired eyes surveyed the room, taking in the smear of florescent polish on the floor, the open window, and the blackened ring surrounding the scene of our crime. “Why does it smell like smoke?”