“You think you could do a better job driving?” I said to her, turning my signal on even though we were still a block and a half away from the next intersection.
“Look,” June finally huffed, not paying any attention to my and May’s conversation. “I know this. In the animal kingdom, if you don’t adapt, you die. It’s called Darwinism, look it up.”
May just snorted. “This science lesson has been brought to you by the phrase ‘no shit.’ ”
I slowed down a little as we approached the intersection, even though the light was green. “What are you doing?” May screeched. “The light is green! How is that confusing to you?”
“There’s this girl in my English class,” June continued. When she has a thought, nothing stops her from talking. If she had been onboard the Titanic, she would have babbled about how the orange lifevest was not really flattering to her skin tone while everyone else clung to icebergs.
“I’m slowing down because it is the safe thing to do when approaching an intersection,” I snapped at May. “And what do you know? You have a learner’s permit, not a license.”
May slowly banged her head against the headrest.
June didn’t even take a breath. “Anyway, she’s in my English class? And her name is Mariah? She’s a sophomore so she’s in your grade, May? And she’s really cool and—?”
“And why?” May interrupted her. “Does everything? Sound like a question? When you’re talking?”
“Anyway,” June ignored her, but I could see her getting flushed in the backseat. “Her name’s Mariah and—”
“Mariah,” May said, “is just one letter away from ‘pariah.’ Think about it.”
“Well, you would know about pari—!” June started to yell, but as we went through the intersection, her face suddenly scrunched up like she had tasted something bad. I saw her glance out the window at the homeless guy on the corner and shudder.
“That is so not cool, June,” I told her. “Just because he’s homeless doesn’t mean he’s not a human being.”
“Aaaaaand here comes the soapbox,” May muttered.
“I didn’t say anything,” June mumbled, but her voice was quieter and she didn’t mention Mariah anymore.
“Well, you didn’t have to,” I said. “I saw it on your face and really, I think—hey, wait a minute. Are you seriously not wearing your seatbelt?”
“Oops.” June tugged the belt around her. “My bad.”
“More like my dead,” I said to her. “Don’t you know that accidents happen closest to home? That we could—”
And suddenly I knew I had to change lanes. There was an image of brake lights just behind my eyes, like a memory of something that hadn’t happened yet, and I clutched the wheel and jerked the car over to the left lane, making my sisters scream and hang onto their (thankfully fastened) seatbelts. Two seconds later, the brake lights flashed, and we drove past the accident just as it happened, just like I had seen it.
June was the first to recover. “If I have to wear a neck brace, I’ll kill you,” she muttered from the backseat.
May was just staring at me with huge eyes. “What the hell was that?” she gasped.
“I—I don’t know,” I admitted. If I hadn’t been gripping the wheel so tightly, my hands would have been shaking. “I just changed lanes. That’s all.”
“Well, whatever it was, I liked it,” May grinned and settled back in her seat. “Finally. A little excitement around here.”
chapter 2
“I’ve spent my whole life getting ready for this.” may
April always makes the whole thing sound so dramatic in the beginning. “Oooh, I saw red and I knew it was a sign, and the heavens opened up and the fog rolled in… .” Etc., etc.
The day wasn’t that dramatic.
Not until I got involved, at least.
As soon as my sisters and I got through the front door of the school, we went into our weekday routine, which basically meant that we refused to acknowledge each other’s existence for the next six hours and thirty-seven minutes. Maybe, like if it’s someone’s birthday or something, we’ll raise an eyebrow in recognition, but otherwise, I don’t know them and they don’t know me.
Not that they know me after school, either.
I guess that’s the thing about being in the middle. When we were younger, my mom used to use the old sandwich metaphor to explain why being a middle child was so important. “You’re the bologna in the sandwich!” she would say, and I would have to remind her that no, June was the one that liked bologna, not me, which sort of blew her metaphor out of the water.
I’m not trying to be all “Marsha, Marsha, Marsha!” about it. I mean, I love my sisters, I guess. I think I’m biologically obligated to love them. I just wish they weren’t so … them. Especially at school, with June having her social-butterfly metamorphosis and April gearing up for a life of book collecting and brilliance and Ph.Ds, it’s pretty easy to just slip past them.
And now that my parents are divorced, I feel like I’m more mediocre than ever. Not that my self-esteem is all affected, but before, it was like the one thing different about me was that my parents were still married. But now? We’re just like everyone else. Nothing to see here.
I guess in a way, I’ve spent my whole life getting ready for this.
It would almost be funny if it hadn’t actually happened.
That Monday morning, when it all started, April drove us to school in the lame-mobile. I used my compass in first-period geometry to make a snowman family. Second period was P.E., and I immediately busted out the cramps excuse, wincing every minute or so while everyone else ran laps and got all sweaty and gross. I honestly feel that having to wear gym shorts should be considered a crime against humanity. (I told that to April once, and all she did was roll her eyes and say, “There are people who have actually suffered crimes against humanity, May. It’s not a joke.” She has the sense of humor of a flea. An unfunny flea.)
Third period was European history. I hate history. I know that old quote about how those who fail to learn history are doomed to repeat it, but really? People have been studying history for hundreds of years now, and there’re still wars and famines and dictators and diseases. History’s gonna repeat itself whether or not I have to spend fifty-six minutes a day learning about it.
And I especially hate European history. I like Europe just fine, and one day I’m going to live in Paris and have a view of the Eiffel Tower and live with an artist. So I’m down with the Europeans. But their history is ridiculous. Would it have killed them to name a king something other than James, Edward, or George? What about Hector? Or Archibald? Once you’re on James the Fifth or whatever, it’s time to exercise some other options.
And don’t even get me started on Prussia.
But the thing I hate most about European history is that they’re making me get a tutor. Apparently when you fail the first quiz of the school year, it does not reflect well on your school record. I tried to point out that the lack of creative royal names wasn’t helping, but instead of agreeing, I got an appointment with the assistant principal to discuss student tutoring options. I’m assuming, though, that it won’t be much of a discussion.
So now I have to keep this on the down low from my dad. I’m sure April told you (because, you know, she’s told everyone) that our dad’s in Houston now. And not that my dad really cares about my European history grade, but he’s promised that I can fly out and he’ll take me to Austin. He promised special trips to me and my sisters, just one-on-one time with him, but all I want to do is see Austin. I mean, their city motto is “Keep Austin Weird,” and I’m pretty weird. So I feel like this town and I are gonna be BFFFs. (I’m pretty sure you know what that extra F stands for, too.)
And yeah, I guess it’ll be cool to see my dad. I spend a lot of time trying not to think about him. I spend a lot of time trying not to think about a lot of things.
The rest of that day continued its usual pattern of suckage. Lunch w
as always a low point in the day, especially since I didn’t know anyone and I didn’t like sitting by myself. I knew that April was probably in the school library, learning about the mating habits of larvae or something equally useless, and June was always somewhere else.
Not that I ever looked for them, though.
I spent lunch like I did every other day, ghosting through the halls and trying to look like I was going somewhere. I tried to tell myself that no one would ever even notice me, but sometimes that just makes me feel worse. I don’t know. Like I said, I’m weird.
After the final bell, I trudged out into the blindingly sunny parking lot, where April was leaning against the car, jingling the keys in her hand, her normally flushed cheeks looking paler than normal. Even her blonde hair, which was already pretty light, looked a few shades lighter. “Whoa,” I said. “You look like you’re gonna hurl.”
“Here,” she said, handing me the keys. “You can drive home.”
I just looked at her. “Why?”
“Just ‘cause.”
“I’ll ask again: Why?”
“I just don’t feel like driving. I … I have a headache.”
“You look like you’re gonna hurl,” I said again, taking the keys as I spoke. “Please don’t toss your cookies on me, okay?”
June came walking up to us before April could respond. “Yo,” she said. “Let’s go home.”
“Now, now,” I said, “is that an appropriate attitude for Little Miss Popular?”
She just looked at me. “You’re driving?”
I shook the keys in her face.
“Great,” she muttered, climbing into the backseat. “Well, at least I’ll be young and beautiful when I die.”
After we all got into the car, April checked her seatbelt three times. “Oh, thanks for the vote of confidence, April,” I muttered, but I noticed that even June was doing the same thing. “Wow, thanks, family.”
“Just go slow,” April replied. She kept running her hand through her hair like she was looking for something hidden there. “And don’t crash into anyone or anything.”
The first five minutes were fine, mostly because we were in a residential area. “You know, if you think about it,” June said after a brief and blissful silence, “this is actually the most dangerous area for you, May. All the little kids and pets that could just run out into the street at any minute… .”
“June,” I snapped. “Not helping.”
“I’m just making a hypothesis,” she grinned. “It’s part of the scientific process, you know.”
As soon as we got to the main intersection, I hit the gas pedal a bit harder, and April nearly fell out of her cardigan sweater. “May, I swear to God …” she muttered.
I just laughed. “Let me show you how it’s done, Big Sister.”
April suddenly tensed up and she said, “No, not her! Not her, no, May!”
“What are you—?” I started to say, but when I looked down, I couldn’t see my hands on the steering wheel.
That was not cool.
It happened so fast that at first I thought I just blinked for too long or had, like, this mental blip or something. I started to feel lightheaded. “Whoa,” I whispered before I could stop myself. And suddenly the car was swerving towards the curb, and April was screaming, “Not her! Not this girl!”
“Not who?” I screamed back, but just as I said that, I saw a girl on the corner with this crazy black hair, and April was acting like she couldn’t even hear me.
April grabbed the wheel then, jerking the car back into the lane just as the girl gasped and froze on the sidewalk. June was screaming in the back, “I knew it! I knew it!” and I had no idea what the hell she was talking about, nor did I care. I barely even noted the fact that we’d come THIS close to ramming into some innocent bystander.
I was too busy trying to figure out where my hands had gone.
When I blinked again, my hands were back on the wheel, just like I had never let go. April was still clinging to the wheel, too, her eyes huge in her face.
“What the … ?” she whispered.
“What?” I said shakily.
“What?” she repeated. “Did you … did you just … ?”
“Did I what?”
June piped up from the backseat, her voice sort of shaky. “Um, guys?”
We ignored her like always.
“May,” April whispered, “you were here and then you weren’t.”
“You guys?”
“Seriously, June, shut up for a minute,” I said over my shoulder, but I could hear my own trembling voice. And it sounded sort of hollow, like it wasn’t really there at all.
Like it was invisible.
“That’s not possible,” I said to April. “Look at me! I’m operating heavy machinery! I couldn’t have just disappeared!”
“Oh, my God, you’re driving!” April suddenly gasped. “Pull over, pull over! You can’t drive right now!”
“I’m fine!” I yelled back at her. “And I can’t just pull over; we’re in the middle of the road!”
“You GUYS!” Now June was yelling along with us. “I think I—”
“June, SHUT UP!” we both shouted over our shoulders.
“Look, you’re hallucinating or something,” I said to April. “You’re mentally exhausted, and you’re hallucinating. You need more sleep. It’s not healthy—”
“You’re rambling,” she interrupted me. “And you saw it, too. Your eyes are super-dilated right now.”
There was a brief silence before June leaned over the front seats. “I think I know why—”
“Well, maybe we hallucinated together,” I said. If ignoring June was an Olympic sport, I’d be Michael Phelps.
“We hallucinated together?” April scoffed. “Yeah, that sounds real logical.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, what’s more logical for you? The theory that I disappeared ?” I was clutching the steering wheel so tightly that it looked like my knuckles would burst right through my hands. I pushed each finger against the wheel one at a time, counting them over and over in my head, getting to ten and going back to one.
“Would you pull over already?” April screeched. “You can’t drive like this!”
“And yet I am!” I retorted.
“WOULD YOU GUYS JUST LISTEN TO ME FOR A MINUTE!” June has this way of yelling that makes you wish you were deaf.
“NO!” We both yelled back.
“FINE!” she yelled, then threw herself against the backseat and crossed her arms. “Be stupid, see if I care!”
Silence reigned for about fifteen seconds as I turned onto our street. Every single home looked like the one before it and the one after it. The first week we lived here, our mom had to open the garage to tell which one was ours. But I barely noticed the houses now. I was too busy making silent promises. I swear, I’ll never ditch school again, I thought to myself. I’ll be nicer to my sisters. I’ll stop hating European history and actually study. I’ll even do volunteer work with cancer patients to make up for the one time I smoked that cigarette at—
June’s voice came loud and clear from the backseat. “You smoked?”
I almost drove right into the trash cans in front of our house, but managed to slow down and park before turning around to look at her. April was doing the same thing. “What?” she said to June. “What are you talking about?”
There is no way she could know that, I thought. No. Possible. Way.
June sat back in her seat. “Wanna make a bet?”
April covered her mouth with her hand. “Did you just read her … ?”
“Yep.” Now June sounded smug. “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. And don’t worry, May,” she added, “it’s not like I’m gonna tell Mom about the cigarette. Yet.”
“You better pray that my hands disappear again before I wrap them around your neck!” I cried, already starting to dive over the seat for her.
“Wait, wait, stop!” April yelled, pulling me back as June cowe
red in the backseat. “May, stop it! Mom and Dad, they’re right there; they’re gonna—”
We all froze just in time to see my parents come out the front door together. Dad was wearing his sunglasses and Mom still had her work clothes on. Both of their mouths were set in straight, thin lines. They were talking, discussing something that we couldn’t hear. It didn’t look good, but then again, for the past eighteen months, none of their conversations had looked good. I won’t even tell you how they’ve sounded.
We sat there and watched them for almost a full minute. I couldn’t tell if they were arguing or if—
“No, they’re arguing,” June said.
“Stop reading my mind,” I said numbly just as April told her, “Stop reading their minds.” I just sat in the front seat, my legs sticky against the leather upholstery. It hurt when I tried to unstick them, which was a strange relief. Pain was good. Pain meant I was still here.
“Hey, dolls!” my dad suddenly yelled from the porch, noticing us for the first time and stopping the discussion mid-sentence. “C’mon, come say goodbye to your old dad before he turns into a cowboy!”
I almost had to throw up when he said that. Just thinking about throwing up made my throat burn with tequila memories, which made me want to throw up all over again. “Weird,” June said softly from the backseat, but I barely heard her. I just wondered about the next time I would see my dad, if it would be strange to have to fly on a plane whenever I wanted to see him. I wondered if he could even see me now, if I was crazy, if there was something so strange about me that even my body didn’t want to stay around to say goodbye to my own father.
I set my face and waved at him. In the side mirror, I could see June’s lip quivering a little before she bit it and blinked really fast. She does that normally when she’s trying to look flirtatious, even though it just looks like she’s got a misplaced contact lens, but I knew she wasn’t trying to be cute now.
As soon as June’s face smoothed out, I opened the car door and gingerly put my foot on the pavement. When I saw it hit the ground, I wasn’t sure if I was relieved or not.