We Fell Apart: A We Were Liars Novel(20)

One thing about gaming is, you burn through your rage. You’ve angry-birded all those evil pigs to death, or you set up a million killer plants to destroy the disco-loving zombies who are staggering across your lawn. You feel victorious and cleansed of the angry crap inside you—the ex who told lies about you and the friends who turned against you. The father who never wanted to meet you. The mother who prioritized a man and left you. The rude taxi boy with beautiful shoulders who hates you so much on sight he won’t even give you a chance.

You clean out your fury by slaughtering mermaids and pigs and zombies. It’s only later, when you put the game down, that you can think about why you liked it. And what it meant.

In Something Rotten, the game I was on with Saar before I left, you play as Hamlet. Like, from the Shakespeare play. And you’re basically fighting your way through a castle full of deceivers and merrymakers in order to kill your murderous stepfather (King Claudius) and avenge your father’s death.

Rotten has really innovative weapons. Not just broadswords, but grenades that explode like fireworks and a tiny flock of ravenous flying dragons, plus these small cubes you roll at your enemies that turn them into hedgehogs.

I have it on my laptop, and I was in the middle of trying to beat the Ophelia boss level. But June has locked up my devices. It’s strange to be without social media, without games, without texts. My mind is buzzing. I pace the Iron Room.

I flip open my sketchbook and make notes about how to beat Ophelia when I get back to the game. Then I draw out an idea for a level that doesn’t exist, a great hall. When Hamlet goes in, it’s all in darkness, so he has to find a light switch. When he does, the green glass chandelier becomes a tentacled monster that comes to life and blocks his way. It shoots Hamlet with toxic slime, then reaches out to capture him by his ankles. Then it eats him by shoving him headfirst into its creepy octopus mouth.

At ten minutes to eleven, I put on sweats and sneakers and go down to meet Meer for our boat ride to Beechwood Island.



* * *



—

In front of the garage, Tatum stands staring down the driveway. He wears a cotton cable-knit sweater and track pants. His wide shoulders are hunched, his now-dry espresso hair is chaotic, his eyebrows dark and sullen.

He doesn’t turn or acknowledge me.

I don’t want to be alone with him. But I don’t want to miss adventuring with Meer.

Neither one of us speaks. We just stare into the dark.

Glum trots out of the mist and drops a stick at Tatum’s feet. She is looming and gray and shaggy, a really enormous creature, but she wags and woofs like any other playful dog as he picks up the stick. Tatum throws it hard and it arcs down the driveway. Glum scampers off.

After a beat, she’s back, stick in mouth. She drops it and he throws it again.

“Is Meer running late?” I ask, finally.

Tatum shrugs. Not looking at me.

“What does that mean?” I say.

“He’s like his dad. Not bound by the clock.”

“He told me to meet him at eleven.”

“Same.”

Glum comes up again, eyes bright and friendly. I’ve always loved dogs, and a couple of my mother’s boyfriends had them, but I’ve never had one of my own. I want to ask Tatum how old she is, who named her, and whether she is an Irish wolfhound or something else. But he’s so cold that I settle for holding my hand out to the dog.

Glum sniffs me and then steps forward, panting, to let me stroke her ears. “Hello, my new pal,” I say. “You are a delight. Yes, you are.” As my hand touches the shaggy fur of her forehead, love wells up—the kind of instant love I already have for Meer. It’s easier to have for animals than for people. There is so much in my heart and hardly any person to give it to.

“Glum’s a terror and a horror,” Tatum says, but he says it fondly.

“No, she’s wonderful. Why do you say that?”

“She craps on the rug.”

“With all this outdoor space? Can’t she go out whenever she wants?”

“She has inner demons. She’s expressing her anxiety. Or something.”

“What does she have anxiety about?” I ask. And then to Glum, who has dropped the stick at my feet. “You have a good doggie life, I think. Top-notch. Oh, look at you, wagging. You seriously crap on the rug inside? That’s hard to believe, my furry pal.”

“I’ll tell you something dark,” Tatum says.

“What?”

“Last time she did it on the rug, I was like, forget it. I’m not cleaning it. I saw it, but I let it sit there. And it was like, a big honking dog poo, not just a little squiggle. I swear, steam was coming off of it.”

I laugh. It’s like he’s peeled away his protective outer skin suddenly, letting me glimpse what’s underneath. The darkness, and also the sense of humor.

“Anyway,” Tatum goes on. “Whatever. First couple times she did it, I was worried. Like maybe she was sick. So I took her to the vet, which June did not want, because Kingsley doesn’t like dog hair in the car even though the car is seriously old and messed up, but also June doesn’t want the expense of the vet and she doesn’t believe in that kind of medicine. But I insisted. I said I’d pay for it. She gave me all these blankets to put in the back seat.” He turns to me for the first time in all this conversation and smiles. He has big, surprising dimples on both sides of his face when he does that. “But I let Glum ride in the front. We put the top down.”