“And then I want to get off this island. As soon as humanly possible.”
I follow her gaze to the snow beating the window.
“You can’t go out in this weather. It’s unsafe.”
“More unsafe than being left outside in twenty-degree temperatures? I could have gotten hypothermia out there, Kit. I could’ve died.”
“Your fear of pain is taking over.”
To stop myself from throttling her, I stomp into the bathroom. Twelve hours ago, I vowed to some fairy in the sky that I would die for Kit. Now I want to kill her instead.
I go to look in the mirror, then remember—oh, wait—there are none in this hellhole. I wrap a starchy bath towel around my hair and wet some toilet paper, wincing as I blot the cut on my lip. Even without a mirror, I can see how puffy it is. When I come back out, Kit is staring at the ceiling again. I stand in front of my sister, get in her face. “Raeanne threatened to stab me with a box cutter.”
Kit’s face clouds over. “She shouldn’t have done that.”
“You think?”
“We try to avoid violence here.”
I snort, then lower my voice. “When the water is safe to pass, I’m getting out of here. And you’re coming with me.”
“Oh.” She blinks a few times. “No, Nat, I’m not. I’m not going anywhere. This is my home now.”
“You know what I think? I think this is a cry for help. You want to get away from here but can’t because Rebecca has brainwashed you into thinking that leaving would be the end of the world.”
“I already told you brainwashing isn’t a valid scientific concept.”
“Let me talk to Rebecca.”
“Not a chance.” Kit’s entire body tenses. “You’re going to insult her and humiliate me. I didn’t need your meddling before Wisewood, and I sure as hell don’t need it now. I came and got you from the forest because I wanted to help you, nothing more.”
My sister’s newfound assertiveness surprises me. I point to my swollen lip. “Do I look helped?”
“You’re the one who brought your phone here.”
“That’s the big violation?”
“You lied to us.”
“You know why I don’t like to be without my phone, Kit.”
“This was an opportunity for you to get over that.”
I glare. “Where were you all night, anyway? I went to your room half a dozen times. I was worried sick.”
“I was trying to stop Gordon from doing something stupid.”
“What’s that guy’s deal?”
My sister scowls at the smoke detector. “He’s Teacher’s pet.”
And you aren’t? I think, raising an eyebrow.
She turns her head sharply toward me, and I worry I’ve voiced the thought aloud. “You don’t know a thing about me anymore, Natalie.”
I study her sheared scalp and dull skin. Her dimples have vanished; the lightness has gone out of her eyes. I try to find traces of my sister, but she’s a shadow of the whirlwind she once was. She’s harder, tougher.
I realize she’s right.
She tilts her head. “Earlier you said we needed to talk.”
“Now’s not the time.”
She squeezes her left hand into a fist, then relaxes it. “Now is a perfect time.”
“Let it go, Kit. I’m not in the mood.”
“I’ve grown a backbone since we were kids. You’re not in charge anymore. You can tell me now or not at all.”
“Fine,” I say, eager to spit the words out, excited for the pain they’ll cause, scared by my own depravity.
“Mom planned her death. And I helped her.”
38
Kit
DECEMBER 2019
I HAD NO reason to limp. Now that I’d passed my q2, I was free of pain.
Still, I stepped gingerly as I tidied the trailer after class, emptying the wastebasket and straightening chairs. To distract myself from my throbbing foot, I jotted down some quick notes—which students were stagnating, how I could help. A burning pain shot up my leg from my toe, making me wince. I hoped it wouldn’t take long for the tattoo to scab over.
Tattoo? Nat sniped. Why don’t we call a spade a spade? You’ve been branded. Like fucking livestock.
It’s a symbol. I’m not scared of pain anymore.
How can you believe in this shit? she screeched.
I gritted my teeth. My sister had been telling me how and what to think our entire lives. She thought she was smart because she didn’t believe in anything. When I was in third grade, she haughtily informed me Santa wasn’t real. Mom would’ve been happy to keep playing him—smudging thank-you letters with chimney soot, eating all the cookies—until we left for college, had Nat not ruined the illusion.