“Let me see,” Juliette says. Emma sticks out her hand, and Juliette cradles it in both of hers, examining the bruised fingers, the swollen knuckles. She sucks her teeth. “That’s bad.”
“It doesn’t hurt that much,” Emma says, and Daphne can read the lie in the way her lips press together and her other hand closes tight into a fist.
“You shouldn’t provoke her,” Juliette tells her, softly chiding.
Emma pulls her hand back. “What, you’re saying it’s my fault?”
“That’s not what she said,” Daphne objects. They’re not supposed to fight here. “Is it, Jules?”
“I mean that you know what she’s like,” Juliette says. “That’s all. Just try to keep her happy.”
“Easy for the teacher’s pet to say,” Emma replies. “We all know you’re her favorite.”
“I hate her,” Juliette says viciously. “I hate both of them.” She reaches behind her. She pulls a cold can of Sprite out of her backpack and holds it out to Emma. “Here. Put that on it.”
Emma accepts the peace offering. She presses her knuckles against the cold metal. “I’m getting out of here. As soon as I can,” she says. Daphne’s heart gives one big, slushy thump in her chest.
“Where will you go?” Juliette asks.
“UCLA, I hope. I’ve already got my application done, mostly,” Emma says.
“They’ll never pay for it.”
“So I’ll take out loans,” Emma says.
“If you even get in.”
“She’ll get in,” Daphne says. She stares at the floor, her knees up against her chest. Emma is good. Better than good—brilliant. Their parents can’t see that, but Daphne can—she sees all the ways her sisters shine, and all their shadows. “You’ll get in and you’ll fly far, far away, and leave us all behind.”
“I would take you with me if I could,” Emma says, guilt heavy as a stone in her voice. Daphne only smiles a little, shakes her head. Emma and Juliette share a look, and Daphne pretends not to see. She’s the youngest, the baby, but that doesn’t mean she’s ignorant. What it does mean is that while both of them can reach out and wrap their desperate hands around the possibility of freedom, she is trapped for long years yet. Six years before she can escape, and she looks less like her father every day.
Juliette combs Daphne’s golden hair back behind her ears. “Everything will be all right,” she says. “We’ll figure something out.”
There are so few nights like this now. Not so long ago they would be out here every chance they got, but things have changed. Emma runs a finger along the back of her knuckles, and Daphne watches the movement. She knows her sisters would do anything for her.
Anything except stay.
But tonight, they’re here. They lie down on their sleeping bags and whisper late into the night. This is a sacred place. A place that is not out in the world, where they have to keep up appearances, or in the house, where they have to watch their every step. Here, in the dark, they can say all the dangerous true things they keep locked away from the light.
Juliette falls asleep first. She always seems so exhausted these days. Emma drifts off next, but Daphne looks up at the roof. There are gaps in the boards, and through them she can see a tiny sliver of starry sky. She has memorized the constellations, but she can’t see enough to pick them out.
Pressure in her bladder forces her to move. She nudges Emma until her sister sleepily scoots out of the way of the ladder, and Daphne scurries down. She runs barefoot across the lawn and slips in the back door.
There’s a set of boots in the mud room. Men’s boots, covered in gray dust. A shirt is draped over the edge of the utility sink. Her curiosity is like silt at the bottom of a stream, stirred up by a probing stick. Her needs forgotten, she drifts deeper into the house. There’s someone standing in the great room, hands on his hips, looking down at the piano.
A floorboard creaks under her and the man turns. Dim light falls over his face, illuminating the eyes as blue as hers.
“Hello, Daphne. You’re up late,” he tells her, as if she doesn’t know. He doesn’t look at her any differently from how he looks at her sisters, though he’s smart enough to add up forty weeks and wonder. That’s all right with Daphne. Having one father is bad enough.
“I needed to use the bathroom,” Daphne says. He’s wearing his boots, dusty like the ones by the door. Her mother would be angry. Past him, in the hall, the bathroom door is shut; light spills out beneath it. She can hear the water running beyond it.