just shook her head and marched off.
Leelee called after her, but she dared not look back.
Inside the RV, Ebbie—short for Abner—slept on his side on the pull-out couch. The couch had long developed a cruel lean, and it looked like it would soon spill him out onto the floor.
Kayla crept in and placed the flowers she had picked—just a handful of early spring tulips coming up out there amongst the trees—on an overturned bucket next to Ebbie’s head.
“The hell are you doing?”
Kayla spun around, her heart jackknifing inside her chest as Cecelia appeared—skinny, eyes ringed with shadows (both real and painted on), long dark hair draped over a ratty old robe. She looked like she had just awakened, even though it was already coming up on the middle of the day. Dad didn’t let anybody sleep past seven (or six if he was in a mood)—anybody except Cecelia, who did whatever she wanted, whenever she wanted it.
“Shh,” Kayla said, pressing a finger to her lips.
Cecelia waved her off. “Whatever. That blubbery dipshit wouldn’t wake up if you stuck a firecracker in his ear and let it explode.”
As it to confirm this, Ebbie grunted, groaned, then pulled the sheet up around his chin. When he moved, Kayla could more easily see the square patch of gauze covering the wound on his neck. Her father’s voice echoed in her head: You should be ashamed of yourself, little girl .
Kayla tried not to think about it.
“You should be nicer to him,” she said, instead. “He likes you.”
“He also likes Snickers bars. In fact, I think he likes those a lot more than he likes me,” Cecelia said, poking around the vehicle’s interior—kitchenette countertop, seat cushions, console dashboard. “Gimme one of your cigarettes.”
“I’m out.” She paused, decided to tell her the truth: “Dad threw my last one in the lake. Food for the catfish.”
Cecelia eyed her up, obviously suspicious. That wasn’t unusual: Cecelia was suspicious of everything and everyone. Years back, her father told her that people like that—people who can’t trust, who always think the worst of everybody—act that way because they themselves can’t be trusted. Most people, he said, figured they were as good as or better than all the other folks around them. So, bad people couldn’t ever see the good in folks because they were the only example. Funny, then, how her father couldn’t see the same in Cecelia. Funny too how he’d become like that—suspicious all the time—ever since the world went to Hell.
The woman came up on her, stood in front of her, looking down. Her breath smelled like mouthwash—did her father sneak her some? Or did she have a stash of it somewhere in the Winnebago? Kayla felt privy to too many secrets already. She knew that Ebbie had a cache of candy and junk food in the back of one of the RV’s luggage compartments. She knew that sometimes Leelee went off by herself to just cry—not just cry a little but great big heaping gulps, the kind of sobs that wrack your body and hollow you out. Given how the woman was normally a rock, normally so level-headed, that was not comforting news.
Cecelia, ironically, bent down and tried to smell Kayla’s breath. It wasn’t subtle. Nothing about Cecelia was.
“Guess you’re telling the truth,” she said to Kayla, apparently satisfied that she wasn’t catching any whiff of recent cancer intake . “Your Daddy’s too much of a goody-goody.” The corners of her mouth turned to a salacious smile. “Though not when he’s with me.”
Outside, as if on cue: two gunshots—reports from the rifle. Kayla felt her heart kick, and she turned to pull back the curtains on the little porthole window, but Cecelia grabbed her hand.
“He’s just out hunting,” she said. “Calm down, little girl.”
Little girl .
“You don’t call me that,” Kayla said. “Hell, you’re not but five years older than me. You don’t get to talk down to me.”
Cecelia ignored her. “Your
Leelee called after her, but she dared not look back.
Inside the RV, Ebbie—short for Abner—slept on his side on the pull-out couch. The couch had long developed a cruel lean, and it looked like it would soon spill him out onto the floor.
Kayla crept in and placed the flowers she had picked—just a handful of early spring tulips coming up out there amongst the trees—on an overturned bucket next to Ebbie’s head.
“The hell are you doing?”
Kayla spun around, her heart jackknifing inside her chest as Cecelia appeared—skinny, eyes ringed with shadows (both real and painted on), long dark hair draped over a ratty old robe. She looked like she had just awakened, even though it was already coming up on the middle of the day. Dad didn’t let anybody sleep past seven (or six if he was in a mood)—anybody except Cecelia, who did whatever she wanted, whenever she wanted it.
“Shh,” Kayla said, pressing a finger to her lips.
Cecelia waved her off. “Whatever. That blubbery dipshit wouldn’t wake up if you stuck a firecracker in his ear and let it explode.”
As it to confirm this, Ebbie grunted, groaned, then pulled the sheet up around his chin. When he moved, Kayla could more easily see the square patch of gauze covering the wound on his neck. Her father’s voice echoed in her head: You should be ashamed of yourself, little girl .
Kayla tried not to think about it.
“You should be nicer to him,” she said, instead. “He likes you.”
“He also likes Snickers bars. In fact, I think he likes those a lot more than he likes me,” Cecelia said, poking around the vehicle’s interior—kitchenette countertop, seat cushions, console dashboard. “Gimme one of your cigarettes.”
“I’m out.” She paused, decided to tell her the truth: “Dad threw my last one in the lake. Food for the catfish.”
Cecelia eyed her up, obviously suspicious. That wasn’t unusual: Cecelia was suspicious of everything and everyone. Years back, her father told her that people like that—people who can’t trust, who always think the worst of everybody—act that way because they themselves can’t be trusted. Most people, he said, figured they were as good as or better than all the other folks around them. So, bad people couldn’t ever see the good in folks because they were the only example. Funny, then, how her father couldn’t see the same in Cecelia. Funny too how he’d become like that—suspicious all the time—ever since the world went to Hell.
The woman came up on her, stood in front of her, looking down. Her breath smelled like mouthwash—did her father sneak her some? Or did she have a stash of it somewhere in the Winnebago? Kayla felt privy to too many secrets already. She knew that Ebbie had a cache of candy and junk food in the back of one of the RV’s luggage compartments. She knew that sometimes Leelee went off by herself to just cry—not just cry a little but great big heaping gulps, the kind of sobs that wrack your body and hollow you out. Given how the woman was normally a rock, normally so level-headed, that was not comforting news.
Cecelia, ironically, bent down and tried to smell Kayla’s breath. It wasn’t subtle. Nothing about Cecelia was.
“Guess you’re telling the truth,” she said to Kayla, apparently satisfied that she wasn’t catching any whiff of recent cancer intake . “Your Daddy’s too much of a goody-goody.” The corners of her mouth turned to a salacious smile. “Though not when he’s with me.”
Outside, as if on cue: two gunshots—reports from the rifle. Kayla felt her heart kick, and she turned to pull back the curtains on the little porthole window, but Cecelia grabbed her hand.
“He’s just out hunting,” she said. “Calm down, little girl.”
Little girl .
“You don’t call me that,” Kayla said. “Hell, you’re not but five years older than me. You don’t get to talk down to me.”
Cecelia ignored her. “Your
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