I snort. “When does Paisley ever feel small?”
To my surprise, Beck snickers. “Paisley? God, you and your friends really didn’t see the real her, did you? You must know Paisley’s been trying for years to break into screen acting, right?” When I nod, she continues. “Did she ever tell you about the HBO comedy she was auditioning for back in September?”
Paisley goes on so many auditions that it takes me a second to remember. “She got past one round before being cut.”
Beck slows our brisk walk to a leisurely one, like we need to focus on her words more than on getting where we’re going. “Emma, she was one of the last two people they were picking from. They said noto her because one of the highest-level executives said she looked too old to play a teenager. She wasseventeen,and they said that to her face. She was obsessed with following in my mom’s footsteps and both my parents encouraged it. In her mind, sheneededto book a series playing a teenager by age eighteen. Then they rejected her like that. She’d gone through so many acting lessons and so much vocal training and dance training all to be told she’d never get a role in the only demographic that wants her? That broke her. Paisley may have ruled the roost with your group, but she felt like a fucking train wreck.”
Any self-pity that had been building sheds away with Beck’s words, leaving me with a lingering sense of curiosity.
It’s not Paisley’s insecurity that strikes me, although that is a surprise.
It’s how she lied about her feelings for years.
Did Harlow and Opal know this and I didn’t? No. There’s no way she would’ve kept up the confident front for just me.
It makes sense, though. Too much sense. Like Paisley is some textbook bully who takes her issues out on easy targets. I keep walking in silence, letting the reality settle into my bones. It makes sense, but it also feels too simple for Paisley Horne. She was so much more than just her acting aspirations. She was a great chemistry student and would always share her perfectly written notes with us. She loved fashion and would bore us to death talking endlessly about current design trends as we moved through stores in which I couldn’t dream of affording anything. She really liked soup, so much so that she would try out new recipes all the time and we’d all send memes when autumn came around, tagging her in them.
Could she have ever grown out of what she did to both Beck and me, of making us feel bad to make her feel better?
What if she didn’t? And what if her dying prevented us from even more years of this psychological torture?
We round the corner onto the last stretch of trail before we hit the spot.
It’s a sober reminder that makes my skin crawl; we’re talking shit about a dead girl.
“Beck…” I inhale sharply. “We’re gonna be there soon.”
Beck’s gaze falls ahead. I wonder if she’s trying to escape the moment or wants to face it head on. “Thanks.”
“You really think she felt like a train wreck?” I ask, my voice soft.
Beck’s expression darkens. “Paisley was…really bad after she failed that audition. She took it out on me and I snapped. I told her she should quit. And uh…” Beck inhales sharply. “We were fighting in my bedroom and she took this glass volleyball trophy off the shelf and threw it at me, telling me to take it back.”
My eyes widen as the horror washes over me.
It’s one thing for sisters to verbally lash out at each other, for siblings to get into physical tussles when they’re children.
It’s a whole other thing to chuck a glass paperweight at another adult human being.
I force myself to start talking again. “She could’ve—”Killed you.
“Yeah, it hit my hip. Didn’t bleed as much as if it’d hit my head, but it was awful.”
“Oh my god, Beck.” I stop walking. But Beck keeps going. “What did your parents say?”
I catch up to her, both of us now moving at a fast, we’re-trying-to-escape-something clip.
She massages her throat again. “Nothing, really. My dad took me to the ER and when I was getting my stitches, I told them she needed togo to a mental health facility. He and my mom agreed, but then Paisley apologized to me and started acting normal again. They let it go.”
My own throat grows heavy looking at her.
I’ve now known of Paisley’s cruelty to her sister for a few days, but the physical violence still has me feeling numb and useless as I try to think of something to say. But what do you say to someone who experiences trauma like that at the hands of someone who’s now dead? And god, I know Mr. and Mrs. Horne are distracted by their own lives, but how could you ignore your child clearly needing a major mental health intervention?
What does it say about me that I never noticed anything that off with Paisley? Should I have seen the signs of her struggle and tried to help her before she got to a point where she was hurting Beck over a lost role? After so long thinking how shitty a friend Paisley was, I feel like the shittiest friend in the world.
“I’m so sorry,” I say.
We both know it’s not enough.
