Page 1 of What’s Left of Us

Chapter 1

now

My hair is blue and here’s why: Mom asked me to attend Phoebe Blake’s wedding. It’s a horrific ask—and she knows that—but Mom so rarely asks for anything at all. I suspect she’s working on expressing her needs with her therapist, so it’d be monstrous to deny her.

I didn’t say no to Phoebe’s wedding.

I did, however, say yes to a discount box of royal blue hair dye. Applying it was messier than I expected, and there’s a deep blue stain on my temple that makeup won’t cover. But it’s done. I hardly look like myself, and it makes faking a smile a bit easier. I practice in the fogged mirror of my bathroom, pulling my lips up at the corners, before applying red lipstick. It’s a poor choice—too brash with the already shocking hair, but I don’t change it.

Instead, I walk past my hanging bridesmaid dress and flop onto my bed. I snag my ukulele from the floor and settle into the pillows. I have no idea how late it is, but I definitely don’t have time to do this. I do it anyway, strumming lazily and staring blankly up at the textured ceiling.

“Violet!” Mom’s steps echo on the stairs.

I don’t respond. I change chord progressions and switch to a slower strum pattern.

Mom calls my name again, and I glance at the alarm clock on my nightstand. It’s the same one I had in my childhood bedroom. I’m not sure why I kept it. The thing is blocky and decades old and one of the numbers barely works. I should throw it out. I will. Just not yet.

According to the retro clock, we’re supposed to leave in two minutes.

“Violet, it’s time to go.” Mom knocks on the door, pausing a whopping two seconds before opening it. “Did you find a pair of shoes or⁠—”

She breaks off mid-sentence. Eyebrows to her hairline, she blinks at me several times before speaking. She and I don’t look alike, even without the blue hair as a factor. She’s dark-haired and brown-eyed and has the most beautifully bronzed skin. Nat looked—looks—just like her. I, on the other hand, have naturally blonde hair and blue eyes and skin so pale I get at least one nasty sunburn per summer.

I look like my father. I wonder if she despises me for it.

“Tell me that’s fake.”

“The blue?” I quirk an eyebrow before glancing down at the wet tips of my hair. “No, it’s natural.”

“Violet, please. Is that permanent dye?”

“Oh. Yes.” My voice is clipped, if only to hide the growing knot in my throat. Part of me wants Mom to yell at me, to ask what’s going on in this demented skull of mine.

Instead, she quietly asks, “You can’t wash it out?”

“Nope. Thought it’d look nice with the dress.”

My bridesmaid dress is blue, but it’s a completely different shade. Phoebe opted for a pale blue, like an early morning sky. It’s the same wedding she described when we were kids. Nat never talked much about getting married, but one time I dragged an answer out of her.

Yellow, she’d said. Her bridesmaids would wear yellow. I’d been upset because that color doesn’t look good with my skin tone. I’d give anything to wear her ugly bridesmaid dress now.

“Violet.” Mom looks like a half-deflated balloon, one needle away from popping. “At least dry it, will you?”

With that, she leaves, her green dress swishing around her ankles as she goes. If I were a good daughter, I’d tell her she looks beautiful. That no one at this wedding will have any idea she cries herself to sleep at night. That I love her, that even if I’m bad at showing it, I’m grateful for all she’s done.

But I’m not a good daughter. I’m not even a particularly good human.

I toss my ukulele to the side and fall back onto my bed. If Nat were here, she’d tell me not to be dramatic. Or at least, young Nat would. The one who was always grabbing my hands and telling me things would get better. She’d say, Stop moping, Violet! This is your chance at happiness—grab it!

The last version of Nat wouldn’t have cared whether I was dramatic or not. She’d only ask if I had fifty bucks to spare, and swear that this time, she’d actually pay me back.

I blink until thoughts of my sister vacate my mind entirely. The only thing that matters now is that she’s not here. She hasn’t been here in five years. She hasn’t been Phoebe’s friend in close to six. Even before she left, she’d become a whisper of herself, and I took too long to notice.

“Violet!” Mom’s voice is far away this time, like she’s downstairs. “Are you ready?”

“Yes!” I scream, but I’m not. I’m studying the bumpy ceiling, trying to find shapes. All I can see are gross cottage cheese lumps. What is that stuff even made out of? Maybe it’s toxic. Maybe it’s the reason I’m still a wreck, all these years later.

With a sigh, I sit up, letting the towel drop. Phoebe’s bridesmaid dress is knee-length. Pretty, modest, delicate. It’s not my style, and I’d rather wear anything else. I suppose I’ve made my point with the hair though, so I slip it on and find an acceptable pair of heels to match.