Page 105 of Play Nice

“Oh my God,” Daphne says, holding her head in her hands. “Oh my fucking God. Not this again. Not this…”

“Ignore her. She’s just saying this to spite us,” Leda says. “To make us upset. To make us worry about her. She just wants the attention.”

“I don’t need it from you,” I say, sliding out of the booth.

“She’s just like her,” Leda mutters to herself. “She’s just like her.”

“Where are you going?” Daphne calls after me.

“Home.”

29

Before leaving the city, I buy a new sketchpad, some Sharpies, a bottle of vodka, a pack of cigarettes, and a hot pink lighter. When I get to Edgewood, I spread them out on the dining table, a grim but oddly satisfying tableau. I’m compelled to capture the image, so I do.

Dad calls me while I’m editing the photo, adjusting the brightness, and before I think better of it, I hit answer.

“Clio, your sisters told me about today,” he says. “What’s going on?”

“You knew that Mom didn’t burn me,” I say, picking up my new lighter, turning it over in my hand. “They lied to me. You lied to me. Everyone’s lying. That’s the irony. The only one telling the truth in this family is me. And I’m the one no one believes.”

“Clio, I’m coming over there to pick you up. Enough is enough.”

“Don’t. I have plans tonight.”

“ ‘Plans’?”

“With a guy. So don’t show up here. You wouldn’t want to interrupt, would you?” I hang up before he can respond. I’m confident that I’ve deterred him, considering the awkward note and condom wrapper incident from a few weeks ago nearly sent him into cardiac arrest.

I put my phone down and light a cigarette. Take a drag.

Cough.

The stale taste of tobacco, the sting of smoke in my throat—it’s horrendous, and I hate it, so I take another drag. Another. Another before I stub it out on the table.

The rebellion doesn’t feel good, not like I wanted it to. I stare at the pack of Marlboros, something ugly that I thought I could have control over, that I could wield in my hands and feel powerful again. But I don’t feel powerful at all.

Dad and Daphne think I’m crazy. Leda and Tommy think I have a personality disorder. Mom is dead.

I open the bottle of vodka and take a swig. Unlike the cigarette, I like the way it burns.

I begin tearing out pages from the sketchpad. Slowly, methodically, careful not to rip them along the seam. I lay one out on the dining table, along with a Sharpie. One on the kitchen island. The coffee table. Daphne and Leda’s room. Mom’s room.

My room.

It’s cold in here. I set the blank sheet of paper and Sharpie on the bed.

Staring at the blank sheet, I’m reminded of something in the book.

I drop to my knees, check under the bed for the plastic bin where I would keep my drawings.

It’s still there.

I pull it out and open it up, releasing a cloud of thick, gray dust. Inside the bin are stacks of sketchpads and notebooks and loose sheets of paper. School art projects. Random drawings on napkins. There’s a manila folder and, inside it, my illustrations of the house. Must be twenty, at least.

I place them in neat rows on the carpet. I want to see them all.

I would do this a lot as a kid. Draw the same subject over and over in pursuit of perfection. I remember drawing these. I remember being frustrated, feeling like I could never get the house quite right.