Page 113 of Play Nice

I push away from the desk, and a sharp pain ignites my forearm. The blister. It’s split open. My skin curls back, releasing iridescent ooze.

Footsteps. Upstairs. Coming downstairs.

Panicked, I stumble out of the study and into the kitchen, get a glass down.

“Clio?” It’s Amy. She wears a matching pajama set patterned with berries. Her hair is pulled back in a French braid. She looks like she’s coming from a sleepover.

“Oh, hey,” I say, my voice high and squeaky, giving away my anxiety. I clear my throat. I fill the glass with water from the fridge. “Sorry, did I wake you?”

She shakes her head. “I’ve had trouble sleeping lately. Daphne thinks I should try these CBD gummies, but I don’t know.”

“What about melatonin?” I ask. I offer her the water.

“I tried. No luck,” she says, accepting the glass. “Thank you, Cli.”

We haven’t spoken since Memorial Day. She doesn’t know what to say to me, and I have nothing to say to her. Except maybe Is my father about to try to have me committed? But I know she wouldn’t answer me. All she’d do is go right upstairs and tell him. Then he’d confront me. It would escalate. I’d try to defend myself and get frustrated and cause a scene that would then be cited as proof that I’m unhinged and need help. Crazy is quicksand.

I can’t mention the demon or Mom or the house. I can’t do anything but apologize. Play nice.

“I’m sorry about the barbecue,” I say, hoping she can’t detect the glaring insincerity. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

Her eyes well up and she puts a hand to her heart. “Thank you, Clio. I know you didn’t. I know.”

“We’re okay, then?”

“Of course,” she says. “Are you okay? We’re worried about you.”

“So I’ve heard,” I say. “But you know me, Amy. When have I ever not been okay?”

She opens her mouth to say something, then changes her mind.

I fake a yawn. “I should get back to sleep.”

“That sounds like a good idea,” she says.

I give her a hug and go upstairs to my room, locking the door behind me. In the soft, warm light of the lamp on my bedside table, I examine my burn.

Skin puckers around where the blister burst. I reach out to touch it, graze it with my fingertips. There’s a sheen to it. I’m still oozing. I stare as the ooze goes from watery clear to yellow to pink to viscous red. Blood.

I grab my towel off the floor and press it to the wound, which is difficult because my hand is shaking. A deep breath.

When have I ever not been okay?

I gently pat away the blood, the ooze, the color. Now the burn looks like a pale eye staring back at me. Watching.

Hello.

31

Dad sits at the kitchen table reading a newspaper. There’s coffee, creamer, bagels, butter, cream cheese.

He sets the paper down. “Good morning.”

“Morning.” I give him a big, toothy smile. Resentment clanks against the prison of my teeth.

“You’re rested?”

“Yeah, I’m rested. Fresh as a peppermint.”