Page 157 of Savage Surrender

Inside, the boxes take over the front room. Freddie sets out plates. Megan sits cross-legged on the rug and starts opening one before Mom has taken off her shoes.

“That one is private,” Mom says.

“Then you shouldn’t have written Bianca private in giant letters.”

“Megan Anne.”

She looks at me. “Why does your mother know my full name?”

I laugh and drop beside her. We pull the flaps open, and the first layer is harmless: a stack of notebooks, two framed photographs, the stuffed bee Winston won for me at a carnival. Dad settles onto the couch. Mom sits beside him, close enough that their thighs touch, though neither reaches for the other.

I hand the bee to Winston, who reminds everyone that I bit the booth attendant when he tried to give me a frog instead.

“I was four, and I hated frogs because you put one in the bath with me!”

Winston bursts into laughter.

Owen takes the stuffed animal from Winston and inspects one flattened wing. “She still bites when she’s angry.”

Freddie crouches behind me with a plate balanced on one knee. He reaches into the box, probably looking for more evidence of childhood violence, and pulls out a folded green-and-white jersey.

His smile disappears.

“No fucking way.”

The number across the back has cracked with age. My entire body goes hot before he unfolds it far enough to show his last name.

Megan reaches. “An old jersey?”

Freddie holds it out of range. “I spent half my junior year accusing Michael of taking this.”

“Maybe he did?”

“It’s suspiciously in your box, baby.”

“That proves nothing.”

Freddie catches the hem and pulls the jersey over my head before I can stop him. The cracked number settles across my chest.

The collar catches beneath my chin. I yank it straight, which only makes Freddie’s last name more obvious while half my family watches. Excellent. Exactly how I wanted him to learn I spent puberty stealing his clothes.

Owen leans over my shoulder and sees a sleeve trapped beneath the notebooks. His hand goes in. I try to close the flap on his wrist, but he’s annoyingly stronger than cardboard.

“Whatever you think you see is a trick of the light.”

He pulls out a black hoodie. The sleeves used to hang past my hands.

Owen stares at it, then at me. “You stole this? I looked for it for two years.”

“You left it at our house. It was abandoned property.”

“You helped me look for it.”

I did. Then I went home and slept in the thing. Fourteen-year-old me was a dick.

Winston makes a strangled sound from behind the stuffed bee. Clara takes it away from him before he crushes it against his face.

“I remember that!” Winston says. “You convinced him Mom donated it to the thrift store and he made me go look with him every day for three weeks.”