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I will never forget.
Breath is trapped in my constricting lungs. I fist the lock tight in my hand, then I throw it into the lake. It makes a pitiful plop before sinking deep.
When I return to the blanket, Amelia gives me a side hug. “Doesn’t it feel good to let that lock go?”
I just nod. Not sure what else to say. Amelia never had to throw a lock in the lake. She was cursed the year she would’ve been required to place hers there.
Amelia Roberts
Cursed at Age 18
Acquired a sudden and severe allergy to latex overnight
For Amelia’s eighteenth birthday, her mom threw an indoor tea party, complete with an archway of rose gold balloons. Ten minutes after Amelia’s arm brushed the latex balloon, her throat started swelling.
Luckily, another girl at the party carried EpiPens for her peanut allergy. Amelia’s dad administered the epinephrine.
“She’s been cursed then,” Anna Roberts said. “Right at eighteen.”
Parents love when their children are cursed exactly at eighteen—the age when curses can begin. There are no years of uncertainty. Of worrying. They know what curse has befallen their child, and that’s that.
But knowing isn’t always better. I can see that clearly in my sister.
I’ll never forget the panic in Amelia’s eyes when her mom announced that she was cursed. She was more frightened of her mother catching her in a lie than of her near-death brush with latex.
Only I knew the truth at that time.
Only I know the truth now.
Anna thought her daughter was a boring, saintly virgin, but Amelia hooked up with Patrick King in the backseat of his car in eleventh grade.
His latex condom gave her such a bad allergic reaction; she had mascara running down her face—crying about how she was going to die from a dick. We used to laugh about the misadventure. Where I had to drive her out of Mistpoint Harbor to a nearby hospital. Just so her parents would never find out.
And then her birthday party happened, and we stopped laughing. Because the latex allergy mushroomed into the biggest lie.
The two of us knew she had the allergy before she turned eighteen. It couldn’t be her curse. But we let Anna Roberts write this one in the books. We let her parents and the entire town believe that Amelia is a virginal, do-gooder daughter who’d never lie.
And though Amelia is mostly convinced she’s outwitted the powers of the town—that misfortune has skipped over her—I know she’s a little scared. Or else she wouldn’t be casting side-eyes at Zoey like she’s an axe-wielding serial killer.
On the beach, the Lock Ceremony continues with those not cursed yet.
Zoey rises from the blanket. With one brief glimpse back at me, she leaves for the fence.
The urge to rush to her side overwhelms my senses. I claw my fingers into the sand beside me. Let her go.
From afar, I watch Zoey take out the blue locket from my childhood diary. My heart swells a little, knowing this is the locket she’ll have on the fence. The locket that represents her being free of a curse.
For now.
Dread creeps up my spine.
She unties the ribbon from her wrist. Just to retie the ribbon to the lock. Some eighteen-year-old locals click their locks onto the fence like Zoey.
Out of the corner of my eye, I suddenly see Parry DiNapoli approaching our blanket.
Amelia bristles. “This is why we shouldn’t be hanging around Zoey. She attracts fleas.”
“Go hang out with my sister then.”
Babette is lounging with one of the larger groups of twenty-somethings around a firepit. Chatting and drinking wine.
Amelia eyes them before sighing. “I suppose I should make an appearance.” She wanders off, and I’m aware that as much of a pain in the ass as she can be, Amelia Roberts is an introvert at heart who really only has one friend.
Me.
And really, she’s been my closest friend these past years too.
Parry raises his brows as he watches Amelia make a quick exit. “I’d ask if I smelled but I’m pretty sure Amelia would call me garbage.”
“Landfill,” I correct.
“Perfect,” he says dryly in a wince. The carnation crown pushes back pieces of his blond hair. Babette used to have the biggest crush on Parry when she was eleven, for his looks alone. She’d theorize that his hair would be light brown or darker if he weren’t always in the sun. She’d ooh and awe whenever she saw him from a distance.
“He is just so beautiful,” she’d decree. “Like a fine wine.” She’d make a chef’s kiss gesture with her fingers.
I was thirteen. At her age, she enjoyed slipping into adult conversations, but she was still a child. The only wine she ever had was at mass, and when I mentioned that, she’d often rebut with, “Maybe he tastes better than the blood of Christ.”
“And you’ll never know, Baby. He’s gay.”
