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“It wasn’t an accident,” said Cricket. “You know it wasn’t.”
Finally, they pulled in front of Libby’s house and brought the car to a stop in the short driveway. Hannah half helped, half dragged Libby from the back seat. The house was dark and quiet, the porch light burning. Hannah knew where she lived because she used to go to Camp Fire Girl meetings there; Mrs. Cruz, Libby’s mom had been the group leader.
“Help me,” said Hannah, breaking Cricket from her fog of self-pity.
Cricket came and helped Hannah drag Libby up the walkway.
“Stop,” said Libby in a hoarse whisper. “Let me go.”
“You’re almost home,” soothed Hannah.
They were sweating from the effort in the spring evening when they got to the front door, which they found unlocked. Together they struggled to get her inside, knocking loudly against a console table, tripping heavily over a runner. Finally, they lay her down on the couch. As they were doing that, a light came on and Libby’s mom came down, even roused from sleep she looked pretty, put together in a floral robe, thick hair nearly perfect. Mrs. Cruz taught ballet at a studio in town.
“What’s going on?” she asked, flipping on the living room lights.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Cruz,” said Hannah. “We were at a party. I think Libby had too much to drink.”
“What?” she said, putting her hand to her chest. “Libby doesn’tdrink. She’s sixteen.”
Hannah nodded. “She did tonight. Maybe that explains why it hit her so hard.”
Mrs. Cruz moved over to her daughter, kneeling down beside her. “Libby? Libby honey.”
“Mom,” Libby said, and started to cry. Mrs. Cruz took her daughter into her arms.
“She got sick,” Hannah said. She was only half aware that in putting Libby in the shower, she was washing away evidence of Mickey. “We cleaned her up and brought her home.”
Mrs. Cruz turned angry eyes on Hannah. “Whose party was this? Were there adults present? I thought she was at her friend Beth’s studying.”
“We have to go, Mrs. Cruz,” said Cricket, pulling Hannah out the door. “We’re past curfew to bring Libby home. I hope she feels better.”
Libby drew her mother’s attention by throwing up again, and Mrs. Cruz turned back to her daughter. Cricket and Hannah ran for the car, got in and drove off quickly.
They drove in silence, Hannah’s mind spinning. Mickey, Libby, Boots, the house, the party, how screwed they were.
“I hate him,” said Cricket softly. “I was a virgin when we met. He was my first.”
“I know,” said Hannah. “I’m sorry.”
Second time I’ve heard that tonight, she thought but didn’t say.
She wanted to tell Cricket other things about her brother, things she’d carried since they were little, things she’d seen. But she couldn’t. It was all locked up in a box labeled Do Not Tell.Your number one job as siblings is to always protect and take care of each other. One day your father and I will be gone and you’ll be everything to each other.Her mother had said that a hundred, a million times.
“Why do you do it?” asked Cricket. “Why do you cover up for him all the time?”
“He’s my brother,” she said.
“Blood is thicker than water?”
“What does that even mean?” Hannah said, thinking of the blood all over her parents’ bed.
“It means that no matter what he does, you’ll always side with him, like tonight. Clean up after him, cover for him.”
The roads were quiet, dark. It was late, after midnight. The headlights cut the night as they wound up her street.
“You said yourself that she was hitting on him. We don’t know what happened,” said Hannah.
She felt Cricket’s eyes, the weight of her silence. The truth was that they both knew what Mickey was capable of. They both knew that Libby wasn’t lying. Neither one of them said another word.
