Betwixt by Tara Bray Smith

children would never use.
    Morgana.
    She began to cry: a hysterical, sobbing wail that never, somehow, ended in tears. She was eight or nine then, and though K.A.
     was a full year and a half younger, it was he who comforted her that day, led her out of the woods, and told her he was sorry
     for playing a dirty trick on her. From that day on, Morgan never played in the woods again. If their mother told her to get
     K.A. for dinner, she’d stand at the edge of the trees and call him in.She never went beyond the first branches for fear of hearing the voices.
    “Sweetheart, why don’t you take this coat —”
    Morgan was interrupted by her mother bringing one of her old blazers from her married days out onto the porch. Yvonne held
     a lit cigarette in her hand and her voice was husky. Morgan knew she’d already had a beer or two in bed, watching television.
    “Because it smells like an ashtray.”
    Yvonne stood above her daughter, the coat limp in her hands.
    “Jesus. Do you think you could be nice to me for a few minutes? I’m just trying to help.”
    “No, you’re trying to stand outside with me until Ondine comes.” She turned her head to her mother and a passing car illuminated
     a thin-lipped smile. “That’s all right. My friends are your friends, Mother.”
    Morgan looked at the woman standing. Yvonne had changed into a pair of hip-hugger jeans and a fashionable, though tight, pink
     sweater. In the half dark they looked almost the same age — Yvonne eighteen years older than her daughter.
    “Looks like you’ve even dressed for a party. Except your fupa is showing.”
    Draping the coat over the porch railing, Yvonne took a drag off her cigarette, and eyed the girl sitting on the steps.
    “I’m going to Carla’s, smartass. And don’t think I don’t know what you’re talking about.
Fupa.
” She tugged at the jeans that bulged below her belly. “Sometimes you’re a real bitch, Morgan.”
    The girl ignored her. “Oh, you’re not going to try to crash this party like you did the last one? Well, maybe I’ll run into
     you later at the Laurelthirst. That’s where your personal bartender works, isn’t it? What is he — nineteen?”
    “He’s twenty-seven. And he has a name. Todd, remember?”
    “Right.
Todd.
” Morgan sniffed and turned to face the road. “It’s disgusting.” She looked her mother up and down. “You’re hardly Demi Moore.”
    Yvonne stared. “You are so cruel. How did you get to be so cruel?”
    Morgan ignored her, but it was hard. Somewhere inside she asked herself:
How did I get to be so cruel?
And she heard the voices in the forest.
Morgana.
    She dug into her purse for her mirror, a habit she had of looking at herself, as if to make sure she was still there, still
     the same person. A car had appeared down the road and was now pulling up the gravel driveway leading to the D’Amici house.
     Yvonne watched her daughter’s expression melt into sweetness. She had seen her do it before when friends came to the house.
     The girls would be passionate friends for a few weeks, a month,maybe, then the girl would disappear. Yvonne would ask about it and Morgan would say they’d had a fight and she didn’t like
     the bitch anymore. It never seemed to affect the girl’s popularity, though. There was something so charming, so weightless
     about Morgan. Nothing stuck. Accusations slid off the dark-haired beauty and there was always yet another fawning girl to
     bring around. The latest, Neve, the pale, pretty daughter of Jacob Clowes, who owned Jacob’s Pizza, had lasted the longest.
    Shame
he
was married, Yvonne thought.
    This wasn’t Neve, though. It was Ondine, Morgan’s other friend. Two at the same time — some kind of record. Morgan’s interest
     in Ondine Mason seemed different, though. Less bored, more intrigued. Cropped ink-jet photos of Ondine lined her walls. Every
     time the girl called, Morgan took the call alone, in her room, careful to shut the door. It was as