pressed the button to fill her cup.
Glug glug
went the water;
glug glug
went Papa as he hic-cuped laughter. “Joannie,” he said, stretching her name into something terrifying. “Don’t you love your papa?”
Yes. But her real papa wouldn’t be scaring her like this. Her real papa wouldn’t have wrapped Mama in a black blanket and squeezed her until there was only a spill of bright, wet red on the ground and an empty thing that used to smile and laugh and call her “My precious Jet.”
“Go away,” she whispered to the monster that was her father.
“Joannnnnieeeee …”
“Go away!”
“You broke the rules, Joannie.”
She shivered, cradled her arms around her legs and rocked, wishing the floor would swallow her up. He was going to hurt her. He was going to rip open the door and grab her and shake her and squeeze her, no matter how much she cried for him to stop.
Stop
, her mama had screamed.
For the love of Jehovah, stop!
But he hadn’t, not even when Mama had used his private just-between-Blackout-and-Angelica names.
George
, her mama had shrieked,
please! Stop!
And then came the crunching sounds, like leaves in the autumn, caught underfoot.
“You’re a bad girl, Joannie. You broke the rules, didn’t you?”
She swallowed, felt hot stabs of guilt and shame in her belly and her heart.
“Come out, girl, and take your punishment like a good Squadron soldier. I won’t hurt you.”
She covered her ears, thinking,
Liar, liar, pants on fire …
The closet doorknob rattled. “Time to come out. Give Papa a hug.”
Like the way he’d hugged Mama, just before. Papa had wrapped bands of blackness around Angelica and squeezed. Maybe her mama had thought he was joking at first, and that was why she hadn’t fought until it was toolate. Maybe, even as the inky strips had squeezed Angelica like a hungry snake, maybe she thought he was just kidding, playing Bad Guys the way they did with Joannie. Because Angelica didn’t cry at first, not even when the black bands squeezed too much—she’d waited, with a patient smile, as if she knew that Blackout would stop and everything would be okay, because he would never hurt her, not really …
At least, that was what Joannie thought her mama had been thinking. That was what it had looked like to Joannie, who’d been standing in the kitchen, sneaking a third cookie before dinner. Sneaking, like a thief. Taking something that she knew she wasn’t supposed to have.
Papa had seen the crumbs on the floor. And that was when he’d gone all scary Shadow and had started yelling at her. And when Angelica tried to calm him down with her Light touch, like how she’d do for Joannie when Joannie was a baby and crying when the things in the dark whispered to her, that was when Blackout let the shadows out and made them hug Mama.
Wrapping her arms around her legs, keening softly, Joannie understood, deep in her soul, that this was all her fault. If she hadn’t been sneaking, stealing, this wouldn’t have happened.
“Joannie, are you going to make me come in there?”
She swallowed, said nothing.
“Here I come, Joannie. Here … I … come!”
That was what he’d said to her after he’d dropped Mama to the ground—empty, misshapen, broken. Bleeding. Joannie didn’t even really see Angelica’s body—she was too busy scrambling for the Panic Button next to the comlink on the wall. She skidded in a pool of thick, red wetness and banged her small fist against the big red button—the one thing she was told never, ever to do unless someone was hurt because the button was a Serious Thing, and if she didit just for fun, she’d get into so much trouble that she’d never sit down for a whole week.
Remember
, Angelica had told her from the time she was little,
no touching the Panic Button unless it’s an Emergency.
She’d taught Joannie that “Emergency” meant they needed the heroes to come, fast.
She really needed the heroes to come, right now, and make
Glug glug
went the water;
glug glug
went Papa as he hic-cuped laughter. “Joannie,” he said, stretching her name into something terrifying. “Don’t you love your papa?”
Yes. But her real papa wouldn’t be scaring her like this. Her real papa wouldn’t have wrapped Mama in a black blanket and squeezed her until there was only a spill of bright, wet red on the ground and an empty thing that used to smile and laugh and call her “My precious Jet.”
“Go away,” she whispered to the monster that was her father.
“Joannnnnieeeee …”
“Go away!”
“You broke the rules, Joannie.”
She shivered, cradled her arms around her legs and rocked, wishing the floor would swallow her up. He was going to hurt her. He was going to rip open the door and grab her and shake her and squeeze her, no matter how much she cried for him to stop.
Stop
, her mama had screamed.
For the love of Jehovah, stop!
But he hadn’t, not even when Mama had used his private just-between-Blackout-and-Angelica names.
George
, her mama had shrieked,
please! Stop!
And then came the crunching sounds, like leaves in the autumn, caught underfoot.
“You’re a bad girl, Joannie. You broke the rules, didn’t you?”
She swallowed, felt hot stabs of guilt and shame in her belly and her heart.
“Come out, girl, and take your punishment like a good Squadron soldier. I won’t hurt you.”
She covered her ears, thinking,
Liar, liar, pants on fire …
The closet doorknob rattled. “Time to come out. Give Papa a hug.”
Like the way he’d hugged Mama, just before. Papa had wrapped bands of blackness around Angelica and squeezed. Maybe her mama had thought he was joking at first, and that was why she hadn’t fought until it was toolate. Maybe, even as the inky strips had squeezed Angelica like a hungry snake, maybe she thought he was just kidding, playing Bad Guys the way they did with Joannie. Because Angelica didn’t cry at first, not even when the black bands squeezed too much—she’d waited, with a patient smile, as if she knew that Blackout would stop and everything would be okay, because he would never hurt her, not really …
At least, that was what Joannie thought her mama had been thinking. That was what it had looked like to Joannie, who’d been standing in the kitchen, sneaking a third cookie before dinner. Sneaking, like a thief. Taking something that she knew she wasn’t supposed to have.
Papa had seen the crumbs on the floor. And that was when he’d gone all scary Shadow and had started yelling at her. And when Angelica tried to calm him down with her Light touch, like how she’d do for Joannie when Joannie was a baby and crying when the things in the dark whispered to her, that was when Blackout let the shadows out and made them hug Mama.
Wrapping her arms around her legs, keening softly, Joannie understood, deep in her soul, that this was all her fault. If she hadn’t been sneaking, stealing, this wouldn’t have happened.
“Joannie, are you going to make me come in there?”
She swallowed, said nothing.
“Here I come, Joannie. Here … I … come!”
That was what he’d said to her after he’d dropped Mama to the ground—empty, misshapen, broken. Bleeding. Joannie didn’t even really see Angelica’s body—she was too busy scrambling for the Panic Button next to the comlink on the wall. She skidded in a pool of thick, red wetness and banged her small fist against the big red button—the one thing she was told never, ever to do unless someone was hurt because the button was a Serious Thing, and if she didit just for fun, she’d get into so much trouble that she’d never sit down for a whole week.
Remember
, Angelica had told her from the time she was little,
no touching the Panic Button unless it’s an Emergency.
She’d taught Joannie that “Emergency” meant they needed the heroes to come, fast.
She really needed the heroes to come, right now, and make
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