Freaks and Revelations by Davida Wills Hurwin

instructs Grandpa. “My son is the youngest dancer ever to get Fritz.”
    At dinner, the rest of us are expected to be happy for Davy, so we are. We congratulate him. We are impressed that he had his picture taken today for a newspaper article in the Chronicle . At some point, Marianne asks what I got.
    “A soldier,” I say and smile. “At least you’ll see my face.” Last year I was a mouse and the costume covered me completely. We skip evening prayers to go for ice cream. Mom orders a big bowl of five different flavors and we crowd into the booth in the back corner, each with our own spoon.
    “Sit up!” she orders and we do. “Use your napkins.” She smiles at my brother. “To Davy,” she says, holding up a spoonful of Chocolate Mint. I hold up my French vanilla and smile. I hate Davy right now. It’s so easy for him to be adored. I watch his every move and can never figure out what he does that makes her love him best.
    In silence, we eat.
    “Hey, Mom?” Kaitlyn blurts, “what did Uncle Bobby get arrested for?” We jerk our heads toward her; she barely talks these days.
    “Don’t, Kait,” Marianne whispers.
    Mom sits up straighter, if that’s possible. “Don’t be rude, Kaitlyn. We’re celebrating Davy.”
    “I didn’t know Uncle Bobby got arrested,” I said.
    “Shhh,” Marianne says.
    “Yeah, well, this girl at school is telling everybody he molested a bunch of kids.” Kait pops her spoon in her mouth, speaks through green pistachio ice cream. “I just wanted to know if it’s true.”
    “Keep it up, young lady,” Mom says, standing, glaring at Kaitlyn. “You’ll find yourself living with your father.”
    “I wish,” Kait mutters; only I hear. The ice cream’s not finished, but we’re all standing up now, putting on our coats, going home. We don’t talk all the way there. Davy pouts; he had a whole scoop left. I’m glad.
    *   *   *
    “I thought Uncle Bobby moved away,” I say. Me and Marianne are sitting on the couch. She’s doing her nails. Mom’s talking on the phone in the kitchen. Kait was sent to her room. I have no idea where Davy is and I don’t really care. I angle myself so Jesus can’t see me.
    “Nope. Arrested.”
    “For what? Smoking pot?”
    She shoots me a funny look.
    “Well, he didn’t exactly hide it. Was that it?”
    “Nope. Polaroids.” She hands me the nail polish bottle. “Hold this.” It’s the same bright red as Mom’s. I wonder if it is Mom’s.
    “Of what?”
    “Naked kids. Gross, huh?”
    “Did you see them?”
    “No, but I heard. Daddy found a shoebox full.”
    “Shit.”
    “Yeah. Bummer, huh? Our uncle’s a pervert.” She dabs the brush in the bottle, starts on her other hand. “But then, Grandma’s a nutcase. Remember how she called the fire department?” I nod. “Well, she kept calling them—for weeks. They took out a restraining order. Grandpa had to put a lock on the phone.”
    “Jesus.” I glance at the statue, whisper “sorry.”
    “Yep. That’s when Mom got religious.” She stops painting to stare at me. Really stare.
    “What?” I ask.
    “Nothing, never mind.”
    “No. What? ”
    “Paul was in the pictures. So were you.”
    “I was not.”
    She goes back to her nails, like she’s not listening.
    “That’s stupid, Marianne. Don’t you think I’d know?”
    “I guess, whatever.” She dabs on her second coat, wipes a smudge with the side of her thumb.
    I don’t like the feeling in the pit of my stomach. “Why do you think that? You said you didn’t see them.”
    “I heard Mom talking to the cops. And Paul told me some stuff.” She waves her hands back and forth to dry her nails. “It’s why he ran away, you know. Daddy yelled at him for letting it happen.”
    It’s suddenly hard to breathe, like on the Halloween when I wore a nylon stocking over my head. I keep looking at my sister. I don’t remember cops at our house, except the ones that brought Paul home. I sure as hell don’t remember