eyes, swaying there blurrily. I donât know how to reconcile it, that face thatâs more familiar to me than my own, with what heâs done.
âThat doesnât matter, Alys.â She says this slowly and with infinite patience, like Iâm four. âIt doesnât matter one bit.â
The sadness in my motherâs voice is stronger than the waves of heat filling the car, and even though I donât want to accept it, I know sheâs right, that people will hate us simply because weâre the ones left behind to blame, simply because, unlike Luke or the fifteen other people he killed yesterday, we still exist.
FIVE
Later that night, I hang the dress on a hook behind my closet door. The best thing I can say about it is that it covers my knees, which Iâve hated ever since the fourth grade, when rat-faced John Mulligan called them knobby. The reporters finally left an hour ago, walking back to their vans and slamming the doors in exasperation, their breath hovering in front of their faces in dense white clouds. At the mall I stood in the dressing room facing my reflection, a pile of shapeless black dresses at my feet. My hair, the color of a wet graham cracker, pulled back in a ponytail, a scratch on my right arm that I donât remember getting. Itâs deep and red and throbs like a constant reminder.
Youâre burying your brother tomorrow,
I informed the girl in the mirror, but she just stared back at me with swollen, empty eyes. Somehow it still doesnât seem real. Like if I walked down the hall to Lukeâs bedroom and opened the door, heâd still be inside, surfing the Web or playing video games, yelling at me to get the hell out of his room without even turning around in his chair, his feet propped up on his desk, one boot tapping restlessly against the other.
Time feels interminable, the numbers on the clock barely moving although the day has somehow passed into twilight, then evening, a dark oblivion. Iâm so tired, my legs and arms throbbing in unison, but Iâm afraid to get into bed, to turn on the TV, to close my eyes. Luke on every channel, that same picture from last yearâs yearbook filling the screen, the one where he stares right into the lens, almost glowering, the face he always wore in the past few years whenever he was forced to have his picture taken. This went over screamingly well on family vacations, let me tell you. My mother would spend most of her time pleading with him in front of every rest stop or scenic vista to smile, to pose with his arm around me, to hold up a fish that he and my dad had caught. Luke would roll his eyes, cross his arms over his chest, and look off into the distance, as if heâd suddenly gone spontaneously deaf, as if he werenât there at all while my mother snapped away, determined to capture him on film. Finally, heâd turn toward the camera lens, his lips drawn over his teeth, his expression almost feral. The look in his eyes made me turn away each and every time. It was as if something had been taken from him.
âWhy do you hate it so much?â Iâd asked him last year on a road trip through New England, after our parents had finally gone to their room for the night, the door clicking shut with a sharp finality that gave way to a low mumble of voices, the rising crescendo of another argument. A sound we tried more and more to ignore as it became more frequent. âHeâs
fine,
â my father would shout over my motherâs many attempts to shush him, to make him lower his voice. âHeâs just finding his way, thatâs all. When he goes to college heâll snap out of it. Iâm surprised you notice him at all considering how focused on
Alys
you are.â
I felt my face turning red, my fatherâs words echoing in the air between Luke and me.
How focused on Alys you are.
Was it true? I didnât know. My mother had high expectations for my future as a
âThat doesnât matter, Alys.â She says this slowly and with infinite patience, like Iâm four. âIt doesnât matter one bit.â
The sadness in my motherâs voice is stronger than the waves of heat filling the car, and even though I donât want to accept it, I know sheâs right, that people will hate us simply because weâre the ones left behind to blame, simply because, unlike Luke or the fifteen other people he killed yesterday, we still exist.
FIVE
Later that night, I hang the dress on a hook behind my closet door. The best thing I can say about it is that it covers my knees, which Iâve hated ever since the fourth grade, when rat-faced John Mulligan called them knobby. The reporters finally left an hour ago, walking back to their vans and slamming the doors in exasperation, their breath hovering in front of their faces in dense white clouds. At the mall I stood in the dressing room facing my reflection, a pile of shapeless black dresses at my feet. My hair, the color of a wet graham cracker, pulled back in a ponytail, a scratch on my right arm that I donât remember getting. Itâs deep and red and throbs like a constant reminder.
Youâre burying your brother tomorrow,
I informed the girl in the mirror, but she just stared back at me with swollen, empty eyes. Somehow it still doesnât seem real. Like if I walked down the hall to Lukeâs bedroom and opened the door, heâd still be inside, surfing the Web or playing video games, yelling at me to get the hell out of his room without even turning around in his chair, his feet propped up on his desk, one boot tapping restlessly against the other.
Time feels interminable, the numbers on the clock barely moving although the day has somehow passed into twilight, then evening, a dark oblivion. Iâm so tired, my legs and arms throbbing in unison, but Iâm afraid to get into bed, to turn on the TV, to close my eyes. Luke on every channel, that same picture from last yearâs yearbook filling the screen, the one where he stares right into the lens, almost glowering, the face he always wore in the past few years whenever he was forced to have his picture taken. This went over screamingly well on family vacations, let me tell you. My mother would spend most of her time pleading with him in front of every rest stop or scenic vista to smile, to pose with his arm around me, to hold up a fish that he and my dad had caught. Luke would roll his eyes, cross his arms over his chest, and look off into the distance, as if heâd suddenly gone spontaneously deaf, as if he werenât there at all while my mother snapped away, determined to capture him on film. Finally, heâd turn toward the camera lens, his lips drawn over his teeth, his expression almost feral. The look in his eyes made me turn away each and every time. It was as if something had been taken from him.
âWhy do you hate it so much?â Iâd asked him last year on a road trip through New England, after our parents had finally gone to their room for the night, the door clicking shut with a sharp finality that gave way to a low mumble of voices, the rising crescendo of another argument. A sound we tried more and more to ignore as it became more frequent. âHeâs
fine,
â my father would shout over my motherâs many attempts to shush him, to make him lower his voice. âHeâs just finding his way, thatâs all. When he goes to college heâll snap out of it. Iâm surprised you notice him at all considering how focused on
Alys
you are.â
I felt my face turning red, my fatherâs words echoing in the air between Luke and me.
How focused on Alys you are.
Was it true? I didnât know. My mother had high expectations for my future as a
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