surrounds their in-groundpool. Her head is down, her long black skirt swirling around her full hips as she works, absorbed in her task. The smell of chlorine is unmistakable and powerful, but not unpleasant. In the upstairs of our house, I can see Charlie’s tall silhouette through the translucent yellow curtains hanging in his bedroom window.
My aunt has noticed me in the yard; she’s left the dining room and is now looming in the doorway to the back porch. I don’t know how long she’s been there. She watches me, her expression worried and confused, as I stand in the middle of the lawn, staring at my surroundings.
From the street outside our house, TJ’s radio plays David Bowie’s “Young Americans.” In the yard next door, the broom continues to go
swish, swish, swish.
I glance over and make eye contact with Jane, who stops sweeping for a moment to squint at me, probably trying to determine whether she’s looking at Alice or Rachel. Thinking I’m Rachel, she gives me a smile that seems full of pity, as if to say, “I’m sorry your sister is such a mess.”
Several months ago, only a few weeks after we met, Robin and I stripped down to our underwear and dove into the shallow end of Jane’s swimming pool in the middle of the night. We’d been drinking for hours, sharing a bottle of high-end citrus vodka that went down quick and easy. By the time wehad the idea to go swimming, I was so drunk I could barely walk, never mind swim.
When we noticed the police lights coming around the corner, we hurried out of the pool and took off into the dark, trying to hide. Robin got away; I didn’t. I was still in my bra and underpants when the cops found me crouched behind a toolshed down the street; I’d left the rest of my clothes beside the pool. One of the officers wrapped a flimsy blue blanket around my shoulders and helped me to my front door while the neighbors looked on in stunned disbelief.
I called the cops assholes, screamed at Jane that she was a rotten bitch. It was a warm night; I didn’t want the blanket. When my uncle saw me, he would barely look at me as I stumbled past him into the house. My aunt spoke to me in fierce, hushed tones in the dim light of the kitchen. I slumped against the wall and tried to drink a glass of water, spilling it everywhere. “What if your cousin wakes up?” she demanded. “Do you care about anybody besides yourself?”
“I’m sorry,” I muttered.
She glared at me. “You think you’re sorry now? You wait to see how sorry you feel tomorrow morning.”
When I made it to the third floor and stumbled into our bedroom, I found my sister, Rachel, sitting calmly on my bed. She’d been crying. She watched for a while as I looked through a pile of dirty clothes on the floor, and finally settled on a wrinkled white button-down shirt. But I was too drunk to do the buttons. My sister slid off the bed to help me. Herbreath smelled like black licorice. Her taste for it was one of our differences; black licorice makes me gag.
“Are you going to be sick?” Her small hands, identical to mine right down to the grooves in her fingernails, worked my buttons into place.
“No. I’m not that drunk.”
“Sure you aren’t. Look at me.” She cupped my face in her hand. Her eyes were red and puffy. “I could see you from the guest room window, you know. You looked ridiculous.”
I pulled away from her. “We were just having fun.”
She paused. “We?”
The room was beginning to spin. I suspected that the vodka wouldn’t taste quite as pleasant coming up as it had going down. “Yes,
we.
I was with Robin.” I gave her a sharp look. “Don’t tell Aunt Sharon.” The last thing I wanted was a lecture on safe sex from my aunt, the woman who referred to sex as “intercourse” and virginity as “a special gift.”
“Where did he go?” Rachel asked.
“Robin? I don’t know. We ran in different directions.”
“Alice …,” she began.
“What?”
Rachel looked ready
My aunt has noticed me in the yard; she’s left the dining room and is now looming in the doorway to the back porch. I don’t know how long she’s been there. She watches me, her expression worried and confused, as I stand in the middle of the lawn, staring at my surroundings.
From the street outside our house, TJ’s radio plays David Bowie’s “Young Americans.” In the yard next door, the broom continues to go
swish, swish, swish.
I glance over and make eye contact with Jane, who stops sweeping for a moment to squint at me, probably trying to determine whether she’s looking at Alice or Rachel. Thinking I’m Rachel, she gives me a smile that seems full of pity, as if to say, “I’m sorry your sister is such a mess.”
Several months ago, only a few weeks after we met, Robin and I stripped down to our underwear and dove into the shallow end of Jane’s swimming pool in the middle of the night. We’d been drinking for hours, sharing a bottle of high-end citrus vodka that went down quick and easy. By the time wehad the idea to go swimming, I was so drunk I could barely walk, never mind swim.
When we noticed the police lights coming around the corner, we hurried out of the pool and took off into the dark, trying to hide. Robin got away; I didn’t. I was still in my bra and underpants when the cops found me crouched behind a toolshed down the street; I’d left the rest of my clothes beside the pool. One of the officers wrapped a flimsy blue blanket around my shoulders and helped me to my front door while the neighbors looked on in stunned disbelief.
I called the cops assholes, screamed at Jane that she was a rotten bitch. It was a warm night; I didn’t want the blanket. When my uncle saw me, he would barely look at me as I stumbled past him into the house. My aunt spoke to me in fierce, hushed tones in the dim light of the kitchen. I slumped against the wall and tried to drink a glass of water, spilling it everywhere. “What if your cousin wakes up?” she demanded. “Do you care about anybody besides yourself?”
“I’m sorry,” I muttered.
She glared at me. “You think you’re sorry now? You wait to see how sorry you feel tomorrow morning.”
When I made it to the third floor and stumbled into our bedroom, I found my sister, Rachel, sitting calmly on my bed. She’d been crying. She watched for a while as I looked through a pile of dirty clothes on the floor, and finally settled on a wrinkled white button-down shirt. But I was too drunk to do the buttons. My sister slid off the bed to help me. Herbreath smelled like black licorice. Her taste for it was one of our differences; black licorice makes me gag.
“Are you going to be sick?” Her small hands, identical to mine right down to the grooves in her fingernails, worked my buttons into place.
“No. I’m not that drunk.”
“Sure you aren’t. Look at me.” She cupped my face in her hand. Her eyes were red and puffy. “I could see you from the guest room window, you know. You looked ridiculous.”
I pulled away from her. “We were just having fun.”
She paused. “We?”
The room was beginning to spin. I suspected that the vodka wouldn’t taste quite as pleasant coming up as it had going down. “Yes,
we.
I was with Robin.” I gave her a sharp look. “Don’t tell Aunt Sharon.” The last thing I wanted was a lecture on safe sex from my aunt, the woman who referred to sex as “intercourse” and virginity as “a special gift.”
“Where did he go?” Rachel asked.
“Robin? I don’t know. We ran in different directions.”
“Alice …,” she began.
“What?”
Rachel looked ready
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