or mother, but a delicately painted mask of understanding.
"I wish I could, Missy." Between her nickname and his hand clapping her shoulder in parental affection, her father was showing her how sincere he was. "But work's been difficult, and the CEO's counting on me to have the next round of specs nailed down for her on Monday, so I have to go in today. Next game, okay?" This last said with a smile pulled out of commercials and magazines. It was a good smile, full of teeth and empty promise.
Missy's turn. She kept her own smile small and guarded—not an "aw, shucks" and definitely not a "screw you" but somewhere in the middle. It was a smile that said she knew how the world worked and she didn't like it, but she accepted it. "Next game," she said, knowing that would never happen.
He clapped her shoulder again, then grabbed her duffle bag to load it into the car—his version of a mea culpa. The door to the garage banged closed, and Missy loosened her mask enough for her smile to slip free. By now she knew better than to expect her dad, or her mom, to attend any of her games; there was always something else going on, usually work-related, that her folks had to tackle. But part of her had quietly hoped that for this game, her first ever as starting goalkeeper, one of them would make an exception.
A buzzing laughter, like hornets.
T HEY'RE SHEEP.
Missy's knuckles whitened around her mug handle. Her parents weren't sheep.
O F COURSE THEY ARE. T HEY DO WHAT THEY'RE TOLD AND NOTHING MORE. W ORK HARD. M AKE MONEY. D ON'T THINK .
More laughter as the hornets swarmed.
S HEEP, THE BOTH OF THEM, MEANT TO BE LED AND SHORN, AND SOMETIMES BLED.
Missy bit down on her lip, hard. The momentary sting was enough to quell the voice, to give War a taste of blood. Her lip throbbing, she poured herself a cup of coffee. She was stirring in the sugar when Sue walked into the kitchen, yawning. She saw Missy and froze, mid-yawn, caught in surprise.
Sue looked so
stupid.
The thought made Missy grin.
For a long moment, Sue looked at Missy, taking in everything from her soccer uniform to her hair to the mug in her hand. Sue's gaze crept over Missy's face, latched on to Missy's eyes. Something passed behind Sue's face—liquid emotion, all bittersweet chocolate and flat soda. The moment passed, and Sue shut down until her face was as plastic as their father's smile. Her mouth pressed into a thin white line, she glided past Missy to get a glass from the cabinet, her slippers whispering against the linoleum floor.
Well, someone was in a
mood.
Missy chuckled, then took a sip of coffee. The hot liquid stung as it glided over her sore lip and sensitive gums, but she relished the pain. With one sip, she proved herself alive and grounded. The pain was better than the jolt of caffeine.
Sue glared at her, and Missy was amused by the cold fury in that gaze. When Sue didn't say anything, Missy asked, "Something wrong?"
"You selfish bitch." Sue's words were the hiss of teakettle steam, boiling hot. "You never think about anyone but yourself, do you?"
"I'm thinking about you right now, sis. Want to know what I'm thinking? First word rhymes with
duck.
"
Sue slammed her glass on the counter and walked up to Missy, got right in her face. She snarled, "You think that your life's so damn hard that you have to throw it away? Do you have any idea what that would do to Mom and Dad? Do you even care?"
Missy tried to make sense of Sue's words and failed. In lieu of comprehension, she went with irritation. "The hell are you talking about?"
"This." Sue grabbed Missy's arm and yanked back the sleeve. Scars, white and pink and scabbed and ugly and fine and intricate and so very red, crisscrossed Missy's exposed flesh.
Caught. Missy was caught. Again.
She slapped her dead face on, its edges askew, and though her heartbeat careened crazily in her chest, her face was marble perfection—impassive, cold, unconcerned.
"This," Sue repeated, softer. "For God's sake,
"I wish I could, Missy." Between her nickname and his hand clapping her shoulder in parental affection, her father was showing her how sincere he was. "But work's been difficult, and the CEO's counting on me to have the next round of specs nailed down for her on Monday, so I have to go in today. Next game, okay?" This last said with a smile pulled out of commercials and magazines. It was a good smile, full of teeth and empty promise.
Missy's turn. She kept her own smile small and guarded—not an "aw, shucks" and definitely not a "screw you" but somewhere in the middle. It was a smile that said she knew how the world worked and she didn't like it, but she accepted it. "Next game," she said, knowing that would never happen.
He clapped her shoulder again, then grabbed her duffle bag to load it into the car—his version of a mea culpa. The door to the garage banged closed, and Missy loosened her mask enough for her smile to slip free. By now she knew better than to expect her dad, or her mom, to attend any of her games; there was always something else going on, usually work-related, that her folks had to tackle. But part of her had quietly hoped that for this game, her first ever as starting goalkeeper, one of them would make an exception.
A buzzing laughter, like hornets.
T HEY'RE SHEEP.
Missy's knuckles whitened around her mug handle. Her parents weren't sheep.
O F COURSE THEY ARE. T HEY DO WHAT THEY'RE TOLD AND NOTHING MORE. W ORK HARD. M AKE MONEY. D ON'T THINK .
More laughter as the hornets swarmed.
S HEEP, THE BOTH OF THEM, MEANT TO BE LED AND SHORN, AND SOMETIMES BLED.
Missy bit down on her lip, hard. The momentary sting was enough to quell the voice, to give War a taste of blood. Her lip throbbing, she poured herself a cup of coffee. She was stirring in the sugar when Sue walked into the kitchen, yawning. She saw Missy and froze, mid-yawn, caught in surprise.
Sue looked so
stupid.
The thought made Missy grin.
For a long moment, Sue looked at Missy, taking in everything from her soccer uniform to her hair to the mug in her hand. Sue's gaze crept over Missy's face, latched on to Missy's eyes. Something passed behind Sue's face—liquid emotion, all bittersweet chocolate and flat soda. The moment passed, and Sue shut down until her face was as plastic as their father's smile. Her mouth pressed into a thin white line, she glided past Missy to get a glass from the cabinet, her slippers whispering against the linoleum floor.
Well, someone was in a
mood.
Missy chuckled, then took a sip of coffee. The hot liquid stung as it glided over her sore lip and sensitive gums, but she relished the pain. With one sip, she proved herself alive and grounded. The pain was better than the jolt of caffeine.
Sue glared at her, and Missy was amused by the cold fury in that gaze. When Sue didn't say anything, Missy asked, "Something wrong?"
"You selfish bitch." Sue's words were the hiss of teakettle steam, boiling hot. "You never think about anyone but yourself, do you?"
"I'm thinking about you right now, sis. Want to know what I'm thinking? First word rhymes with
duck.
"
Sue slammed her glass on the counter and walked up to Missy, got right in her face. She snarled, "You think that your life's so damn hard that you have to throw it away? Do you have any idea what that would do to Mom and Dad? Do you even care?"
Missy tried to make sense of Sue's words and failed. In lieu of comprehension, she went with irritation. "The hell are you talking about?"
"This." Sue grabbed Missy's arm and yanked back the sleeve. Scars, white and pink and scabbed and ugly and fine and intricate and so very red, crisscrossed Missy's exposed flesh.
Caught. Missy was caught. Again.
She slapped her dead face on, its edges askew, and though her heartbeat careened crazily in her chest, her face was marble perfection—impassive, cold, unconcerned.
"This," Sue repeated, softer. "For God's sake,
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