But it wasn’t a robber.
I was never able to look the dripping man in the face, so the blue lady was the first one I really got to look at, and it stole the voice out of my throat. There was no question about it; she was dead. She didn’t look horrible or anything, at least not as horrible as you could imagine. I knew what a zombie looked like. She wasn’t a zombie. She was just dead. Pale, bluish skin. Purplish lips. Not alive. Just not alive.
She sat down on the edge of my bed and lifted the pillow, and I felt my eyes fill with tears as she picked up my Kennedy doll. It’s weird how when you’re little, these things matter that wouldn’t now. You would think the dead lady in my room would be the primary trauma, but for me, the twist of the knife was the Kennedy doll. She knew where it was, first ofall, which made it like a living nightmare, and she just picked it up like she could take anything away from me. That made her all-powerful, and me totally powerless. And the thing she chose to take, out of everything I had, was the one thing I chose to protect.
I peed my pants.
Then the lady started to cry. She jumped up and fluttered through my drawers until she found a clean set of clothes for me, laid them neatly on my bed, and fled back up to the attic. She left my doll behind.
I didn’t see her again for a while. But before I did, she started leaving me presents. She would find lost toys and bring them back to me or do my chores sometimes. She lined up my dolls neatly and brought me old things from the attic, toys that used to belong to my mother and grandmother. A dollhouse, a tea set, a series of books. I let her know when I was ready to play. I set the Kennedy doll by the attic with a teacup.
The next evening we had a moonlight tea party after my parents went to bed.
She still looked dead, but she had a kind smile.
I always thought I was her favorite until the day of the sacrifice. I’m pretty sure she’s the one who drew first blood.
“Kennedy?”
I whirl around to discover Ryan standing in the doorway, staring at us. My heart jumps into my throat as I wonder how long he’s been standing there, how much of our conversation he heard, but he doesn’t let on. An innocent expression is plastered on his face, but he gazes up to the attic with a sparkle in his eyes that infuriates me, one that dances as I hear footstepsthunder across the floor above. He disappears and I hear him running downstairs, the back door slamming behind him, as Chelsea and then Emily descend the ladder and tumble onto my bed, both staring at me and Mila with accusing eyes.
“What are you doing?” Emily asks bluntly.
Chelsea looks more uncertain. She has no reason to. She’s the one who went behind my back. For months. It doesn’t matter that we weren’t together. We both knew the other still cared. At least, I thought I did. Now she looks at me like she caught me with my dress around my ankles instead of a makeup brush in my hand. I wish my friends weren’t so dramatic. Everything is life and death, heartbreak and betrayal.
“Makeup,” Mila says, a little more assertively than earlier. I’m glad she’s feeling more comfortable, honestly. It makes me feel uneasy to gang up, not just because it riles up our silent housemates. But because it isn’tus.It’s a mask of loyalty. But it isn’t really loyalty. It’s a performance. It’s a role. It makes me feel like I deserve the way Ryan looks at me, like I don’tgetit, like everything about us is fake and hard and posed for display.
Emily glares at me for a moment, and I feel anger beginning to swirl up like a summer storm. I have done nothing wrong. Mila is my guest too. But the guilt hits then. Emily does take precedence. Her feelings come first.
I zip the makeup back into its case and put it away. “All done.”
Emily studies Mila. “You can barely tell which side is all smashed up.”
Mila darts a glance into the mirror. “It looks great.” She shoots me a quick smile, then turns it on Emily. “Chasewouldn’t care if my skin were on inside out, anyway. I couldn’t lose him if I tried.” She winks and leaves the room, and Emily turns to me, her face white as a sheet.
“What did you say to her?” Emily bites her nails nervously.
“Nothing.” I stare after Mila. Another wave of guilt washes over me. “I’m sorry. I just… felt bad.” I take her hand. “Come on, we can all do makeovers. It’s been a million years.”
Chelsea looks at me in disbelief. “It’s not the makeup. That is not the girl who walked in here this afternoon.”
I consider. “Maybe she’s not afraid of us anymore.”
“Great.” Emily stalks after her.
Chelsea wraps her arms around me and gives me a comforting kiss. “You did bad.”
“We can’t just be horrible to a total stranger.” I glance upward instinctively. To the attic. Where they like to play. We really can’t be monsters. They wouldn’t like it.