Blood on My Hands

Phillips on my left. The first few times Alex passed the card to me, I instantly dropped it. Our lips touched, but it didn’t feel much like a kiss. And each time, I had to back out of the circle and wait for the next round to begin.
    At first there was the expected protesting from the boys when their lips touched, and giggling from the girls, but it seemed like after a while, it got quieter, except when someone made a wisecrack and people laughed. Of course, the card wasn’t the only thing being passed around. So was a bottle.
    I don’t know how long we played. People kept changing their seats and moving around. Either because I’d had so much to drink or because I had the least practice, I was usually one of the first to be DQ’d. That made me want to try harder, even though everything felt like it began to spin whenever I closed my eyes.
    And then David Sloan dropped the card, and the next time it came around, Katherine got it and turned to me.
    And when she tried to press the card against my lips, it fell.
    And then she was pressing her lips against mine.
    And I kind of remember thinking that was strange and didn’t she realize that she’d dropped the card?
    But her lips stayed on mine.
    And then they parted.
    I remember thinking, Wait … no . I might have even said it out loud, or maybe not, because as I pulled away, she leaned forward so she was still kissing me.
    I’m pretty sure that at that point I turned my face away and I tried to get up, but I tripped over something.
    And then I was on my hands and knees on the floor.
    And then I was sick.
    The next morning, my first as a senior in high school, I had the worst hangover of my life. But I took a bunch of Advil and went anyway. At lunch we took our seats at the same table we’d sat at the past year, only Dakota wasn’t there and it was now Brianna who sat closest to Katherine.
    Everyone chatted and acted as if nothing unusual had happened the night before. They were so normal, in fact, that I began to wonder if something had really happened or I’d only imagined it.

Chapter 29
    Tuesday 7:43 A.M.
    I WAIT INSIDE the tree house until the next downpour begins and then climb down and walk through the heavy rain, hoping that as long as it’s pouring, pedestrians will be preoccupied with staying dry and trying to avoid puddles. If I’m lucky, drivers will be watching for other cars, not fugitives from the law. A pickup truck goes past, wipers swiping, and I do a double take. It’s Slade and there’s someone small in the passenger seat. He’s driving Alyssa to school.
    The Lamonts keep a spare key under a flowerpot near the back door. By the time I let myself in, I’m soaked to the skin. It’s quiet and still inside. Even better, it’s warm and dry. But being in this kitchen stirs up a stew of memories and emotions. There’s a feeling of familiarity but also a yearning for that time when I felt like I belonged here, when I’d make a big steaming pot of spaghetti on the old stove and pretend that I was part of the family.
    But this isn’t the time for memories and regrets; I have to keep moving. I leave my wet shoes by the door, grab a garbage bag from under the sink, and dash up the stairs to the bathroom.
    What I see in the mirror is revolting. The black hair dye has started to run down my face and neck. The makeup is streaked and smudged. What a mess! After stripping out of my soaked, dirty clothes, I go through my pockets for money, Slade’s penlight, and other things I don’t want to forget. All the change in my pockets comes to a little over a dollar. I thought I had more, but now that’s just one more problem I’ll have to deal with.
    I stuff the wet clothes into the garbage bag and get into the shower. The hot water feels so good. It takes a lot of shampoo to get most of the black dye out. Finally I towel off and blow-dry my hair. Not all the color is out, but enough to make my hair look an unnatural shade of dirty blonde.
    Wrapped in the towel, I head back downstairs and raid the kitchen. There’s milk in the refrigerator, and Honey Nut Cheerios in the cupboard. Two bowls later I’m back upstairs. Alyssa’s room is a reflection of a girl with one foot in the smooth sands of childhood and the other on the rocky shore of adolescence. Posters of singers on pink walls, an electric guitar leaning against a dollhouse, a training bra lying in the pile of yesterday’s soccer uniform. I go through her dresser and find a long-sleeved