Blood on My Hands

“Go to the police. Tell them you didn’t kill her.”
    I can’t bring myself to explain about my picking up the knife and the photos they took. Or about the troubles between Katherine and me that I never told Mom about. “They won’t believe me.” I sniff miserably, feeling another wave of emotion rising inside me. “I can’t explain now. Just … check under the umbrella.”
    “What?”
    “You’ll figure it out. I have to go. Don’t call back.”
    I snap the phone shut.
    Almost instantly it rings again.
    It’s my mother, of course.
    But instead of answering, I burst into sobs.
    My brother, Sebastian, is four years older than me. As far back as I can remember, Dad wanted him to be a professional athlete. While some sons obediently tried to live up to their fathers’ wishes, Sebastian stubbornly refused. It got so bad they even went to a psychologist, who said that the best thing Dad could do was back off and let Sebastian be.
    But Dad could no more back off than Sebastian could be obedient. They were polar forces, feeding off each other’s determination. From the start there was violence. As Sebastian grew older, spankings by hand gave way to spankings by paddle, which gave way to slaps, punches, then all-out fistfights. Mom and I were stunned into silence by the poisonous brutality between them. People at school noticed Sebastian’s bruises. Social services got involved. A few times the police were called. Neighbors gossiped. Rumors spread. People around town began to avoid us. Mom sank inward and became depressed and withdrawn.
    I ran.

Chapter 5
    Sunday 12:25 A.M.
    I TAKE DEEP breaths, dry my eyes, and try to think about what I have to do next. The phone vibrates. It’s my mother again. But she can’t help. Most of the time she’s so overwhelmed she can barely take care of Dad.
    There’s only one other person I’m certain will believe me. But the last time we spoke, I broke his heart. I could blame Katherine for that. But she didn’t make that phone call; I did.
    “I think we should make some that look like boobs,” Katherine said one afternoon last February when we were at Dakota’s house making cookies for the Spirit Day bake sale. Dakota, then the student council vice president, was planning to run for president in senior year.
    The rest of us giggled. Katherine, who came off as so proper, could always make us laugh when she said something outrageous.
    “Well, I mean, the idea is to sell a lot of cookies, right?” Katherine said.
    “The boys would love it,” I said.
    “Some of the girls, too,” said Jodie, who was mixing dough with Dakota in the big white KitchenAid mixer.
    “I’m sure Mr. Carter would be thrilled,” said Dakota.
    “Mean old man,” Katherine muttered.
    “No way,” Dakota said. “He gave Seth Phillips and I a—”
    “Seth Phillips and me ,” Katherine quickly corrected her.
    Dakota rolled her eyes. “He gave Seth Phillips and me permission to skip gym when we needed to work on PACE.”
    PACE was the performing arts program at our school.
    “And he made a special arrangement so that Slade could get out of school early and help his dad,” I added.
    “Ah, Slade.” Katherine looked at her watch. “Gee, Callie, it’s been almost fifteen minutes since you brought him up. By the way, has he heard from Harvard or Yale?”
    It was hard to know sometimes whether she was being serious or just kidding around. She knew he wasn’t going to college. At the counter, Dakota and Jodie were silent. I could feel the mood shift from one of gaiety and laughter to something else. This, too, happened often.
    “He’s going into the National Guard,” I said. “And when he gets back from training, he’ll work in his dad’s business.”
    “Construction?” Katherine said with a disapproving wrinkle of her nose. This wasn’t the first time she’d been critical of Slade, and I really didn’t like it. It felt like she was putting me in the position of having to decide between them. At first, when she’d invited me into her crowd, it had all been fun and laughs. I’d come to relish times like this, when I was included here in Dakota’s kitchen with Katherine’s closest friends, knowing that Mia and the other far-end-of-the-table girls would have died to be in my place. But along with that growing familiarity came a feeling of vulnerability: I had become an unprotected target should Katherine decide to hurl her pointed opinions in my direction.
    I looked down at