Page 51 of Five Brothers

We hang up, and I pause mid-step next to my dad’s car before I veer left again and keep walking to the Jaeger house.Screw it.I can say goodbye to him. This could be it, right?

I pass the garage. Macon isn’t there, but the hood of my car is up, a drop light hanging from inside it and tools propped around the edge.

The sign Trace painted on a sheet billows from the windows above as more cars pull up and music pours onto the overgrown lawn from the open front door. Without looking at anyone, I dive into the house and jog up the stairs, walking straight for Liv’s room. Once inside, I drop my bag and dig in her closet.

Liv worked behind the scenes of our high school’s theater department for four years, and she never threw anything away. She’d take discards from costume designs and make them into something she could wear. There was a tweed vest cropped indecently that I fell in love with the last time I was in here, but I don’t see it now. She probably took it to college.

Finding the Mad Hatter costume, I take it out and start undressing. It’s a spectacular outfit. She always made the costumes without approval. She thought if she could show the theater teacher her new idea rather than describe it to her, it would go over better. It rarely did.

But she tried.

Liv was always trying to get roles that weren’t traditionally played by women. For the longest time, I didn’t understand why. The audience doesn’t want to see a female Captain Jack Sparrow or Hannibal Lecter played by a girl. They won’t show up for a woman performing as Darth Vader, Vito Corleone, or John McClane.

Norman Bates, Han Solo, Neo, and Freddy Krueger are men, and the world doesn’t want to imagine that it could be different.

But … they’re great roles, and if I were an actor like her, I could see the allure of playing them. They’re complex. Males in a story always get the great scenes. The great lines. The epic fights and battles and power plays. They can be loners and villains, criminals and crazies, and no one really worries about why they’re doing what they do. Motive isn’t important. They can murder, fight, blow things up … No one thinks less of Sherlock Holmes because he was never married or never had children. If a woman wants to be a spy, we wonder why. What happened in her past to make her reject a home and a family?

Liv didn’t want to be Ophelia, Desdemona, or Juliet’s nurse, because they were either manipulated, victimized, or subservient. And how often do we find ourselves still playing that shit every day? It’s not a challenge.

Sometimes I want to blow something up, and I don’t even care why.

I finish donning the patchwork skirt that falls mid-thigh, button up the sleeveless waistcoat with nothing underneath, and slip on the red velvet fitted jacket. I tease up my hair, add some blue and green eye shadow, and then finish it off with a bow tie around my naked neck, a top hat, and some lipstick.

I gaze in the mirror before realizing I’m barefoot and dig in Liv’s closet for the boots, one purple and one green.

A crash sounds downstairs followed by a muffled shout as someone passes by on the other side of Liv’s door.

Grabbing my phone, I head down.

The floor vibrates under my feet, the music banging against the walls, and I hear laughter behind me. Two guys I don’t know slam the door to Iron and Dallas’s room and race past me. I jump out of the way.

“Sorry,” the brunette one says, smiling and still laughing withhis friend as they jog down the stairs. A fresh bruise sits on his neck, similar to the one I had a week ago.

The door behind me opens again, and Dallas steps out, pulling on a T-shirt. His hair falls in his eyes, but then he slicks it back over the top of his head, the dark strands threaded through his fingers.

His green eyes bore into me as he passes, and I’m pretty sure Dallas wishes I were a man. He could hurt me then.

Chromatics’ “Whispers in the Hall” starts as the lights suddenly dim, and only a blue glow fills the downstairs. People howl with excitement as I come to the bottom of the steps, and I look right, seeing couples dance in what I think used to be the dining room. But I’ve only ever seen a pool table in there. They hold each other close, bodies moving into each other, and I can make out a zombie nurse, a cat, a Camp Crystal Lake counselor in short-shorts and tube socks, and a ghost with an erection tenting his sheet. Clever.

I start to look for Iron, but then I remember Clay saying she posted pictures of her and Liv’s costumes. I check Instagram, tapping on her latest pic and enlarging it.

Clay is dressed as James Bond, complete with fitted tuxedo and bow tie. Her blond hair, in loose waves, is teased and big, while Liv—interestingly enough—is dressed like a Bond girl. Tight, sleek red gown, the shiny silk showing every curve, the slit in the fabric teasing all the way up her thigh. I laugh to myself. She puts up a fight over what role she’s told she has to play, but for her girlfriend, she’s happy to be dominated.

“Is that Liv and Clay?” someone asks over my shoulder.

I glance at Trace as he peers at the pic on my phone, his chin practically resting on my shoulder.

“Yeah.”

He smiles. “That’s cool.”

A guy wearing skull face paint passes by us with a youngwoman’s hand in his. My gaze immediately drops to her chest, unable to not notice.

Holy shit.

They walk up the stairs, other heads turning as they go.

I tuck my phone away, turning to Trace. “Was she seriously just dressed as a wet T-shirt contest winner?” I snort. “That’s awesome.”

---