Page 8 of Tiny Fractures

“Nice!” Vada smiles and looks at her watch. “Are you ready to go, then?”

I consider her for a minute, then make a split-second decision. I unbutton and pull down my jeans and exchange them for a pair of jean shorts.

Vada smiles triumphantly and pulls out some lip gloss. “You’re so hot, Kitty Cat! You know it, I know it, and everyone else knows it. Here, put some of this on,” she says, handing me the gloss.

I apply the sticky substance to my bottom lip and dab my lips together, feeling Vada’s eyes on me. “What?” I ask, looking at her reflection in my mirror.

“I was just thinking that it’s a shame you’re single,” she says slyly, but doesn’t elaborate.

“I don’t know about that.” I close the little tube of gloss and hand it back to Vada.

Vada and I meander downstairs and toward the front door.

“Midnight, and not a minute later,” my mom calls after me and Vada as we walk out of the house. “Please drive safely, Vada. And no drinking and driving!”

My parents have always been uber-protective, especially of my younger sister and me. My parents were originally from New York, and despite eloping at eighteen and having me when they were only twenty, my parents are actually quite strict, my dad even more so than my mom. And that certainly hasn’t changed after everything that transpired over the past few months.

I can’t blame them, I guess.

Ronan

“Rise and shine, princess!”

My brother’s voice edges itself into my consciousness, and I blink my eyes open to the dim light in my room. The shades are drawn, blocking out the sun and heat. I’m lying on my bed, stomach-down, and I roll over to face Steve, who stands in the doorway between my room and the cramped Jack-and-Jill bathroom that adjoins our bedrooms.

“What time is it?” I mumble, my voice thick with sleep. I meant to take only a quick nap before the party, but I obviously passed out hard. I’m not even sure I shifted positions while I slept.

“Five thirty,” Steve replies, looking at his watch. “You better get up and ready, because I’m leaving in ten minutes. Unless you want to drive your own car.”

“Nah, I’m sure one of us will be drinking tonight. Safer to take only one car,” I say, and Steve chuckles.

“So young, yet so wise,” he teases me, and I flip him off.

Steve is my big brother, though he’s not that much older—and definitely not much bigger—than me. We’re exactly thirteen months apart to the day, and at six-four he’s a measly two inches taller than me. We’re about as close as brothers can be: we’ve played hockey together all our lives, and because we have the same circle of friends, we hang out together all the time. Nonetheless, there are some things I don’t share with him, and some things that make us about as different from each other as humanly possible—and I don’t mean just looks.

I sit up and put my feet on the ground, relishing the cool wood floor under my bare soles. It’s only the beginning of May, but already the temperature is creeping up. Heat in New York can be miserable; most houses don’t have adequate A/C, and my parents live in this old, two-story brownstone that’s definitely not up to twenty-first-century standards. A few years ago my dad retrofitted the upstairs and downstairs with coolers, but they only help so much, and my mother hates them because they’re noisy. So unless temperatures reach the mid-nineties—or, God forbid, triple digits like in July and August—the coolers are off and we’re forced to rely on our ceiling fans. Steve and I have resorted to opening our windows and allowing the air to flow through our shared bathroom. This works great unless Vada is over, which, understandably and inevitably, results in Steve locking his doors.

I push up off my bed, then pull my damp shirt over my head and discard it on the floor while walking toward the bathroom.

“Are you alright?” Steve asks, watching me intently while stepping back and retreating into his own room.

“I’m fine,” I say, barely looking at him. I’m afraid he’ll be able to see in my face that I’m lying.

“Are you sure? You were out cold for a couple of hours. You feeling alright?”

“Yeah, just exhausted,” I assure him. “Give me ten minutes to get ready and we can head out,” I say, then ruthlessly shut his door to the bathroom and click the lock in place. I do the same with the door to my own bedroom. Then I turn on the shower and allow the hot water to steam up the mirror, but not before checking on the yellowing bruises on my upper back. After more than a week, they’re barely visible now. I exhale with relief, drop my jeans and boxer briefs to the floor, and step under the scorching water, relishing the sting and allowing the heat to numb my skin. I let my head fall forward, feeling the water run down my neck and torso, wishing it would wash away more than just sweat and dirt—that it would wash away fear, and pain, and sin. But it doesn’t; it never has.

***

I do perk up on the drive over to Shane’s. I sit in the passenger seat of Steve’s Challenger, windows down, music blasting, while Steve flies down the interstate at a speed that’s definitely not legal. I close my eyes, feeling the wind while the music drowns out my thoughts.

When we get to the house, Shane yanks us outside and down to the beach. He’s relieved to have an excuse to get away from the house and proceeds to complain about how his mom decided that a dinner soiree today for some of her closest friends and business acquaintances was a great idea, and how she invited all these people Shane doesn’t even know.

Shane’s parents are successful entrepreneurs, owning several Irish pubs around the city, including Murphy’s, which is where both Shane and I work after school and on the weekends. The beach house has been Shane’s mom’s homestead ever since his parents separated a year ago—the demands of their businesses and the loss of their youngest son, Liam, too hard on their marriage. Ever since his parents’ separation, Shane has ping-ponged between his dad’s place and his mom’s beach house. Though lately he’s been spending the vast majority of his time at his dad’s—which is also Shane’s childhood home—and only spending his weekends at the beach house.

A few minutes after our arrival, the rest of our friends trickle in and make their way down to the dunes. I decide to start a fire with the dried driftwood and some lighter fluid.

Shane, Steve, Drew, and I talk about hockey. I’ve been playing with Steve and Shane since I was seven and Shane and Steve were eight. At first we only played club together, but once I started my sophomore year of high school after moving back from Montana a couple of years ago, I added varsity hockey to my extracurricular activities.

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