Page 62 of Playing By Their Rules

She trails off, but I nod. I remember.

She says, “My foster father before him, before I met you? He used to do that all the time.”

“What? Mina, I’m sorry, I never knew.”

A regretful smile passes over her face and she pats my hand. “I never told you. I had a foster sister at that other place, too. He’d…well, sometimes I’d go to his room so she wouldn’t have to. She was younger. I just wanted to protect her.”

“Holy shit.” It’s hard to breathe. I feel like I’ve been punched in the chest with the force of what she’s sharing. “I’m so sorry. Mina, that’s awful.”

“I should’ve done something different. I kept it going, you know? I didn’t speak up. I allowed it to happen.”

“No. No. You were a child. None of it was your fault. It was all his. What happened to him? How’d you get out? Where’s your foster sister now—are you in contact with her at all?”

“They both died in a car accident.” She closes her eyes and I feel her pain deep in my heart. “He was driving drunk, bringing her home from detention or something, I don’t know. I should’ve been there, but I skipped out because I didn’t want to have the ‘talking-to.’ I was selfish. For once, I wanted her to take it.”

“Oh, Mina. It’s still not your fault. I hope you don’t think it is.”

“No. I know it was all on him. I wish he died in a fire like Percy did.”

I shiver at the raw vehemence in her tone, but I don’t blame her. I wasn’t abused like that, I don’t know the depth of the trauma—I can only imagine it. Desperate to comfort her, or at least distract her, I say, “Well, should we go in? I’ll get the cooler if you get the speaker.”

“Sure.” She shakes her shoulders as if she’s trying to get rid of the bad feelings.

We gather our things from the back seat of her car and go up to the porch.

“Careful,” she says, pointing to an especially weathered board. “That one nearly collapsed beneath me when I was here last.”

“Oh, thanks.” I sidestep the board and nudge the door open with the toe of my tennis shoe.

The interior is dark and musty, with faint sunlight filtering through filthy windows. This place should definitely be condemned, if it isn’t already. Is it even structurally sound? I hesitate as I step forward, very slowly pressing my weight down.

“It’s fine,” Mina says. “I walked all through here last time.”

I’m still careful, but less obvious about it. A lot can change in two months.

Mina sets up the speaker with some music she already has downloaded on her phone. It’s the same style of alt rock we used to listen to in high school.

“Aw, we’re going full nostalgia now, huh?” I say. “Remember when we couldn’t get enough of Church of Fortune?”

“Still can’t, they are amazing,” she says. “I like their newer stuff too, but this first album remains one of their best.”

“True.”

We spread out a blanket and I crack open the cooler, pull out our sandwiches and wine coolers. This is the weirdest picnic I’ve ever been on, but Mina and I had a weird adolescence, so I guess it fits.

“Hello, palace,” Mina says, looking around at the rickety cabin.

I’m amazed the whole thing doesn’t crumble and that we aren’t swallowed by giant rats. But it’s relatively quiet.

“Gods, what a shit hole,” Mina adds.

“It’s not…terrible,” I say.

She shakes her head and opens a wine cooler for each of us. “Do you seriously believe that, M? Everything here is terrible.”

“Not everything.” I point to the wall, where a sun-faded and mold-stained poster of our old favorite boy band clings to its neon thumb tacks with a death grip. “We had the Lava Boys.”

“The only bright spot.” She frowns at her bottle.

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