Dead at 15

“Where to next December?” Tommy asked as I finished devouring my Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup. “July’s next?” I nodded.
“Uh-huh,” I replied and licked my lips.
“So what happened to her?”
“Look, I need to get home. I think my folks are getting a little suspicious,” I admitted.
“And this is a problem because…?”
“Does the term ‘prime suspects’ not mean anything to you?” We stood in silence for a moment outside Killer’s. It was a very odd kind of silence. Not awkward but not pleasant either and it made me feel just the slightest bit upset. Weird mood swings.

“You want another drink?” Tommy asked with kind eyes. I shook my head causing my fringe to cover my eyes.
“Na. I’m good. I’ll do some more digging tonight.”
“You expecting to find much?” I shoved my hands in my pockets and looked at my shoes.
“Nope. It’s just to check. See if she knew what was coming – she may have left something.”
“So you know August knew about this but you're not going to keep looking through her stuff? What if she left something else?” I shook my head.
“There's nothing to find. You know that we've checked.” He thought about it for a bit before smiling broadly.

“Okay! I’ll see you at school then.”
“Uh…I think so.”
“What? You ditching?”
“I’ll need to visit the cop station.”
“They just tell you everything you wanna know? Whoa.” I rolled my eyes at Tommy’s bewildered expression.
“No, dumbass.”
“I’m confused.”
“It’s called manipulation.” His eyebrows scrunched together.
“No. No, you can’t make people do whatever you want. It doesn’t work like that.”
“Okay, maybe I don’t ‘manipulate’ people but I do break into the evidence room.” His eyes nearly popped out of his head at that. “We’re not N.Y.C. remember? Even you could do it if you put your mind to it,” I said in a patronizing tone.

“Well I get that.”
“Good.” I turned to leave but he grabbed my arm.
“But, you can’t exactly waltz in there on a school day and have none of the pigs give a shit.” I hadn’t thought of that – not that I was willing to admit it.
“Alright. See you at school then.” Tommy beamed at me again with his near fluorescent white teeth.
“Bye December. Oh wait!”
“What now?!” I snapped, slightly annoyed.
“You gonna be online tonight?”
“Should I get a restraining order against you?”
“Why? We wouldn’t be able to enjoy moments like these then.” He winked and then quite literally, skipped off into Killer’s to meet his brother.

***

The atmosphere had changed since I last I stepped into September and July’s room, previously that week. The bedroom didn’t have such a morbid feeling to it – more peaceful, which was brilliant. I could think more clearly then. September’s things, I noticed, seemed to match the former glory of my memory. The nail polishes, all different shades of pink, on top of the dresser shimmered brightly against the the dark red and dull yellow beams of light streaming in through the window.

I cringed at the color on that side of the room. No, I didn’t hate pink because I was a tomboy or any other variation of that stereotype. I hated pink because September had the nasty habit of kidnapping me and November (who was more of a 'willing' kidnapee anyway) as children and then using us as her living Barbie dolls – not always could I escape her painted pink talon clutches. The pink crap smeared onto my face was enough to scar me for life. I was not working on September though. I had to stick to the plan.

July. The ‘smart’ one. Nope. I heard she was pretty daft – in the ways of interaction with other human beings. Academically, she was good, very good. She was even on a partial scholarship to the only private school within busing distance of our home. We always insisted that it was in the ‘area,’ but in reality, July took the hour-long bus ride back and forth every day. Often she’d stay at her best friend’s place, Lauren Ainsworth. The afternoon of July’s death, she was at Lauren’s place. They both died.

Lauren’s house was closer to the school, in the middle of nowhere though, halfway between the school and our house. Apparently, the two were making cookies, went off to do something, and by the time they came back, the place had turned into a death trap. The details were sketchy. It wasn’t until the fires had reached a considerable height and stuff that anyone saw the flames – conveniently.

Of course, everything was destroyed by the time the fire department arrived. The bodies were burned severely but the dental records identified the bodies as if it wasn’t already obvious whom the charred corpses belonged to.

So basically we were to believe that the two had ‘accidentally’ turned the oven to the wrong temperature and then left the cookies in for too long and everything just caught fire. That in itself seemed just a little far-fetched. But my snooty, know-it-all sister put the oven on at the wrong temperature, and on top of that, didn’t check the baking? Puh-lease. The friend even? July proving that she was smarter than others was what she lived for. Not to mention, Lauren did have to be of a similar mind to put up with my sister. The whole thing was practically an insult it was so ludicrous.

There could have been police evidence for me to go through but Tommy was right, I’d have to wait till school was over or I’d get shit for wagging. I couldn’t get slack with details like that – not with death creeping closer to me with each passing second. But then again, the police shit could wait also – it didn’t get personal like belongings did.

I sincerely doubted that I’d find anything of value in July’s things, but hopefully I’d find school letters or a name so that I could contact a teacher to confirm my theory: that July rarely made mistakes. I mean I was younger when July was around so I relied purely on fragmented memories and the almighty ‘stories’ shared between us. Basically, I was making assumptions, which wasn’t a good thing. Confirmation was key.

***

So far, I’d searched everything and surprise, surprise, had found nothing. I was a little stunned at the collection of books though, mainly the classics: ‘Wuthering Heights’ (which still had a bookmark in it), ‘Jane Eyre’, the complete works of Jane Austen, etcetera, etcetera, no ‘Harry Potter’, and then…all of Lemony Snicket’s ‘a Series of Unfortunate Events’. It would’ve been a little too out of place if July had been reading horror books or something but this was kinda funny – just the name: ‘a Series of Unfortunate Events’. Oh the irony.

“December!” Shit.
“What?!” I yelled back at my mother.
“Dinner!”
“Be there in a minute!”
“Come down now!”
“Hold your horses woman!” Damn it.

I’d have to deal with the books later. I scrambled to pick up all thirteen of the books but after dropping them all on the floor on first attempt, I decided to do the smart thing and make two trips to my bedroom. After dumping the second half of the books on my bed I ran halfway down the stairs before brushing my fringe out of my eyes and realizing I was still wearing latex gloves.
Aw, fuck, I thought and hurriedly ran back up the stairs.

***

“What were you doing up there December?” Mom asked. I looked up at her innocently.
“Huh?”
“What was all that running? Sounded like an elephant stampede up there,” Dad explained.
“Oh. That. It was nothing.” Mom shot me a stern look.
“There’s not a boy we need to worry about is there?” She inquired. I let out a snort of disbelief. Catching Mom’s stern look I brought a hand up to my mouth and stage whispered to my dad,
“Your wife’s gone crazy Mark.”

Dad laughed and I joined in before turning back to my mom. Tears of frustration welled in her eyes (she cried at the drop of a hat nowadays.) Her black hair speckled with gray at the roots was coming out of its normally tidy ponytail giving her the appearance of a mental patient rather than a once successful lawyer. Mom slammed her knife and fork down on the plate and fled the room.
“Fucking whore,” were the two words I heard her breathe as she left. I chewed my dinner slower after that.

Dad obviously wasn’t deterred by his wife’s sudden mood swing; in fact, he proceeded to eat his meal with delight in his eyes, making very satisfied noises. Finally, he seemed to notice that Mom’s episode wasn’t sitting well with me. The words hurt. As much as I’d isolated myself from my parents, and as much as I detested my mother, it was a sick feeling. I’d grown so accustomed to the possibility that my parents or one of them killed my sisters that it no longer really ‘bothered’ me emotionally. Being told that you’re a ‘fucking whore’ by your own mother without any real warning was a bit much for me.

“Don’t worry about it, Kid. She’s just upset because she wants there to be something wrong with you.”
“Why the hell would she want that?”
“Linda’s essentially a malicious person.” I frowned slightly and surveyed my dad. His sympathetic smile, crinkled eyes and now very gray hair made me realize how old he was getting.
“You mean that you and Mom don’t love each other,” I said slowly, finally grasping the meaning in his words.
“That’s right,” he said softly. “We don’t. There was a time where we did, sure but-”
“Then why are you still together?” I blurted. Dad’s face hardened and he sighed.
“Because there are certain things that tie us together which are more important than our lack of love for each other,” he said carefully.
“Like me?”
“Not only you December.”
“Oh God. Mom’s not pregnant again is she?” Dad looked horror-struck.
“I hope not!”
“So that’s a ‘no’ then…”
“As far as I know, your mother’s already had menopause but that wasn’t what I was getting at.”
“What were you getting at then?”
“Ever heard of grief?” Silence settled in for the next five minutes.
“There’s just one thing I don’t understand.”
“Yes?”
“Why have I never heard you guys fighting? Aren’t you supposed to fight?”
“Well…it’s more of a mutual understanding than anything. We rely on each other now, but we both know our relationship’s dead.” My breath hitched in my throat.
“I’ve got schoolwork that needs doing.”

***

Mad as a Hatter says: What are you up to now then?
Death to Birthdays says: Reading
Mad as a Hatter says: Reading what?
Death to Birthdays says: July’s books.
Mad as a Hatter says: She wrote books?!
Death to Birthdays says: No. She has these books that were just…they didn’t quite fit? If you know what I mean
Mad as a Hatter says: Which I don’t.
Death to Birthdays says: Basically her collection consists of Jane Austen and the Brontë sisters…and then there’sLemony Snicket.
Mad as a Hatter says: ‘a Series of Unfortunate Events’?
Death to Birthdays says: Yeah.
Mad as a Hatter says: That’s a little ironic.
Death to Birthdays says: Yes.
Mad as a Hatter says: So why are you reading them exactly?
Death to Birthdays says: She may have left a note, highlighted something. But I know that she knew, which is something.
Mad as a Hatter says: And the chances of you finding anything are?
Death to Birthdays says: Not very high. But I might get lucky.
Mad as a Hatter says: …are you okay?
Death to Birthdays says: Yes. Why?
Mad as a Hatter says: No sarcasm. No name calling :(
Death to Birthdays says: Maybe I’m just being nice?
Mad as a Hatter says: Doubt it. Look, I haven’t known you long at all, but I know what you’re like.
Death to Birthdays says: You don’t.
Mad as a Hatter says: …this isn’t a ‘girl thing’ is it?
Death to Birthdays says: Of course not!
Mad as a Hatter says: What’s wrong then?
Death to Birthdays says: Nothing. Okay? Now goodbye.
Mad as a Hatter says: Hey! Wait!

Death to Birthdays has left the conversation

***

It was the first time in a long time that I’d felt truly vulnerable – apart from the whole ‘someone’s going to kill me’ thing. I lived with that every day. But ‘vulnerable’ probably wasn’t the right word anyway. I felt ignorant. My parents didn’t like each other, but that wasn’t the part that had really upset me: it was the fact that I couldn’t see it.

There were no arguments, no one slept on the couch and they still went out for dinner together. The hints must have been subtle and I was so caught up in my…project that I didn’t notice. Sure Dad poked fun of her with me but was he really serious? I always thought he was joking and their senses of humor just clashed a bit.

In reality, I did try to distance myself from them, and I succeeded. The distance had gotten so great that I no longer saw what was actually going on with them, something I should’ve been very aware of. Because this was something that I’d always depended on staying constant, staying secure. Despite everything, I was still an emotionally inferior teenage girl and this really got to me.

I was out of touch with my living family. If I couldn’t figure them out, if I couldn’t notice what was happening with them, how the fuck was I supposed to understand my dead family? How was I going to save myself then? I was missing things. I had to be. If their relationship had deteriorated due to the pressure of a major secret, I’d missed it. I couldn’t afford that.

These were the thoughts that stemmed off the big question:

Did my mom murder my sisters?

As far as I was concerned, my deliberate and controlled world had collapsed. I relied on some form of control. Getting lucky wasn’t something I could rely on. I needed facts fast to live. But there was one thing that disturbed me more than anything else I’d had to deal with that night. If I did survive, would I want to?