My heart skips a beat at her casual mention of her brother. At the equally casual way she references her impending death. “I’m sure your family is very worried about you.”
“There’s no need. Like I said, I’m on the way out.” She laughs at my horrified expression. “What? It’s true! Death is something we all eventually have to face, Summer. I’m just having to face it a little sooner than most. And it’s okay. I’ll be lucky to make it to eighteen. Hopefully I’ll have had sex by then. Have a boy go down on me, at least. Are you a virgin?”
Her question stuns me silent for a moment. I think of who stole my virginity and frown. “No.”
“Oh, it was that bad? I’m sorry.” She leans over the table, her voice lowering. “I thought I wanted to save myself for the right person, but I’m afraid the right person won’t show up before my expiration date. Now I’m eager to get with whoever I can, just to get the deed over with. Really, I want to know what it’s like, to have someone else give me an orgasm.”
I kind of like how open she is. How honest. Sylvie is nothing like her brother.
“Don’t you want it to be with someone special?” That’s how I always felt before, when I was younger and incredibly naive. Until I was worn down and eventually gave in. A girl can protect her virtue for only so long.
“Trust me, there’s no one special in my life, or I’d be banging him nonstop by now.” The server stops by our table, delivering our drinks. They’re beautiful, the glasses full of clear squares of ice, the strawberry lemonade a perfect layer of yellow and red liquid, the rim of the glass covered with sparkling pink sugar. Sylvie takes the drink eagerly and sips from the straw, a satisfied noise leaving her once the server walks away. “Now this drink? It’s special. The boys I know? Not a one of them matters to me. Well, maybe one, but he fucks everyone else and puts me on a pedestal like I’m fragile and untouchable. He doesn’t see me in that way.” She hesitates for only a moment. “The fuckable way.”
Her casual use of the word fuck is surprising for such a delicate little girl like her, though I suppose I shouldn’t feel that way. She’s only a year younger than me. “Are you referring to Spencer?”
“He’s the only one who I’d let see me naked. Whit says none of his friends are good enough for me, and he’s probably right, but I don’t want someone good enough for me. I just—want someone. You know?” She coughs, resting her fist in front of her mouth to contain it. “When you’re someone like me, life is meant to be lived. Right now. I can’t wait. It could all be over tomorrow.”
I want to ask what’s wrong with her, but I’m afraid that might be rude, and I don’t want to pry. Instead I let her rattle on, eagerly grasping onto every morsel she shares about her family. Her brother. It’s not enough, but it’ll do for now, and I can’t help but wonder where he’s at. What he could be doing. Maybe he’s sitting in his room, reading my journal.
I get angry at the mere thought, so I shove it away.
It’s a Saturday night. I’m sure he’s not alone.
“Tell me about you,” Sylvie says once we’ve given our dinner orders and the plate of fried cheese is sitting on the table between us. She grabs one, dipping it into the thick marinara sauce before taking a big bite, the hot, stringy cheese staying connected before it snaps. “I know Jonas Weatherstone is your stepfather.”
“Was,” I correct her, taking a sip of the deliciously sweet yet tart lemonade.
“Yes. Was.” Her expression turns somber. “That fire was just awful. You’re lucky you weren’t there.”
“I was there,” I admit, her eyes going wide. “I just managed to escape. My mother saved me.” I duck my head, acting as if I’m overcome with emotion. And I suppose I am. With guilt. With anxiety. With worry. No one ever figured out what really happened, save for Mother. And she didn’t tell.
We’re both taking that secret to the grave.
“That’s so awful. And to lose your stepbrother too,” she continues. “When Jonas was still married to his first wife, they came to our house sometimes. Whit and Yates would play together when we were children.”
My stomach churns, thinking of them knowing each other. How they each know me.
Intimately.
“As he got older, he had a—reputation,” Sylvie continues. “Your stepbrother. I heard he was kicked out of a couple of schools for sexual assault.”
I nod, wiping my mouth of imaginary food. I haven’t eaten anything, my appetite completely leaving me.
“I suppose everything went to shit when his parents divorced. Same thing happened to our family,” she says, shrugging. Very c’est la vie of her. “Whit turned into a complete control freak when Father first left. He would get into these raging fights with him. It was terrible. All Lina and I could do was cry. We were all eventually sent to counseling.”
“I’m sure it wasn’t easy,” I murmur.
She picks up another piece of fried cheese, holding it with delicate fingers, tearing it into pieces and letting them fall onto her plate before she dips one into the red sauce. “It was a relief. When Daddy left, we could all breathe easier. Even Whit, though he’s loath to admit it. The problem with Whit is he’s cut from the same cloth as our father. He sees everything as black or white. There’s no gray. Right or wrong. Yes or no. Do it or don’t. He’s extremely stubborn and hard to get along with.”
She’s describing him perfectly. I can only nod my head in agreement.
Sylvie smiles, her gaze knowing. “You tricked me. I’m talking about myself again and you’ve barely said a word.”
“I don’t mind. I’m a good listener,” I tell her.
“But I want to know more about you.” She reaches across the table, her fingers dancing on top of my hand briefly before she pulls away. “It’s so exciting that you’re here. It’s always the same faces at Lancaster every year. I get bored so easily by them. The students. The teachers. The staff. That’s half the reason I become terribly sick, I swear. I get tired of seeing everyone on campus. I need more excitement in my life.”
“Like death?” I can’t help but ask.
Sylvie laughs. “Yes. Like death. It’s much more interesting, trust me. Now tell me about you. Don’t hold back. I want to know everything.”
“There’s really not much to tell. I don’t have any siblings.” Save Yates, and he doesn’t count. To think of him as my brother makes me want to vomit. “My father isn’t in my life. My mother and I have a strained relationship.”
Especially after the fire and the deaths and the reality that we’re all each other has left, which is not very reassuring to my mother. I suppose she hates me for what I did. But that makes us even because I hate her for what she did too.
Or more like what she didn’t do.
“You’ve dealt with death too, like me,” Sylvie says, her expression curious. “With the fire. Tell me what that was like, the night it happened.”
Unease slips through me. This is something I haven’t talked about since I spoke with the police. It’s a taboo subject between Mother and me. We’d rather forget it ever happened. “I don’t remember much,” I admit, my tone apologetic. “I woke up to a lot of smoke, and my mother dragging me out of the room.”