“All right,” I say as we crouch down in the armoire, folding limbs over each other until we find some semblance of comfort. “I’m ready. What’ve you got?”
“A horse,” Juniper says.
I think for a moment, then place my palms together with two fingers extended out to form a nose. My thumbs make ears, and the silhouette of a horse appears on the wall. Juniper giggles softly.
“That’s pretty good, Leighton,” Junie says.
“How about a cat?” Campbell asks. “But not just a head and ears. The whole animal.”
I sigh. Some people might say that midnight kerosene-lantern shadow puppets in a tiny space as we hide would be enough of a challenge, but not my sisters. They try to stump me with increasingly complicated requests.
I put my arms lengthwise against each other, one hand up and one down. I extend two fingers on top for ears and one on the bottom for a tail.
A black cat sits on the wall, twitching.
“Here,” Juniper says, reaching out. She gives the cat some whiskers, too.
“No helping,” Cammy says. “That’s against the rules.”
“There are no rules, Campbell; the game is made up,” I say.
“Just because they aren’t written down in a set of game instructions doesn’t mean they don’t exist.”
“I wasn’t helping,” Juniper says. “I was impressizing.”
“Improvising,” I say.
“Improvising,” Junie says.
Juniper and I give Campbell our saddest faces.
“Okay, okay, I like the whiskers,” Cam relents.
I play the game for nearly an hour, until finally my request for another shadow challenge is met with silence. They are asleep. I consider moving them, but I would wake them up untangling our arms and legs. Besides, my arms are tired from so many shadows.
Dad taught me this game, when Campbell was still a baby and Mom was busy with her at night. He’d use a flashlight propped on the table by my bed and show me how to twist my fingers until a picture formed on the ceiling above us.
But that was a long time ago.
Tonight I make one last shadow. The head of a crow, its sharp beak formed by the tips of my nails. Then I twist my hands together and make the shape of a bird flapping its wings, rising. Another bird joins the first, a second small shadow on the wall. And then a third shadow bird flies with the others. I lie there in the dimly lit space, too warm thanks to the hot lamp and hot bodies, waiting for another noise from downstairs.
I let my hands fall to my sides, but the birds go on. Flap, flap, soar. Flap, flap, soar. They cross the wall of the armoire, back and forth, pulling me toward sleep. Lulling me into forgetting why we are hiding. I turn the dial on the lantern, lifting the wick from the oil, and blow out the flame. I keep my eyes open in the pitch-black, fighting sleep, and losing fast. Now everything is one shadow, and this shadow takes the shape of a closet. This closet takes the shape of a sanctuary. This sanctuary takes the shape of three girls who are flapping their wings but going nowhere.
Auburn, Pennsylvania
September 28
CROW POPULATION:
22,367
Chapter Fourteen
THIS TIME HE APOLOGIZES WITH PANCAKES instead of flowers.
On Saturday mornings, the Auburn Diner is the most popular place in town. We have to wait thirty minutes for a table, which means a lot of small talk. Something my father excels at. The Barnes family has lived in Auburn for three generations, and my grandfather created Barnes Construction from nothing. His business is responsible for a lot of the buildings still standing, including our house, which my dad grew up in before buying it from his aging father.
Legacy is a strange thing.
My grandfather’s legacy in this town is literally carved in stone—his name and the dates of construction are chiseled into cement blocks on almost everything built here over the two decades when his business was booming. The legacy of the people he employed. But I’m starting to wonder how many men have two faces. One for inside their home, and one for outside.
“Hey, Erin.” Our waitress, Christine, greets Mom first. They work together here. “No shifts this weekend?”
“No, not in again till Tuesday, actually.”
“Lucky girl,” Christine says, her eyes falling on my dad. “You been watching these games, Jesse Barnes?” Christine is an old friend of Mom’s from high school. She would have watched the entire rise—and fall—of Dad’s football career.
“Sure am,” Dad says. “Auburn proud, right?” My father orders pancakes for everyone, because they’re cheap. But he adds coffee for him, Mom, and me, and hot chocolate for the girls.
“Aw, what a special treat,” Christine says.
She turns back to Mom. “So if you aren’t working, do you want to join us for girls’ night out, for once? Nothing special, we’re just meeting at Jimmy’s Tavern for a few drinks.”
Dad speaks first.
“That’s nice of you, Christine,” he says, and she flushes a bit when he says her name. “But Erin can’t tonight.”
“Aw, well. Maybe next time,” Christine says, still talking to Dad.
“Maybe,” Mom says, and Christine takes our order to the kitchen.
That won’t happen, either. Next time. One by one, Dad has found reasons to push people away. Your friends always hated me. They aren’t good influences on you.
Eventually, she just let those friendships slip away.
Our food doesn’t take long, but right as it arrives, someone else stops by our table.
“Hey, Jesse! It’s been a while,” Mr. DiMarco says. Officer DiMarco. He’s on duty, wearing his police uniform.
“Bill, how are ya?” My father stands and greets him. He hasn’t been over in a long time—his own kids are really young—but when I was little, my father’s best friend from high school was at our house all the time. I used to call him Uncle Bill.
He greets my mom and then looks to us girls.
“Wow, they’re all so big,” he says with a laugh.
“Crazy, right? Leighton’s applying to college this fall. Perfect GPA.”
“Ah, wow. Let me guess. You’re hoping she picks state college.”
“What kind of fan would I be if I didn’t?” Dad says.
I turn my attention back to my plate and take a bite of pancake. It’s covered in butter and syrup and sprinkled with confectioner’s sugar, but when I take the first bite, I gag, something sour flooding my mouth. Everyone else seems to be enjoying the meal. Juniper’s grin is huge and real.
I hate the bad nights. I hate how loud and cruel he can be. How scared he makes us.
But it is mornings like this that hurt the most. When we are expected to pretend that everything is okay. Because my legs are sore from how we slept in the armoire, an entanglement of limbs and fear, and the bite of pancake that I managed to swallow refuses to settle in my stomach.
“Hey, listen,” Bill says. “I heard the council didn’t pick your company for the library renovation. Tough break, man, I’m sorry.”
My mom and I look up in surprise. This is new information. Dad worked on that proposal for months.