Sunblind Page 6

  After I stop shaking and am satisfied that my private parts are still covered, I realize that either my skin is human Kevlar or Barnaby’s gun isn’t loaded. His laughter proves it’s the latter.

  “Gotcha!”

  He falls back on my bed squealing, the weight of the gun making his outstretched arm bend so he looks like some underage assassin who finds his career oh-so-hilarious. Right now I find my brother oh-so-repulsive.

  While Barnaby is reveling in his self-staged amusement, I do what a big sister—as well as a big, bad wolf—was born to do: I take control of the situation.

  Lightning quick, I grab the gun from his wiggling grip. When he finally notices the piece is missing, he’s still laughing so hard that his protestations aren’t filled with any of the anger I know he was aiming for.

  “Give that back!” he shouts childishly.

  “Make me,” I reply, sounding equally as childish.

  Barnaby lunges forward to reclaim his prize, but I have supernatural speed on my side, so I step out of the way and turn around just as Barnaby slams into the sliding closet door, the impact ripping it from its hinges. His cries of pain are muffled by the sounds of the door falling and crashing onto his back. His bawling combined with my gigglaughs create a raucous sound, so it’s no wonder within seconds Louis is standing in the doorway.

  “Dominy!” he screams. “What the hell are you doing?”

  Just like Barnaby moments earlier, I can’t stop laughing even though the situation calls for a serious face. Guess inappropriateness runs in our family. And you can’t get much more inappropriate than I appear to be right now, dripping wet hair, wearing only a towel, brandishing a gun, standing over my brother who can’t move because a closet door is weighing down his back. I understand how Louis could interpret the situation as being my fault. But he’s wrong.

  “This isn’t my fault!” I cry.

  “Put that gun down!” Louis cries back, doing a great job of sounding fatherly. “Now!”

  “Who’s got a gun?”

  Arla’s not yet in my bedroom, but she must have heard the commotion and is en route. When she takes in the situation, she has a different take on it than her father.

  “What happened to the closet?” she screams.

  “Just came off its little rollie things,” I assure her. “We can get it back up in a jiffy.”

  Quickly, though, her concern escalates to match her father’s.

  “Is that Barnaby?”

  “Will you get up!?” I demand.

  If Louis and Arla weren’t in the room, Barnaby would’ve jumped up immediately and started punching me. I know this for a fact because this scenario has happened before, when we were living in our old house. Without the gun of course. The last time my brother was knocked to the ground by a closet door, he was upright within twenty seconds, ready to do battle with me. Now that he has an audience, he’s milking it.

  “Can somebody help me, please?” he asks, trying to make his voice sound fearful and fragile and frightened. None of which I know he is.

  “Oh come on!” I hear myself shout. “It’s a closet door! It’s hollow! It’s not like the front door which, you know, would be really . . . really . . . you know, heavy.”

  By the time I finish my sentence, my tirade has become quite tepid, and I can see myself the way Louis and Arla must see me, like some crazy girl who showers with a weapon.

  Waving said weapon in the air, I announce, “This isn’t mine.”

  Wrapping his fingers around my wrist like a vise, Louis points the gun toward the ceiling and quickly wrenches it from my hand. Once again I’m reminded that despite his lackadaisical nature, he really is a trained cop.

  “I know it isn’t,” he says, examining the firearm. “It’s Barnaby’s.”

  A trained cop with insane detective skills.

  “How do you know that?” I ask, very curious and very impressed.

  “Because I gave it to him.”

  And now I’m very scared.

  Just how irresponsible can he be? First allowing Barnaby to join the witch brigade and now arming him with a weapon to kill the witch. Is this what my father had in mind when he put our lives in this man’s hands? Did my father have any idea that this man would work overtime to destroy our future?

  “It was your father’s, and I wanted Barnaby to have it as a memento,” Louis explains.

  Finally vertical, Barnaby doesn’t ask for his gun back; he doesn’t demand it be returned to its rightful owner. He silently basks in the joy of feeling superior, knowing that Louis and Arla think I’m the one who violated a beautiful memory.

  Think again.

  “He was pointing that memento at me,” I say.

  “What?!” Louis screams.

  His usually quiet voice is so unexpectedly loud that it literally makes me and Barnaby jump. Arla, obviously used to her father’s sudden outbursts, doesn’t move. She remains leaning against the doorjamb, arms crossed, head tilted, with the smallest of smirks on her lips. Even though I’d look horrible in a black pageboy wig, I so want to trade places with her right now.

  “I didn’t give you this gun so you could wave it around and scare people!” Louis starts, waving the gun around and kind of scaring most of the people in the room. “I gave it to you so you could remember your father! Do you understand the difference?!”

  I’m sure that Barnaby does know the difference, but since his face has turned ghostly white, I’m also sure that he doesn’t have the ability to respond to Louis’s question beyond a nonverbal head nod. Nonverbal communication, however, will not satisfy Louis at the moment.

  “Answer me!!”

  “Y-yes,” Barnaby stutters. “I . . . I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare anybody.”

  Breathing deeply through his nose, Louis examines my brother for a few seconds in an attempt, I think, to determine if he’s telling the truth and if he’s truly sorry for his actions. I could put Louis’s mind at ease and tell him that Barnaby is being honest; he’s not trying to pull a fast one. Barnaby only stutters when he’s contrite. Physically, he may be changing, but emotionally he’s still the baby of the family. No matter how much our family has changed.

  “I-I thought it would be f-funny,” Barnaby continues. “Guess I was being st-stupid.”

  “Very stupid!” Louis shouts.

  After he paces restlessly for a few seconds, Louis’s demeanor softens. He kneels down in front of my brother and holds the gun in both of his hands like it’s an offering in church.

  “Your grandpa gave this gun to your father when he graduated from the police academy,” Louis whispers, his voice rough. “He said, ‘Those guns they give ya won’t protect ya; ya gotta have one from your family.’ ”

  Louis doesn’t have to say another word. He doesn’t have to lecture Barnaby about gun etiquette or why it’s beyond wrong to point a gun at your sister, or anyone for that matter, as a joke. He does inform my brother that he wants him to put the gun back in its box and leave it there; it’s a for-show gun, nothing more.

  Nodding his head Barnaby agrees and then adds, “I knew there weren’t any bullets in it.”

  When Louis laughs I know that this reminds him of my father too.

  “None of Mason’s guns had any bullets in them,” he says. “He must’ve emptied them all. I know he didn’t run around town with a gun he couldn’t shoot if he needed to.”

  Arla’s smirk disappears into a look that can only be described as “uh-oh,” which, in turn, disappears when I catch her eyes. We both know that her father’s offhanded comment is correct, but there’s no reason to fill him and Barnaby in on that secret as well. Let them think that my father was like every other policeman in the world and carried a loaded gun; no need to tell them that his guns were bullet-free because once upon a time he had made a pact with God.

  “Like he would ever do that,” I say sarcastically.

  Sarcasm, once again, does its trick. It calms the situation and diverts Louis from the truth
he unwittingly stumbled upon and toward the reality he wishes he hadn’t seen.

  “And there’s, um, no reason for you to walk around the house like that,” he says, pointing a finger at me, but keeping his eyes focused on the carpet.

  Clutching my towel, I make a mental note to bring my clothes into the bathroom from now on so I can change before exiting into shared territory. Even though I’m totally covered and wearing more than I would at the pool, I guess the fact that I’m naked underneath the plush cotton is making Louis a wee bit uncomfortable. I decide to give the guy some slack and apologize.

  “Sorry, Mr. Bergeron,” I say.

  “That’s okay,” he mutters, busying himself with lifting the closet door and jamming it back into its correct position with one easy push.

  Before he heads out into the hallway where he doesn’t have to deal with guns or half-naked teenagers, he turns back around. A glutton for punishment?

  “And I told you I’m not Mr. Bergeron anymore,” he declares. “I’m Louis.”

  As he waves at the three of us, his smile can barely contain the joy and the sorrow that’s filling up his heart. He’ll never replace my father—he, more than any of us, knows that—but he really is a good man. And after he leaves Barnaby takes one step closer to making me wish I were an only child.

  “Nice to see that your scars are almost all healed,” he hisses.

  Involuntarily, I cover the faint remnants of my wounds with my hand.

  He takes another step closer to me, and I can feel the gun in his hand rest against my thigh. “You know, the scars you got the night Jess was killed,” he whispers.

  After Barnaby closes the door, I wonder if Arla heard him. I wonder if she knows how complex he’s becoming. When she speaks, I realize she didn’t hear him.

  “That’s sweet,” she says, flopping onto my bed. “My dad’s really enjoying having a son.”

  And my brother is really enjoying taunting me.

  What exactly does he know? Has Luba filled him in on our secret? Has Barnaby told Louis what he knows? These are the questions that are racking my brain so I don’t hear anything Arla’s chattering on about. Through the window the moonglow is so bright it looks like sunlight, and it illuminates Arla’s face. Her bronzed skin shimmers in the light, and she looks beautiful, until she takes off her wig and I can see her entire face. The light glistens on her scar, the scar that runs diagonally from the outside of her left eye down toward her cheek, the scar that I gave her when I wasn’t in control of my body.

  I stare at the scar and marvel at how close she came to losing her eye, how close I came to blinding my friend. Even though I can’t remember it, I can’t remember slashing the air with my paw and connecting with her flesh, I’m still responsible. And no matter what everyone says, they all know it.

  Unable to look at the product of my actions any longer, I announce, “I think I’m going to turn in. Been a long day.”

  I don’t know if Arla agrees with me, but thankfully she doesn’t argue. Alone, I try to focus on the shapes that the moonlight creates, but my mind is buzzing with thoughts, so I close my eyes tight, try to force my brain to be quiet. Forget about the friend I mauled, forget that I’m living in the house of the man who wants me dead, forget that he’s working with my brother to achieve the same goal. Good, Dominy, focus on all the really positive things in your life.

  After what seems like hours, I finally drift off to sleep. Just as I do I remind myself that things can’t possibly get any worse. When I wake up in the morning, I have proof that I’m wrong.

  “Morning,” Arla chirps. “I tried to wake you, but you changed from Little Red Riding Hood into Sleeping Beauty overnight.”

  “What are you doing?” I croak.

  “Didn’t think you’d mind if I used your mascara,” she explains. “I ran out.”

  Arla’s fully dressed and putting on the last touches of makeup at my vanity table. Today is Wig-free Wednesday, so without a special hair feature, she’s taking some extra time putting on eye shadow and lipstick and picking out just the right accessories. My vision is still blurry because I’m not fully awake, but I can see as she puts her makeup on that she never touches the scar around her eye. She doesn’t try to conceal it; it’s part of who she is. She doesn’t need the world’s admiration to know that she’s beautiful and amazing and confident. As groggy as I am, I know that’s advice I should file away and use for myself. Who knew I’d need to use it so soon?

  My cell phone vibrates angrily on the nightstand.

  “That is like the fourth text you’ve gotten, missie, and it’s just after seven,” Arla announces.

  Grabbing my cell phone, I force myself out of bed. “It’s Caleb,” I say.

  “Who else would it be so early in the morning, but Prince Caleb?” Arla replies. “Do these work?”

  Arla spins around on her chair and flicks an earring with her finger. It’s a modified chandelier, a long silver chain that ends in a ball of hot pink mesh, the color being a few shades bolder than her lipstick and clashing perfectly with her light-blue eye shadow. I totally approve of her look; I totally disapprove of Caleb’s text.

  “The prince is breaking another date with me!” I shout, now fully awake and pacing the floor.

  Squeezing her left hand into a silver cuff bracelet, Arla grimaces. I’m not sure if it’s because she’s hurting herself in the name of fashion or if she’s indicating her support in the name of friendship. Turns out to be neither. The cop’s daughter is getting ready to cross-examine.

  “What’s his excuse?” she asks.

  “He has to study,” I say, as if that’s a valid excuse.

  “For what?”

  “That stupid, idiotic advanced math class he’s taking!” I reply, holding up the cell phone so Arla can read his text, which she can’t because as I’m holding it up I’m also waving it around.

  Multitasking, Arla checks herself out in the mirror and is as pleased with her look as she is with her interpretation of the facts.

  “Caleb’s stupid, idiotic advanced math class is probably going to get him a scholarship to Big Red or some other college he can’t otherwise afford,” she lays out. “So if I were his girlfriend, instead of his girlfriend’s pseudo-stepsister, I’d text him back and ask him if I could help him study.”

  I hate rational thinking this early in the morning!

  “I can’t do that,” I reply.

  “Why not?”

  “Because I’ve already sent him a text,” I reply, my voice a little bit less forceful.

  Without asking, Arla grabs the phone out of my hand to read my text. She responds in much the same way I envision Caleb responding now that I’ve had half a minute to calm down.

  “Seriously?!” she exclaims. “You typed that message and then hit Send?”

  I think for a moment, wondering if there’s any way I can reply with anything else but the truth. There isn’t.

  “Yes.”

  “Do you want this house to be full of single ladies?” she asks. “’Cuz that’s where we’re headed if you don’t rectify this situation ASAP, and I mean rectify with a capital B because you need to beg Caleb to forgive you.” Pausing for effect, Arla puts her hands on her hips. “Do I make myself clear, Miss Robineau?”

  Justifiably chastised I reply, “Yes, Miss Bergeron, you’ve made yourself very clear.”

  “Good!” she declares. “Now shower up and make sure you accessorize because you’re going to need all the help you can get.”

  Actually I’m about to get more help than I deserve.

  “I’ll write a draft of your apology while you’re in the shower,” Arla announces. “We can edit on the bus.”

  By the time I see Caleb in the hallway before homeroom I have my and Arla’s apology memorized.

  “Caleb, I’m sorry,” I start.

  He’s not smiling, but he doesn’t look spellbindingly angry. Until he speaks.

  “For calling me, and I quote, ‘a disrespectful d-ba
g a-hole who treats his girlfriend like a piece of garbage,’ end quote?”

  Did I really text that? Geez Louise, that sounds even worse when spoken out loud. I’m about to tell Caleb that I wasn’t even out of bed yet and I overreacted when I remember Arla’s instructions: unbutton an extra button. Unfortunately, our school-sanctioned polo only has two buttons, not a lot of room to be sexy and seductive. Luckily, Arla’s instructions were twofold. The second part was to tell the truth.

  “I’m a jerk,” I say. When he doesn’t protest, I continue. “Last night Barnaby and I got into a fight, he had a gun, Arla’s father got mad ’cause I was only wearing a towel, and I didn’t get any sleep last night, and then I saw your text, and I flipped out. Can you forgive me?”

  “Your brother has a gun?” he asks, his eyes bugging out.

  That’s his takeaway!

  “Can we table that explanation for now and concentrate on forgiving me?” I ask.

  He leans his head forward and a few stray blond curls hang in the air, like little stars. After a second he smiles, but it’s a little bit different from the smile I’m used to seeing. Something’s changed. It’s not a big thing, I know he’s not breaking up with me, but there’s a change nonetheless.

  “You don’t need forgiveness,” he replies. “But . . .”

  “But there’s a but?”

  His smile fades completely, and now I definitely know there’s a change.

  “You can’t freak out like this all the time, Dominy,” he declares. “You know how I feel about you. I can’t do anything more to convince you I’m not just crushing on you or trying to get into your pants.”

  Okay, a little crass, but I get the point. What am I thinking? My text put the ass in crass!

  “Remember this is my senior year,” he adds. “I have to prepare for my future.”

  And there it is. The perfect boyfriend is planning the perfect escape. Not that I can blame him; this town is a dead end. So is a relationship with me. There’s nothing and no one for him here, so it only makes sense that he’s laying the groundwork for a quick getaway.

  “I understand,” I say, even though I don’t want to.

  “Thank you,” he replies.