The Telling by Alexandra Sirowy

today—I’ve gotten like a zillion texts about Maggie. Pick you up for Josh’s bash at nine.” I picture her clasping her hands at her chest, dancing from foot to foot in anticipation of an event worthy of a cute outfit.
    â€œOkay,” I say listlessly.
    I read for the rest of the afternoon, until the words rearrange themselves on the page and I’m squinting to make them out at dusk. I pull myself up, turn on the shower in my bathroom, and return to the window seat, waiting for the warm water to kick in.
    I must have drifted off to sleep, because I open my eyes to a dark, steamy window. I haven’t been out of it for too long, since the gushing hot water continues to send fog wafting through the doorway. I prop myself up on my elbow. At chest height there’s a little boat, triangle sail and mast, drawn into the steam on the glass.
    I rub my fingers together; not wet. Was I dozing off, doodling absentmindedly? Thinking of Ben so I drew a sailboat like he used to? I stand and try to stretch myself alert. This sailboat might be a little drawing left for me by Ben just like the drawings on the kitchen windows. But how many times have I showered recently? I alwaysleave the door between my bathroom and bedroom open, allowing steam to enter, making the windows sweat.
    I haven’t been perceptive lately. I put flip-flops on the wrong feet the other day; the granola in the fridge a week ago. I let the weird, sleepy state wash away in the shower.
    While I blow-dry my hair, I decide on wearing a black dress that Becca and I found at a boutique in Seattle a couple of weeks ago. She said it made me look like a banger . If I’d been alone, I would have passed on the too-short dress. Becca—with her fingers crossed under her chin, her tousled chestnut hair smelling of saltwater spray, and her pink lips pursed in a heart while she waited for my verdict—was too hard to say no to. I pull on a black cardigan, almost as long as the dress, and slip on flat sandals even though Becca says no girl over fourteen should ever wear flats. Maybe she really believes this; maybe she only wears heels and ankle boots to hide that she’s slightly pigeon-toed. She creates camouflage to cover up her insecurities.
    Three blasts of a horn come from the driveway. Dad’s on the porch when I get downstairs. Becca’s in the passenger seat with the window rolled down. “I told Lana to phone if you two need a ride home,” Dad calls to her, waving toward her house. I remember Dad asking me years ago, Why aren’t you buddies with Sophia Atherton’s girl anymore? You kids are three houses away. Wouldn’t that be fun and easy?
    Becca leans out the window and waves as if she’s royalty riding in Gant’s homecoming parade. “Thank you, Mr. M.”
    â€œShe looks a little enthusiastic, recent events considered,” Dad says from the corner of his mouth when I stop at his side.
    Becca’s grinning like a happy lunatic.
    â€œIf you want me to stay home, I will,” I offer.
    Dad nudges my side and smiles encouragingly. “You should go. It’ll be good for you to get out. Worst thing you could do is sulk and think about the past.”
    The foamy-looking clover bordering the front porch sparkles in the beams of the headlights. Carolynn gives one last belligerent honk as my fingers close over the door handle.
    I slide in as Becca whispers, “Play nice with the other kittens, pleeeease.”
    She could be talking to Carolynn or the twin toy schnauzers straining for freedom in her arms. Winkie’s and Twinkie’s lavender-painted nails clack against the center console as they try to claw their way to me. The car is full with the smells of mint, the flowery perfume Becca dabs in no less than ten places on her body, and the four drained iced coffees in the cup holders. Carolynn has a serious caffeine addiction and will only take her coffee and espresso over ice and