Chapter One
I feel the gentle pull of the pencil across my eyelid. I can’t see much, just a reddish glow against black that goes on and on. Crickets are chirping outside, and Rosanna’s tart, warm breath is on my cheek.
“Don’t forget—” I say.
"The corners,” she finishes. “I know. I’m doing the liquid on top.”
“I want them like yours.” I peek with my right eye. Rosanna is straddling the chair, her chest against the back. Her eyes are perfect, outlined thick at the edges and tapered to the thinnest wings. She’s done her eyebrows how I like them, full and dramatic.
“Tuesday,” she says sternly. “Close your eyes.”
Before I do, I glimpse the sky through my bedroom window. It’s Friday, late June, and the Arizona twilights can go on and on. As much as every ounce of my body screams to get out of this desert, I don’t get tired of the cotton candy sunsets. Pink, purple, swipes of orange. But the sky can be bleak too, a wishy-washy sort of blue with wispy, half-ass clouds. Either way, I’d like to be someplace where the emptiness of the universe isn’t always on display. Give me tall trees blocking the sky, some serious, dense clouds, and—please—snow! There is snow up north in Flagstaff, basically all winter. Lots of snow.
The liquid eyeliner goes on in two cool swipes.
Rosanna blows on my eyelids. “Wait two minutes,” she says. “Want a drink?”
I shake my head. “Take it easy,” I tell her.
Even with my eyes closed, I can see hers rolling towards the ceiling. I hear the gurgle of liquid as she swallows.
“Let me see,” I say.
She scoots over until I have a view of the mirror over the dresser.
“I’m like a raccoon,” I say. “An exotic raccoon.”
“That’s a good thing?”
“Very good.”
She holds out her phone. On the screen is Jax Pierce, lead singer of Brave Colony and long-time obsession of my best friend, Rosanna Robles. His hair is as messy as always, stringy like kelp if you ask me. He’s thin, maybe too thin, with hip bones sticking out above low-rise skinny jeans, and he moves on stage like he's been electrocuted. I’ve never understood Rosanna’s attraction. If I was going to crush on anyone in the band, it would definitely be the drummer, Justyc, because he’s shy with awesome red hair, and he always looks a little bit lost. But I seldom if ever have crushes on people I don’t know. I don’t follow Brave Colony on Twitter, post pouty selfies on their fan page, or do the things Rosanna does. I like their music, though, and I'll follow my bestie to their shows. I’ll even wear their merch for her.
“What does that caption say?” I ask.
She takes the phone back. “‘The hour of our discontent,’” she reads. “’Waiting at the Marquee for our best fans to arrive.’” Her fingers circle my wrist, squeezing until it hurts. Her eyes are bugging out. “I can’t believe we’re going!” she says for the tenth time tonight. “Are you ready?” She hops up and down, her black hair bouncing in glossy waves.
I pull my arm back. “Maybe you’ll get to meet him.”
“Meet him again, you mean.”
“Um. You grabbed him once, that gig at the park.”
Her eyes get even bigger. “He said ‘Hey’ to me first!” She finishes her drink and sets the glass down. “Besides, this is different. Only fans who gave to the crowdfund will be at the concert. There wouldn’t be a new album without us.”
"True."
“I bet the band will come out after the show.” She uses her pinky to dab the hunk of gloss at the corner of her lips.
Somewhere in the house, a door closes.
“Your mom’s home,” Rosanna looks at my cup, still sitting half-full on the dresser. “Finish that, and I’ll rinse the cups in the bathroom.”
“You can dump mine,” I say. I’m the one driving, and my stomach is turning sour. Rosanna’s a fan of sweet vodka mixes—blood orange, watermelon, Bing cherry. She takes mine and drinks what’s left in two, long gulps. When she sticks out her tongue, the middle is bright red.
I wad up a nearby shirt and throw it, barely missing as she ducks out of the room. I pick up her lipstick, a dark, purplish brown. The color is too much against my pale skin, so I use a lighter mocha shade. I think about the last time we were getting ready together in this room: two weeks ago, graduation. The royal blue gowns seemed to wash the color right off my face, but Rosanna looked stunning. She could put any color on her eyes, her cheeks, her body, and still look like herself.
The door squeaks open and her head pops in. “We should go. Your mom’s in the kitchen.”
“I think she had yoga,” I say, “or maybe she went running. Her favorite activities these days. Oh, also organizing to save the unborn babies.”
“She’s still doing that?”
“Yep.” I try to mimic Janis’s serious voice. “It’s a war, Rosanna, and we must do our part in the battles which occur, literally, daily.”
“She does not,” Rosanna says.
I try to picture Mrs. Robles, her mom, marching up and down Congress Street with a sign, or jogging in short shorts and a visor like Janis does. Instead, I see her padding around the kitchen in her slippers, ready with a plate of sandwiches or sugar cookies. It seems like a cliché image but honestly, that’s how I usually see her. Mrs. Robles wears a blouse and skirt for her job, but slippers around the house. Sometimes I wish Janis was more like that, instead of intense, busy, and always exercising.
I reach over and pull some of Rosanna’s hair from where it’s tangled in her long, fishnet shirt. She’s also wearing a pleated, plaid skirt and a red bra that can be seen clearly under the top.
“You look like a deranged private school student,” I tell her.
“And you’re my pet raccoon.” She puts her hands on my shoulders and her forehead against mine. “I can’t believe we’re going!”
I can smell the sharp, linen aroma of the Robles family’s detergent, different from the one we use but equally familiar. Suddenly, a warmth spreads behind my eyes, blocking my view like a curtain. As I watch, Rosanna’s face blurs slightly, and then her features morph. Cheeks bulge, hair springs into curls, and the eyeliner is gone from shiny, brown eyes. It’s her younger self, I realize, and I remember an old habit, Rosanna’s hand up by her ear, touching her earlobe. When had she stopped doing that? Our first sleepover, when we were eight? When we got our ears pierced (her second, my first) in seventh grade? On the first day of first grade, we met at the lunch table when Rosanna unwrapped a still-warm tortilla and shared it. I took the string cheese from my box and put it inside, broke the strange burrito in half and handed one piece back to her. That’s us.
As the edges of her face grow hazy, I wait for the sighting to pass. In a flash, the older Rosanna reappears: silky hair with a purple streak behind one ear, the beauty mark made with eyeliner on her cheek. She backs away until I can see her in full focus.
“Did I tell you my brother will be there tonight?” she asks.
I’m still in the aftermath. I have no control over these episodes—sightings, as I call them—and it’s never been a big deal. Sometimes, I see people as they were in the past, or as they will be in the future. Of course, I knew Rosanna as a curly-haired girl, but it can also happen with people I don’t know at all. I’ll see a grocery clerk as a scrawny six-year-old, or a guy at school as the old man he’ll be someday. Also, sometimes I can sense when a person is having pain. This also comes like a warmth, a vibration. The pain can be current, an arthritic hip or a sprained shoulder, or something remembered, like a vaccination, a broken arm. I can always tell if it’s past or present. I’ve had these sightings and pain impressions as long as I can remember and although I don’t give them a second thought anymore, I know better than to mention it to anyone. People tend to freak out if you say, “Hey, I just saw what you’ll look like when you’re eighty,” or, “Wow, that sciatica is bothering you today, isn’t it?”
“He’s back for the summer,” Rosanna says, and I try to remember what we were talking about. Oh. Cris, her older brother. “He’s going to help my dad at the store,” she says, “probably drive me crazy the rest of the time.”
I’ve only seen Cris once since he left for college. Last year over the holidays, Janis made me take over a gift basket of wine and stuff for the family. And now he’s finished his second year already.
“Does he still like it in Oklahoma?” I ask.
She nods. “His team placed first in a regional competition. They won medals and a trophy for the school.”
Cris ran cross-country in high school and set a record during his senior year. Outside the gym, a photo of him is displayed in a case: long legs cut with muscle, his face strained but still handsome, his amazing hair—
“He says Oklahoma is a lot like here, only greener,” Rosanna says. “He’s in Tulsa, which is twice as big as Scottsdale.” She drapes the long strap of her purse across her body.
“I’d be happy to go anywhere,” I say. “Even Oklahoma.”
She looks at me. “Have you had ‘the discussion’ yet?”
The discussion is about Northern Arizona University in Flagstaff and how Janis doesn’t want me to go there because it’s too far away.
“No,” I say. “She hasn’t had time to read the paperwork, supposedly.”
“What if she doesn’t let you go?”
“It makes no sense! NAU is only fifty miles further away than her beloved U of A in Tucson. Let’s face it. Truthfully, what she wants is for me to stay here.”
"You're probably right."
I stand up and look around for my keys. “I have to get Devin on my side, but he hasn’t been around much lately. Why did they let me send the application and fee if they weren’t going to let me decide?”
Rosanna touches my shoulder. “They’re worried.”
“Don’t you think I know that?” As if I could ever, for one moment, forget about my parents’ worry, everyone worrying about me instead of minding their own business, living their own lives. Letting me live mine.
“Sorry.” She pushes me, just a little. “Let’s go.”
“I need to get some money,” I say. I follow Rosanna down the hallway. In the kitchen, Janis is dropping chunks of fruit into the professional grade blender she uses at least five times a day—often in the morning while I’m sleeping.
“Hi, Mrs. Mayes,” Rosanna says.
Janis Mayes is lean and fast, like a greyhound. She practically glides across the ceramic floor and puts an arm around Rosanna’s shoulders. She squints at me. “Tuesday Anne.”
I take a slice of banana. “What?”
“Your eye makeup is quite vivid.” She reaches over to tuck some hair behind my ear, and I shake my head until it falls back against my cheek. We have an ongoing war over my hair, Janis and I. Brown and wavy like my dad’s, she was always braiding it or pulling it into tight ponytails when I was younger. She’d say I looked like a “ragamuffin” when I let it loose.
Back at the blender, she forces apple slices down with a wooden spoon and looks at Rosanna. “How’s your mother?”
“Good. She’s happy my brother is home.”
“How nice. Do you girls want smoothies for the road?”
“No,” I say, then add, “thanks.” Rosanna is giving me a glare that means Ask her. I give her one that means Give me a minute. “How was yoga?” I ask instead.
Janis faces us. Her highlighted hair is pulled back into a ponytail, and she’s wearing jeans and a Nike long-sleeved shirt that’s meant for sports. Her own makeup is simple but flawless, just powder and mascara which she always says is “the least someone can do.” Janis is tall, two inches taller than I am. My grandpa says I “stalled out” at five-seven. Everyone in our family is tall: him, my uncle and cousins, Janis and Devin, and my brother, Logan.
“I had a meeting at church,” Janis says, turning back to run the blender. “Yoga was last night.”
After the noise has subsided, I ask, “How was the meeting?”
Behind Janis’s back, Rosanna puts her hands around her neck and sticks her tongue out. This means: You’re killing me.
“We had a guest speaker,” Janis says. “About the immigration problem. You wouldn’t believe the way the numbers have spiked. It puts such a strain on local economies.” She looks up. “Oh, honey, you need some money, don’t you?”
“We already have our tickets,” I say. “Maybe for gas, and a little something to eat after.”
She walks over to the counter and picks up her purse, which looks like a tiny, canvas backpack. “Rosanna, do you still have family in Mexico?”
I close my eyes. I decide if she says something stupid, I will fall down on the kitchen floor and not get up.
“My mom’s aunt,” Rosanna says, “and some cousins I don’t know.”
“I hope she doesn’t want to move here,” I say. “The good ladies of Gateway Church wouldn’t let her in.” I take the wooden spoon and scoop a bite of the smoothie.
“It’s complicated,” Janis says. “You can’t just let everyone in.” She hands me a twenty.
“Not much of a gateway then, is it?” I say and for some reason, I find this hopelessly funny. A tiny bit of smoothie sprays from my mouth, dotting the counter. No one else laughs.
“We should get going,” Rosanna says.
I set the spoon down and look at Janis. “I guess it’s like you said, complicated.”
Her eyebrow lifts. “Who’s driving? Rosanna? Don’t let my daughter distract you.”
Rosanna hates lying, but she nods. We always tell Janis she’s driving.
Before I know what’s happening, Janis grabs me, hugging me like I’m going on a long trip instead of out to a concert. And before I can help it, I relax against her, putting my head on her shoulder for a second. We fit. When I hug Devin, I have to reach up and I always get poked in the face by his collarbone.
“Do you have your sunglasses?” she whispers, trying to be low-key.
“It’s almost dark,” I say, backing away. “Where’s Devin, by the way?”
“Your dad is at work. Another big order this week.”
From the front room, loud knocks echo through the house. I brace myself for Bundle’s barks, until I remember, for the thousandth time, that he’s no longer here. We had to put him down last October, right before Halloween. Sometimes growing up sucks, if it means the dog you had your whole life dies, your mom worries about you day and night, your dad works all the time, and your brother has gone to college, and you only see him twice a year.
“See who’s at the door on your way out,” Janis says. “Probably somebody selling something.”
I put my arm around Rosanna’s waist, and we walk together to the front room. I’m not feeling buzzed after a couple of sips, but I’m relaxed and happy. But Rosanna, on the other hand, trips on the edge of the rug, and we stumble and laugh, looking at each other with twin smiles. Growing up also means feeling a little reckless and ready to be seen. It’s driving to a concert through the infinite blackness of the desert with the smoky, energy-filled club waiting for us. If we want to yell and run down the street like kids, we still can. If we want to sing and dance and travel outside ourselves for one blissed-out evening, no one can stop us.
When we open the door, a man in a denim shirt and slightly darker jeans is standing on the stoop. His black hair is combed straight back but even from the front, I can tell it’s long.
The skin on the back of my neck tingles. “Can I help you?”
He stares at me, his eyes two dark spots under straight eyebrows. “Is Mrs. Mayes home?”
I look him over. Clean fingernails, a nice leather belt. The features of his face are all sharp-angled, shadowed under the porch light. “Is she expecting you?” I ask.
“No, I’m afraid she’s not.” His arms were stiff at his sides, but now he hooks his thumbs into the front pockets of his jeans. This makes him look much less threatening. “My name is Winters,” he says. “Would you tell her I’m here?”
“Janis!” I say. “A Mr., um, Winters, is here to see you. I’ll text you later, okay?” I open the screen and pull Rosanna by the hand. When we stumble again, I give her a look that means Get it together. “Excuse us,” I tell the man as we step outside.
Through the metal mesh of the screen door, I see Janis approaching. “Be careful,” she says, turning to speak to him.
We walk down the driveway and get into my car, the silver Camry I inherited when Logan went to college. I look back at the house, Janis and the man are still talking through the screen. He is bent forward slightly, gesturing with his hands, and she has crossed her arms over her chest.
“Maybe that’s your mom’s boyfriend,” Rosanna says.
“Yeah, right.” As she pulls out of the driveway, I crane in my seat to watch. “Do you think it’s okay? I mean, was he a little strange?”
“He looks like someone’s dad,” she says. “Probably what she said, a salesman.”
“Probably.” If there’s anyone who can handle herself with an annoying salesman, it’s the inimitable Janis Mayes. I face forward. Down the road a bit, Rosanna pulls to the side, and we get out and change seats so I can drive. It’s not fully dark yet, and we should make it to Phoenix before I have any sort of trouble.
Before us, the asphalt stretches indefinitely, glittering in places under the fading sunlight. Cacti form eerie shadows as the headlights break through the fading light and the moon sits, white and fat, above a straight-edged horizon. The sky is showing off now—hazy purple streaked with mustard yellow streaks.
Rosanna connects her phone to my stereo and turns up the volume on Brave Colony’s best song, “Summer Interlude.” It’s the perfect song, at the perfect moment, and we begin the night’s process of singing ourselves hoarse. Soon, she’s pounding her hands against the dash, yelling out lyrics, and my voice comes in somewhere underneath, always a little softer but persistent, as I drive steadily out of this boring, colorless town.
