Page 58 of The Initial Insult

I’d gone back out to the trampoline, ice cubes clinking inside the bottles, and handed one to Tress. “I think your parents were kissing,” I said.

“Ugh.” She rolled her eyes. “Yeah, they do that a lot. Hey, want to see me flip in midair?”

I watched Tress, her hair fanning out behind her, sweaty and loose as I sucked on my water, wondering what it was like to have parents who kissed.

And it was like that for a long time, right up until it wasn’t anymore.

Right up until that night.

I’ve shied away from it ever since, not wanting to remember, not wanting to know what I saw. But Tress wants to know, and Tress is someone who looks right at the cockroaches.

“Right up their assholes,” I agree with myself.

Tress wants to know, and Tress can take it. Remembering is the only way I’m getting out of this. And if Tress Montor wants me to remember, that’s what I have to do.

Chapter 45

Cat

If I am still and quiet

I can see

other lifetimes, slipping past us,

in a place, where they ended.

The girl does not know

there is a boy above her

swinging

from the rafters,

his toes brushing her forehead.

She does not see the woman,

sobbing

at the dresser.

Does not hear the baby

screaming

in the corner.

She sees and hears and feels and knows

only now,

in this place.

And I marvel at the limits

of humans.