The words sting and I’m not even sure why.
“Do you know what they dare people to do there?” he asks quietly. “With the tar?”
“Yeah,” I lie.
“That’s not funny,” he says. His voice shakes now, just a little. “That’s not some urban legend. That stuff—” He presses his fingers into his ear again. “It’s not a joke, Sisk.”
“You’re overreacting. They don’t make anyone do anything,” I say. “It’s just rumors.”
“No, you’re underreacting and I don’t understand why. This isn’t you.”
I sling my bag over my shoulder. “People change Ivan. Change is good.”
“Please, just don’t go near it. Promise me you won’t go close.”
“I won’t,” I say. “I’m just curious, okay?”
* * *
At home, the apartment smells like onions and detergent. Millie’s at the stove chopping something too aggressively, while Mom sits at the kitchen table counting and sorting her pills into a plastic organizer with practiced precision.
“I’m making your favorite,” Millie says, licking the wooden spoon.
“Sorry,” I say. “I’m going out.”
Mom drops a pill and it skitters across the table. “Out?” she asks, wincing as she bends trying to retrieve it.
“Friend’s house,” I say lightly. “School project.”
Mom nods, and I lean down to kiss the top of her head before handing the pill back.
Millie, however, doesn’t look away. She watches me a second too long.
“What?” I ask. “I do have friends, you know.”
“Since when?” she teases.
I roll my eyes and retreat down the hall to our bedroom. The space is barely wide enough for two twin beds pushed against opposite walls, a narrow aisle between them like a truce we’re too old to need now. The old posters are now peeling at the corners. Our cracked mirror leans against the wall instead of hanging and the walls need paint, but paint costs money, and money is better spent on food and medicine around here.
I stand in front of my wardrobe realizing nothing works. Everything I own feels too much like me. Too careful and too quiet. Too handed down from my sister.
I slide open Millie’s side of the closet—the door sticks halfway, and I have to lift it just right to get it to move.
“Hey!” she says from behind me, catching one of her shirts mid-pull. “Boundaries?”
“I need to borrow something,” I say.
She steps past me, plucks the shirt from my hand, and puts it back.
“Millie, please. I have nothing. Just—let me take one thing, I won’t ruin it.”
She looks at me, then turns, reaching deeper into the closet. She pulls out a tight, black V-neck tank top I’ve never seen her wear. “The tradition’s to wear black, right?”
I open my mouth and close it.
From the kitchen, I hear Mom cough. Millie softens. “Don’t worry. I won’t tell.” She tilts her head. “Be smart, Sisk. Have fun but be careful.”
She leaves before I can even finish saying thank you, and I start to change. She comes back holding something small and shiny. At first I think it’s a kitchen spice—one of those tiny jars Mom keeps by the stove. Then I realize it’s lipstick. Millie never wears lipstick.