You Could Be Home by Now by Tracy Manaster

Author:Tracy Manaster
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Publisher: F+W Media
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

ANGELS AND ORIFICES

THE GODS OF EXCESS DRAMA evidently had it in for her. For lo, there was Nicky Tullbeck in all his stalktastic glory. He rang the bell; Gran jumped a little even though she was facing the window and had to have seen him approach. Multiple choice: Gran was (a) mentally casting Benjamin Thales as her very own wrinkled Romeo, (b) running through the list of third-tier relatives to pawn Lily off on, or (c) having a series of tragic but minor and wholly age-appropriate ministrokes. Gran opened the door. “Lily’s unavailable right now,” she said. “Lily is taking a bit of a break from amusements.”

Translation: grounded. At least she’d spelled it out. The morning had been a case study in passive aggression. Lily had been the one to say good morning and she’d been the one to ask any and all questions. Gran’s answers were pleasant, but not pleasant enough to balance out their terseness. And then there was the visual coding. Gran’s laptop had—cue the spooky music—mysteriously vanished and the printed activity schedule had migrated from refrigerator to trash can, which only went to show that Gran was out of practice. Grounding was so much harsher if you saw the world buzz along without you.

Nicky Tullbeck apologized. “I hate to intrude on your family time, ma’am, but I’m here in an official capacity. I’m a reporter. From the Crier.”

An intern. Lily let the fabrication slide, considering the self-puffery involved in elevating herself to official Rosko spokeswoman. Which, oh fuckadoodledoo, had to be why he’d come. Her guts felt jumbled and quick and sick. Gran smiled and let Nicky in. He was careful to wipe his shoes on the mat. Either they were new or he’d gone a little nuts with the polish.

“Lil-lay,” he said, with the same smug inflection adolescent males the world over appeared to find so genius. It would serve Gran right if he actually was a stalker. He’d hack Lily to bits and scatter the various joints around The Commons’ award-winning greens. The per-vet’s property value would tank due to his proximity to the murder house and he’d reap exactly the sympathy he’d shown Mona Rosko. And Gran. She’d pickle inside, remembering how she’d flounced her way through the girl’s final morning, conveying to the best of her ability that Lily < Ben. Mom’s hair would go guilty white and refuse to hold dye. Dad would be hospitalized in short order with a roiling triple ulcer, but not before establishing a scholarship fund for Tyson Rosko in lieu of funeral flowers.

But Sierra. Sierra would speak at the all-school memorial. She’d wear blush half a shade lighter than her usual NARS New Order and mascara that was strategically not waterproof. When her eyes brimmed, even the stoners in the back row would see the streaking and think that poor, brave, beautiful creature. Teachers would cut her slack on assignments and she’d commandeer the Lily Birnam 1995-2010 yearbook spread, selecting photos in which she looked better than the dead girl, or at least ones where the camera had caught her at a thinner angle.

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