Hello, Transcriber: a Novel by Hannah Morrissey

Author:Hannah Morrissey
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: St. Martin's Publishing Group

14.

WEDNESDAY

Snowflakes dense as rain sting my face. For the first time since receiving it as a gift last Monday, I stare at my reflection in the compact mirror. My eyes are pink with plumes of red diffused at the edges, my cheeks scarlet and blotchy, melting any snowflakes that dare to light on my skin. The kraft-paper tag is still attached, on which the question Will you be my maid of honor? is stamped in gold foil.

A script is engraved around the mirror: Forever sisters, forever best friends—E+H.

Forever has an expiration date, apparently.

It’s been four days since I’ve heard from Elle.

I can’t believe you left last nite. That really hurts, Hazel. I read her text late Saturday morning, when I finally crawled out of bed after my grueling shift speed-typing Kole’s interview with Sam.

I closed my eyes. A screw twisted in my gut. I said I was sorry, Elle. But you know what? The only thing I’m sorry about is having to break the news to you that the world doesn’t revolve around you.

My phone buzzed in my hand with her retort. You are so selfish.

“Ha.” I actually said it out loud. Fuck off, I punched. That will shut her up, I thought. And it did. Until this morning, at least, when The Elle & Kinney Show came on and she posed the question to all of her listeners: “What would you do if your maid of honor just up and ditched your engagement party? OK, get this. What if that maid of honor was your sister? Can you fire a bridesmaid? Seriously, I wanna know what y’all think ’cause, whew, I’ve got some d-r-a-m-a comin’ your way at the hour.”

I cringed. Since when is it appropriate for a midwesterner to say y’all?

Mona turned toward me, pausing from logging in to her portal. It’s Wednesday, one of two days that Mona’s and my shifts overlap for two hours. “Sounds like that OT got you in hot water with your sister.”

I shrugged. I’d just finished filling Mona in about being called in Friday night. She’d heard about it on the news, of course: Twenty-three-year-old Sarah Dylan was a loving daughter, a former celebrated high school athlete who was slaughtered in her apartment in the early hours of Friday morning. I wondered if the first part of that story had any truth to it.

“It is what it is,” I said. “She’ll get over it.” Or she won’t. Whatever. Everyone already hates me, Elle. Mom, Angela, Liv, Marjorie, who wrote me up again for wearing a cocktail dress to work, even though she’d told me not to worry about changing. Stupid Marjorie. So, Elle, to you I say: Take a number, sister. I’m done apologizing for Friday night. She and Mom are probably getting manicures right now, laughing and enjoying each other as I stand here on Forge Bridge, the wind whistling through my hollow bones.

They’re happier without me.

And I bite my nails anyway.

I close the clamshell compact, my thumb grazing the gold filigree design on the rim.

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