This Mad Violet Sky by Kristina Mahr

Author:Kristina Mahr [Mahr, Kristina]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Kristina Mahr

twenty-two

“Okay, we’re doing 2010 tiebreaker rules,” Savvy says, clapping her cruise-director clap. Her eyes land on each one of us in turn, imparting unto us the weight of those words.

I know immediately what she means, but not everyone does. You can tell because nobody runs screaming.

“Some of you remember 2010 as the year of Hurricane Deborah.” Not a real hurricane; there was another guest that summer named Deborah who got drunk every night and hit on every man—and some nights, every woman—in our party. He has always denied it, but I swear she was Connor’s first kiss. “Others of you may remember it as the year Mad got stung by a jellyfish.” We were sitting out in the ocean, as deep as we could get while still being able to sit, laughing as the waves rushed in chin-high, lifting us and letting us fall, when suddenly she’d let out a piercing scream and leapt out of the water, clutching her hand. She hadn’t been able to hold a fork or knife for days. That summer is also known for the advent of the Sky catchphrase, “Does someone need to pee in her hand?”

We had been nine, and so, it was a question we were unable to let die. If someone was in a bad mood for the rest of the summer, one of us would whisper to the other, “Who peed in her hand?” and we’d promptly dissolve into fits of laughter.

Like I said—we were nine.

Luckily Gen had explained to us over Mad’s howling that peeing on jellyfish stings was a myth, not an actual treatment, so the answer to Sky’s question was a resounding, “No.”

It’s the first time her name has been mentioned tonight, and to my credit, all of the joy and humor of the evening doesn’t fall away at the sound of her name. The memory smolders, but it doesn’t scald. Maybe I can hold it after all. Maybe I can hold more of them. Maybe I can risk the bitter more often so I have a chance at the sweet.

“And some of you,” Savvy continues, placing her hands together in prayer position, taking a deep breath, “will remember it as the summer of Who Knows Best.”

You could cut the tension with a knife.

There is no forgetting Who Knows Best. It will go down in the annals of the most competitive of Darling/Tobin games, accompanied by the most bloodlust and most blood lost. (Connor accidentally elbowed our mom in the nose while flinging his arms wide victoriously. It didn’t break, but boy did it bleed.) As a result, it’s stayed a one-and-done game. We retired it after one outing. Nobody had even suggested playing it again, except as a dark joke once or twice.

“Savvy,” her mom says, shaking her head slowly in warning.

“Baby, are you sure?” Connor asks, taking a step toward her. “Last time—”

“I know what happened last time,” she cuts in. “I know I stormed off crying, and Cat had the nose incident”—my mom flinches at the memory and cups her hand over the appendage in question—"but I came prepared this year.

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