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[starrrling]

TASK 006: THE TALENT SHOW [ ... encore ... ]

“Actually, wait, can I go again?”

Even at the heights of her alcoholism, Reece had always been sort of a lightweight: she’s been the same height since middle school, and she’s held her liquor like an (alcoholic) eighth-grader indefinitely. Seventh months of sobriety, though, had rendered her tolerance at an all-time-low, and she felt dizzy and warm almost as soon as she swallowed against the familiar burn of the liquor.

She floated her way through the final six performances; she was sickly, shamefully satisfied by the way the heat moving through her cells made everything feel better, exactly like she knew it would. Who had she been to try and pretend that she could suffer through a lifetime of white-knuckled restraint? Not every unloved child could grow up into somebody who’d been worth saving. She was, after all, her mother’s bastard daughter: an aberrant footnote at the end of somebody else’s better story. Why not drink?

After a few minutes, the shot settled, Reece’s cranium loosened, and all of the rest of it went away, leaving behind only the simple, salient question, something that didn’t make her sad at all: Why not drink?

Through Naomi’s knife-throwing, Vikram’s recitation of Pi, Natalia’s dreary Debussy, Reece floated, and she thought, Why not drink? And she didn’t know that she was going to sneak another shot until she did it, and she didn’t know she was going to take the stage again once everything was over until she did it, but once she was up there again, blinking against the light as if she’d woken up there, mid-sleepwalking, Reece understood that the entire evening was irreversible. She’d already stood up in front of everyone again, which meant that the worst thing she could possibly do would be not to make it count.

“Actually, wait, can I go again?” Reece interrupted what might have otherwise been the end of the talent show, not waiting for anyone to grant her permission—she was flailing in the focus, looking out at all of those sets of eyes, spilling irradiance like headlights, auspicious of roadkill. “Because I think I did it wrong, before. With the song. He didn’t even like that song,” she explained, with a derisive snort, as if she and Richard’s ghost and all of them in the room were in on some kind of inside joke at Reece’s own expense. “

I actually have a confession to have instead, if that’s cool, ‘cause I lied before, the other day. Mickey started talking about the last time she saw Richard, and I said the last time I saw him was July—I did see him then, on my grandma’s birthday—that story was true, I mean—but I saw him again, too, after that.”

There had to be some reason that she was telling them this, but she didn’t think it was absolution. She didn’t think. “Last time I saw Richard, it was the first week of August.” She’d made the drive with the brand-new six-month sobriety chip in her pocket—homemade, courtesy of Zelda, a shiny plastic party-store coin with three googly eyes super-glued to each side; one for every month since Reece got sober. “I drove up from Staten Island without calling first, and when I showed up here, he said, ‘Reece, what a pleasant surprise,’ and then I turned and puked on Jerry’s feet, instead. Now, I know what you’re thinking, ‘cause it’s what he was thinking, which is why I told him, ‘don’t worry, I’m not drunk! I’m just pregnant. Also, can I have 500 bucks for an abortion?’ He was quiet for the longest time—like, somebody was on the floor, cleaning my puke off of Jerry, and Richard was still just looking at me. I thought, my God, I’ve finally done it, Mrs. Tristan was right, I’ve given the poor man an aneurysm; I’ve killed him. But then he finally cleared his throat, and he went to get his checkbook. And then he went to get his keys." He'd driven him there himself, Reece silent in the passenger seat, unendurably grateful. "He let me crash here that weekend. And when I left, he, uh—he told me to… to take care of myself, and to… come again soon,” she said, her voice cracking, breaking off, rising up into a reedy, lachrymal pitch. “So, that’s, uh—that’s the last time I saw him.”

[starrrling]

There was that sinking feeling again. The bereft, lusterless, autumn stretched out in front of her, and there was the liquor, oozing artificial color; she felt a sick sort of inevitability when Frankie said, I thought everything could use a pick-me-up. God, wasn’t it all so fucking dour? And she showed up and sang a sad song, thinking only of doom—what the fuck was she doing? She was suddenly seized by the idea that maybe she wasn’t any better when she was sober, just way more fucking sad. Hadn’t she still managed to torpedo her own life all along, and done it dry, to boot? And if she was afraid of being like her mom, well, it was probably too late for that; and it wasn’t like there was anybody left for Reece to try to make proud. 

Baby hair at the back of Reece’s neck prickled while she watched Frankie finish pouring the last of the shots. She swallowed hard, trying to imagine a following sequence of events that included the preservation of her sobriety, but she came up blank. She thought vaguely and distantly of coping mechanisms, of Zelda from Queens who didn’t even know about Richard, because Reece had decided not to tell her, as she’d decided not to tell her about Jack. Reece felt a hot pillar of self-loathing radiating from her ribcage, right between her lungs, and she heard Zelda’s rasping voice saying acutely, Doesn’t matter if you’re dry if you still act like a drunk. That terrible feeling: something that could be crystal-clear hindsight, clouded and complicated and confused by grief and by guilt, and all of the other awful feelings. She felt like a lost cause, something contemptible, and the fact of her drinking the Somewhere Over the Rainbow seemed suddenly predetermined, formidable. 

She heard her own lower voice in Mickey’s ear before she knew what she was doing, falling back into the cruel incantation: “Cover for me,” said quietly, with the implication of accomplice as Reece did exactly what she always did. Countless times during their teenage years she’d said the same three words to Mickey, with the exact intention varying—sometimes, she was asking for Mickey to cover up a hangover by swearing to Richard and Mrs. Tristan that no, Reece had been home all night last night, yes, it was really the flu; other times, she’s task Mickey with excusing her absence during some gathering or another so she could sneak off to top off her water with gin. Mostly, though, she was asking this: be on my side. When Reece knew that she was doing something wrong—something that made her angry at herself, something that would make everyone else angry at her—she wanted Mickey to still be on her side. So, surreptitiously, using Mickey as a partial body-shield to disguise a quickly moving hand, she took a shot for herself, turning away and bringing the cup to her lips before anybody could notice in the middle of everything. When the liquor touched her tongue sinking, sinking, a trustfall backwards into that woozy, intoxicated rhythm.cShe hastily and quietly set her cup down on the table in front of Mickey, as though it’d been hers all along, and locked eyes with her, speechless, helpless. She shrugged.

closed starter @starrrling when: the talent show, as frankie is going

mickey was so grateful to be done with her turn at the talent show, it seemed to go over decently, at least more entertaining than if she stood up and did some math equation or something. taking her seat next to reece as frankie stepped up to take her turn, mickey pushed back sweaty bangs off her forehead. it's been years since she had fenced, but it was still as exhilarating as it was as a teen though a bit tiring now as an adult. she watched as frankie pressed play on christmas music and started setting up 16 tea cups, her head cocking as she tried to figure out what she was doing. it was when she pulled out a bottle that it started to dawn on her. she counted the cups again and despite herself, she glanced next to her to reece. did frankie really intend for them all to take shots in richard's memory? she couldn't focus on frankie's kind words for richard because all she could think about was how she had just poured a ticking time bomb for their sober sister.

[starrrling]

when: like an hour-ish before the talent show where: richard's study who: @angusbyrne

Reece and Angus were in Richard’s study, which was always scary-silent because it was essentially off in Timbuktu. The idea was to figure out the plan for their part in the Gala, although Reece felt confident she could wing it—she didn’t really think it would make a difference what she said to the rich people about the luxury items and experiences that they were buying for a charity of the recently-departed. Frankly, her official opinion was it was crazy not to rain-check the whole thing on account of Richard’s tragic passing, anyways. So, instead of pouring over the provided list of auction numbers, et cetera, Reece was wandering around the towering bookcases, plucking out books at random like she was expecting to trigger a trap door.  “Be honest with me. Are you remotely insulted that you’ve been assigned the role of game show host at the gala? The Golden Children are giving testimonials, and they’ve got us going ‘one-dollar-bid-now-two-now-two-dollar-bid-gimme-three-dollar-bid—’” Reece lapsed into the auctioneer’s chant almost effortlessly, but as a minor act of mercy, she did stop there.

[starrrling]

"Hey, take it easy. I'm certainly not going to make you," Reece said, her hands held up, signifying submission. As was sometimes the case when she was with Meera, Reece had no idea what the big deal was, but it never really mattered. "Of course you're not gonna do it," Reece added—being around Meera made her even quicker with the yes ands; "That's your talent. I mean, hey, you've got a superior eye for hills to die on. Resisting this? It's pretty much perfect. He saw it as a talent—you know he'd love it. Besides, I think some of us are getting pretty abstract about it—I think I saw Sama with a folder or something, and Mickey's gonna have a sword fight."

open starter: day three, right before the talent show begins, 5:49pm.

It wasn't nerves which drove Meera away from the thought of putting on a performance, but the principle of the thing. Some might believe that they wanted a secondary reason to be angry. This was, after all, a tribute to Richard. ( But he wasn't there to see it. He never would be again. ) "I'm not going to do it." Her name had been called for the second-to-last performance. She didn't have many talents outside of causing a ruckus, according to certain opinions anyways. Her denial to be participating would be expected of her. ( But would the reason? ) "I fucking refuse." What remained unspoken between her and her muttering: I can't. I can't bear it. She clenched her fist, resisting the urge to ask for a cigarette from literally anywhere.

[starrrling]

TASK 005: THE TALENT SHOW

"Y'know, I had to retune my guitar for this, you guys..."

Richard got her the guitar for her fourteenth birthday, and she named it Desdemona. It was a vintage Taylor, exactly like she’d asked for, an electro-acoustic Dreadnought in whiskey sour. She’d loved it fiercely for years, irritating everybody on the third floor (Reece didn’t like the sound-proof music room in the basement—not enough light) with her covers of Liz Phair, The Cure, No Doubt. 

How many Fridays in a row were the wards treated to a breakfast performance from Reece, singing “I don’t care if Monday’s blue…!” into her cereal spoon? (That was after Richard made a rule about Reece not bringing her boombox down to the breakfast table, but before Mrs. Tristan made a rule that Reece could only eat cereal with her hands—a rule which lasted all the way through 1992.)

Desdemona remained behind at the Woodrow House when Reece moved out, replaced by her more portable electric Jaguar, Jenny. But she had Desdemona with her again now, still spangled with faded stickers, just a little bit too big for her to comfortably cradle sitting down. She wanted to tell herself that something about it just felt right. She didn’t want to think about the fact that she’d forgotten the Jaguar at the apartment that she was not sure she could go back to, the apartment she’d shared with Jack and from which she’d fled to Alison’s car with only the essentials. But Jenny had been an essential, and Reece had forgotten. 

So she had Desdemona in hand when she stepped into the pool of golden light in the spare room, onto a sort of stage they’d set up, because they were doing a talent show. Reece was plaintively aware of her status as entirely unextraordinary in comparison to the vast majority of the other wards; rather than brimming with potential, she’d been a lost soul, somebody to be saved. 

“Last January,” Reece said, moving to the mic, squinting a little against the light, her smile self-effacing, “when D was driving me to rehab—that long, quiet drive downstate, y’know, hours where you don’t see a single other soul on the road—he turned on the radio. Switched it from static to NPR, sort of mindlessly, but they were talking about Bush’s second inauguration, which made me want to drink, so I changed the station until I got to one playing Green Day. This song. The chorus came on, and there’s this part, right, where Billie Joe Armstrong rhymes the word ‘again’ with itself, a little clumsy. So, when he heard that, Richard sort of frowned, and he said, ‘Adverb epiphora in a chorus? That makes me want to drink.’ So, this is for him. Just the verses.”

The song’s main riff itself was simple enough, a lot of 0-2-3 stuff around the fifth and sixth chords, quick and twangy and vaguely hypnotic. A few repeating counts of just that sound in the quiet, her calloused fingers plucking at the strings in rote memory, and then Reece began to sing. Her voice was somehow both dulcet and hoarse; she didn’t think she had the kind of voice that anyone really needed to hear, but when had that ever stopped her?

Summer has come and passed,  the innocent can never last, wake me up when September ends. 

Richard had signed her up for singing lessons shortly after she arrived at Woodrow (“What she lacks in discipline, she makes up for in volume,” the instructor had told Richard once); then followed piano, percussion, guitar, music theory. When she started really learning to write music at 15, it was euphoric, like her skull had split clean open, but her actual aspirations for her future remained vague. Maybe she never really believed that she was talented enough to get very far, or maybe she just couldn’t picture any future version of herself that was successful, capable, exceptional. She wandered her way through a few years of majoring in ‘recorded music’ at NYU, and she ended up as a dropout guitar teacher in Staten Island. 

Like my father’s come to pass,  seven years has gone so fast, wake me up when September ends. 

The song, she knew, was so absurdly apt, almost too on-the-nose. It seemed somehow like the safest option for her performance, like the plain honesty of the song would keep every other true thing that Reece didn’t want everyone to know from pushing past her lips when she stepped onto the stage. Reece was trying very hard to make herself opt for whatever the safest option was, but it was behavior that didn’t come naturally to her at all. 

Ring out the bells again, like we did when Spring began wake me up when September ends. 

Her voice was too loud in her own ears; her exposed skin felt sunburnt from the spotlight’s glare. She was too terribly present, so here and now exactly when she didn’t want to be, exactly when she didn’t know if she could handle it. It was as if Reece could suddenly see her whole life condensed, a series of saviors and nosedives, the bleakness of who she was when nobody else was around to hear her. The word curse was lodged behind her uvula, it was catching between her two front teeth. Richard was dead, and she was starting to wonder if maybe it mattered that she was a lost cause who was probably completely doomed.

[starrrling]

Reece wasn’t entirely immune to the allure of physical comedy, so when Eliza fell on her ass, Reece couldn’t help it—she laughed a little. To compensate, she lent down to help Eliza up before she made use of her hands by breaking out into a mock round of applause at Eliza’s nose-dive. “Oh, yikes. Don’t worry, get some Pink Whitney in me, and I black out real easy,” Reece joked, and then, hastily, “You break anything? Even if you didn’t, maybe you should pretend you did. I wanna see if we can spin this around into some OSHA-violation thing—sue Natalia for workplace injury, or something. God, we’d have the funniest kangaroo court—the sixteen of us in powdered wigs in the spare room, someone banging a gavel, Mrs. Tristan as the bailiff.”

where: the greenhouse

when: 9:30 am

with: @starrrling

eliza would like to consider herself quite a graceful person, or at least someone who wasn’t outright clumsy. however, with so much debris, dead plants and branches and god knows what else, it was probably a matter of time until someone tripped and fell pretty dramatically. luck simply chose eliza to be that person. the five hours of sleep, and four cups of black coffee probably didn't help either. “jesus christ!” she said, looking up from the floor to see reece’s face. “can you give me a hand up? and conveniently forget the last 30 seconds?” 

[starrrling]

Reece cupped her hand around the end of Mickey’s cigarette to shield it from the incoming early-autumn breeze that rushed in through the open crack of Reece’s window. It was Reece’s experience that the scent of pine got stronger the further upstate you were, and each time she drove up from Staten Island with her car windows down, she swore she could feel the air change even from the highway.  The lighter clicked and hissed in the midnight quiet, and the blinding flicker of flame painted their faces an atomic tangerine. She lit Mickey’s first, then her own, and she took a long drag before she opened her mouth again to talk shit. “Grief really brings out the best in her,” Reece snarked with a roll of her eyes, reaching across Mickey’s torso to grab for an ashtray on her nightstand. She set it on the bed between them, ashed her cigarette. “I didn’t get three sentences into a single fucking conversation before she hit me with an ‘at least I’m not an alcoholic.’ When the hell did I sign up to be Little Miss Perfect’s punching bag, exactly? Nicotine makes most people nicer. I guess laws of nature have no power over Natalia Chen.”

mickey couldn't help but chuckle at the joke. imaging mrs. tristian shooing away some unwanted ghosts so the kids- adults- can get a good nights sleep after everything they've been through today. but she lets it drop, not watching to imagine richard watching over them now.

rather than dig through her pockets for her own lighter, or take the one that was in reece's hand, miceky just leans forward, cigarette perched between her lips waiting to be lit by reece's flame. her eyes on the other girl's face, reminiscing on all the times they would do this as teenagers. the idea of sleeping right now sounded awful. her room always felt safe but now that there was so much going on in her head, sleep was not coming to her. at least the rooms have stopped spinning so much which was a welcomed feeling. "crazy people, that's who." she wondered if any of the others were able to sleep tonight. or were they all doing as mickey was and going to the rooms of their closest friend? her attention perked at the jab at natalia. mickey was no stranger to the beef between the two girls growing up, always in the middle of their little fights, trying to keep the peace between her two friends. "what did she do now?" she asked, curious what has happened that they were already back on bad terms after only a few short days together.

[starrrling]

It was probably good luck (rather than good karma) that kept Natalia mostly out of Reece’s line of sight since their last contentious run-in, but even on about a billion acres of land, their brief détente was doomed from the start. Case-in-point: forced family togetherness in the form of greenhouse restoration day (labor), with Natalia in the role of self-appointed leader alongside Angus. Reece met her with a sneer on instinct, all of the heldover hostility reawakening as if by instinct.

“Nobody told me Richard died and made you queen of the greenhouse,” Reece said flatly, glancing away from the stack of old mixtapes she’d brought down from her childhood bedroom; she’d been absorbed in deciding the ordering she’d play them in, since Reece was more-or-less on DJ duty. Her gaze moved to the garbage bag by her hand that Natalia was gesturing too, which Reece had mainly only taken with her for show. “Hey, I’ve got an idea. Why don’t you show me?” Reece replied quickly, smiling broadly and without sincerity. “Since I’m sure you’re so perfect. You know everything, and you’re better than everyone, and that’s why you’re just walking around with a clipboard and not doing shit, am I right?

LOCATION: The Greenhouse DATE: Tuesday, September 6, 2005 (some time during The Restoration) Closed starter for @starrrling

For the first time since arriving at Woodrow, Natalia had traded her usual polished attire for a casual ensemble: a crisp white t-shirt, nicely fitting jeans, and a pair of sensible tennis shoes. Their stark white color weren't ideal for greenhouse work, but she didn't plan on getting her hands dirty. Angus agreed she would project manage after all. Her job today was to make sure everyone else was doing theirs.

Natalia stepped into the greenhouse with a clipboard in hand, her ponytail swinging behind her. The stale air, heavy with the scent of decay, had her scrunching her nose briefly before venturing further in. The wards were scattered about, working on various tasks to chip away at years of neglect. So far, so good, she thought. Then her eyes fell on Reece and she knew she had inspect a little more closely.

Coming up behind the younger ward, Natalia watched for a moment before drawing near to start a conversation with Reece. "You know," she began, "if you layer things and press down as you go, you'll be able to fit twice as much in that garbage bag."

[starrrling]

grosss — drusky

maybe it's my fault, now maybe i'm just being dramatic maybe it's my fault, now maybe i'm an attention addict maybe it's my fault maybe i was asking for it maybe it's my fault, but maybe that part's not important

[starrrling]

Reece cast a sidelong grin in Mickey’s direction. “Ah, I wouldn’t worry about it. I’m pretty sure even ghosts couldn’t get past Fort Woodrow’s top-of-the-line security. Mrs. Tristan would never allow squatters,” she joked. But she’d been thinking about it, too—she’d been wondering if a person’s invisible parts were left behind when a life expired, or if the important things were just doomed to be inadequately ephemeral.

She could tell that Mickey was a little bit drunk, and she didn’t mind. She never minded—far be it from her to ruin anybody’s good time, right? But something about it was particularly magnetic now, and Reece—still stone-cold sober—wanted to dissolve her own psyche into Mickey’s as though she could channel that blissful spirituous vertigo with nothing but proximity. Reece accepted the cigarette gratefully, groping for a lighter on her nightstand. When Mickey confessed she couldn’t sleep, Reece nodded in sage understanding and said, “God, yeah. I mean, Jesus, who could?” There was too much to stay up wondering about. Worrying about. Mourning. Missing. There wasn’t anything restful about it. “To fall asleep with no problem tonight as soon as your head hit the pillow, you’d have to be narcoleptic, or—or Natalia, I guess. I’m sure she has no trouble sleeping at night. Like a pretty, perfect, soulless Barbie,” Reece mused a little bitterly, popping her lips around the p sounds.

there was a bit of relief when reece opened her door. she didn't expect her to be asleep but she could have easily ignored her and pretended to be. she supposed she could have gone to one of the other girls' rooms but it was always reece she preferred to be around, especially in moments like this. "what if i told you i was?" mickey jokes along as she watched reece go back to her bed. there were enough ghosts hanging around the house that it could be a possibility. she crossed the room to grab the old ashtray from her desk before sitting down on the bed and placing it between them. it was probably rude to come to reece when she was half drunk and sad when she was sure reece has been struggling to stay sober all day. she hoped she at least did stay sober but mickey was too polite to bring it up or accuse her of something. she would at least assess how she was doing first. "i couldn't sleep," she says simply before opening her pack of cigarettes, taking two out for each of them, offering one to reece. she was too old to care about smoking inside, not that reece ever cared, her room always held a familiar smell of cigarettes and her own scent, it reminded her of when they were teenagers.

[starrrling]

A shoebox stowed beneath a loose floorboard, home to concrete nouns kept hidden (as opposed to all of the less corporeal things that one might feel compelled to hide). It felt familiar, proverbial and adolescent, unceremonious. It was usually hard for Reece to imagine what Angus had been like before they’d met: almost eight years her senior, he’d been a bona-fide grown up when Reece had moved into the Woodrow House in fifth grade. For all that Reece knew, Angus had emerged from the womb this way: serious and imperious and a good two feet taller than Reece — (she’d been so grateful for the following Great Growth Spurt of Eighth Grade that manifested in the form of twelve wiry inches, agonizing growth pains and all; that and the drinking had made her feel so grown up.)

I know they can’t stay here now. Reece’s throat constricted with the threat of tears, surprising her. She blinked them back, biting on her lip and trying to ignore the way that loss was advancing in on her from just beyond the horizon. Her tongue was glued to the roof of her mouth, and anyways, she didn’t trust herself to speak, so she listened, instead, leveling her breathing as Angus presented his minor childhood treasures — things that had belonged to her brothers. Rote memory, a force of habit, Reece reached up to wrap a loose hand around the silver necklace that had once belonged to her grandmother. Everything seemed so significant, so somber, so fragile, and it made her kind of afraid. She didn’t know if she could take it. She wanted to crack a joke, bite her nails, pull her hair. She wanted to turn back time to a week ago, or longer, much longer.

And when Angus offered her something, she was surprised by just how touched she was—it winded her, that aching feeling of something inside of her reaching out, her heart a single supplicating hand in search of something—some affection, some family. She gave him a lopsided grin and said, “hey, who am I to turn down charity?”

Angus hadn't meant to be suspenseful but had rather fallen into it. In reality, he was embarrassed. Nervous. Uncomfortable. He hadn't been down there, crouched close to the floor, in well over a decade. No one knew it was there except for him—well, him and Reece now. It was fundamentally revealing; it was humiliatingly vulnerable. Angus had rarely ever been either, especially not before Uncle Richard died. And what was there, at their feet, was difficult for him to describe. The nature of it felt obscure; it was a child's hiding spot, an outlet for a teenager's paranoia, an adult's crypt. And now that it was open and put on view, he was caught again by a lack of words.

"I'm sure you're going to find it all pretty anticlimactic," he assured her and more so assured himself. When Angus first arrived at Woodrow House, he felt like his seams were being torn apart. He put grief on every day with his socks and shoes, and then anger like the jacket that kept frostbite at bay. He felt eyes on him everywhere he went, whether or not they were there at all. He had visions of Mrs. Tristan rifling through his things, taking his things, hiding his things. He became a creature that snapped, barked, and bit just as often as he skulked and stowed away.

Reece didn't know him then, but that creature was still there. Tucked away and contorted around ligaments and blood vessels, it hid. And it was an ugly thing. The last thing he'd ever want would be for her to see it face-to-face. "These were all things I felt... compelled to hide," he explained, leaning over to pull the floorboard out of the way. "Silly, stupid things, but I know they can't stay here now." A tickle of paranoia, again, told him they couldn't be kept there. Most of them would have to come to DC with him. The first thing he could see in the low light was a dusty shoebox. Inside, he knew most items were relatively benign.

They were probably the only things he would feel relatively okay with sharing. The objects tucked further in the dark were better left for him to tackle on his own. He pulled out the box and then took off the top.

A half-finished whittling project, a collection of old Indian arrowheads, shiny dead beetles in a jar, and an array of bottle caps. There were baseball cards, a couple handwritten notes that had been slipped under bedroom doors, and three 100-cent coins. Silly and stupid, he told himself again. Silly and stupid. Meaningless meaningless meaningless—the repeated word helped keep his face blank. Angus pulled out the half-carved bear, his thumb gently rubbing one round, sanded ear. "Most of this stuff belonged to my brothers," he continued with a sour taste in his mouth, then placed the figure standing up on the floor.

He looked back over at Reece; her tired eyes, her wrinkled shirt, and the poorly concealed bruise under her eye. He thought about her eulogy and what Alison told him about their drive from the city. Angus thought about every worry he ever felt when it came to Reece's safety—how they accrued, and how they festered. He came to a decision. "I want to give you something that's in here," he told her, calm and serious. "And I'm sure I want you to have it. Will you please accept it without any trouble?"

[starrrling]

When Angus replied, there was an instant where heat flared in Reece’s temples and she had to grind her teeth together to keep her mouth from running—it was a feeling almost like anger, blind resistance, but by some miracle she kept her mouth shut long enough to break it down into words: it was really bothering her that he was talking to her like this—clinical like this, condescending to her ears, even if he wasn’t trying to be; too controlled. Somehow indirect and invasive all at once. She had to remind herself that he wasn’t trying to show off—not like Natalia fucking had been—even if it sort of sounded that way. She had to remind herself that this—you know, Angus’ whole schtick, the encyclopedic memory and the stiff restrain—wasn’t something he was doing to piss her off; that’s just how Angus was. 

She had to remind herself that a lot of the time, she really loved it about him, it made her laugh, and she usually felt kind of lucky just to know somebody like Angus who existed in real life: somebody who didn’t hesitate to constantly be in Reece’s ear, announcing that he gave a shit what happened to her, and phrasing that sentiment in explicitly the most scientific terms imaginable.

So, okay. She took a breath. Look at her, using her coping mechanisms, right? Jesus fucking Christ. But she was sober, and her mouth was shut, and she was letting Angus lead the way, so: a single moment in time where things could definitely be worse. Reece savored it, then said, “Oh, yeah, my Personal Recovery Plan—I knew I was forgetting something,” knocking at her skull like it was a hollow thing. “There’s no rule against drinking, right?” She joked, not really expecting him to laugh, but that was fine; some jokes were for her.  Inside Angus’ old room, Reece raised an eyebrow at Angus as he gestured to the bed frame. Okay, well, here’s a mystery. Nobody’s asking Reece to move a mattress because of her towering, muscular frame; she’s been the same height since the 80’s, and she can only get the childproof cap off of her aspirin bottle about half of the time. Her imagination was already wandering towards dead bodies—God, it’d be on theme for the week—as she complied almost too quickly, moving to help him push the frame, but not without chiming, “y’know, you didn’t say anything about manual labor.”

Angus frowned, momentarily not nearly as good at hiding his expression as he aimed to be. Sure, Reece had never been delighted to talk very openly on this subject with him, but he hadn't expected as much pushback. He chalked it up to the funeral—the eulogies, the wake, the crowds of people. There were a multitude of triggers, he assumed. It made sense that Reece would be on edge. It made perfect sense, he thought, rubbing his thumb and forefinger together at his side as he scrutinized her, as he accepted that he'd been... momentarily rebuffed. His tongue pressed up against the back of his teeth. This was fine. Angus cleared his throat, straightening his posture as he did so.

"Sarcasm noted," he said plainly, his expression clearing, "but if setting this boundary is part of a coping strategy, then who am I to try and chip away at your burgeoning resiliency?" A pressure point, the size of a child's fist, pushed at his chest. "Though I do hope it's in line with your Personal Recovery Plan. If not, I suggest you reconsider." Lead the way. Conga line. Angus' eyebrow twitched. "And I had no plans of lecturing you," he claimed, though there wasn't much proof of that given that he'd lectured her plenty of times before. There was also the fact that what he had planned on doing verged very closely on lecturing, and perhaps was lecturing, depending on how you defined it. He clearly defined it differently than Reece did, which was a better assertion than admitting it was a bald-faced lie.

They both must've known that the subject hadn't actually been dropped, but Angus finished leading the way to his room in relative quiet regardless. And once the door had been opened, the light had been turned on, and Reece was half-beside-half-behind him, the task at hand felt a little too revealing. "Come on, I need your help pushing the bed," he said, too casual for how he felt, which was where his already flimsy claim that he'd need her help with something wavered again. The large, oak bedframe was heavy, but the task would not have been impossible for him to do on his own. Still, he approached the leg of the headboard and nodded in the direction of the footboard for her to take responsibility for.

[starrrling]

How could Reece ever fall asleep? When she was finally alone, she exhaled, and the dark of her room gave way to a terrible hollow feeling that found its way inside her lungs before expanding. She was by herself and in the dark for a matter of minutes before all of it began to seem so clear to her: she was fucking hopeless, fighting an uphill battle like she had a fucking chance. Even the very best that she could be was really fucking bad, and that was why she didn’t belong here. Because all of them came crawling out of some fucking wreckage or another, right in to the arms of their very own Daddy Warbucks, but Reece couldn’t do what Natalia did, couldn’t put on a show of having her shit together, couldn’t be somebody important like the rest of them. Reece knew how to put on a performance, sure, but only if she was the fucking clown.  And then came the knock at the door, a perfectly-timed reminder for Reece to stop feeling so fucking sorry for herself, because, god, there was nothing worse, she was sure. But the sound of Mickey’s voice made something in Reece’s chest ease a little; although she didn’t really understand it, maybe there was a part of her that was seeking some sort of softness as she crossed her room and opened up the door, pushing stray strands of hair from her face and flicking on her desk lamp. “Hey. Yeah, why? Scared of ghosts?” Reece teased, but it was good-natured, and she opened her door more widely before crossing back over to her bed, an implied invitation for Mickey to come in.

closed starter @starrrling when: middle of the night after ghosty time where: reece's room

tonight had been...interesting to say the least. by the time mickey made her way back up to her room for the night, the alcohol was starting to leave her system but in turn it brought back all of the emotions from the day. she laid on her bed, staring up at the old glow in the dark stars on her ceiling that have somehow survived the years, the glow pretty much gone now but they were a welcome reminder of simpler times. she thought about richard and the funeral, about the eulogies everyone did. some obviously suck in her mind more than others. she wondered how much she missed growing up for some of them to have such different views about the man who raised them for half their lives. was richard not the man she thought he was?

she hated thinking about it and almost wished she had snuck a bottle of something up to her room when they all decided to call it a night. rolling over on her bed, she stared at the wall for a second before finally getting up and heads out of her room, a pack of cigarettes in her hand as an offering before she goes next door to knock on reece's door. "hey, are you still awake?" she asks quietly to the wood, hoping that she would open up.

[starrrling]

When Angus spoke again—rehab talk, sober talk, all logistics and implied disappointment—Reece heard the crashing cymbals of a chimpanzee in her head where his voice should be, Peanuts-style. All she could think was: here it comes again. Only a span of minutes had passed since her exchange with Natalia, and it felt like the universe was screaming out at her: everybody could see that she was a major mess, this giant fuck-up, and she must have been a real eyesore, right? The lingering sting of Natalia’s judgment had made even Angus’ and the others’ well-meaning smothering seem sort of cruel: Reece felt as though she was having her vices dangled in front of her at every fucking turn, just so everyone could remind her how badly she needed to abstain from indulging in them. “What do I need to call her for, when I’ve got such a shining support system right here?” Reece asked flatly, Natalia’s words still ringing in the back of her head. I think the day is getting to you. It would be so easy to forget what the fuck Reece was even staying sober for. 

She didn’t know why Angus wanted to bring her along for a lap through the house, and honestly, she wasn't sure she wanted to go; conversely, some part of her understood that Angus was probably right: she probably shouldn’t be alone. As much as she was drawn to the idea of taking to Richard’s study—an area that was likely less crowded with wandering, mourning strangers—she’d been likewise avoiding that area of the house; she didn’t know if Mrs. Tristan had gone in and tidied it yet, undoing all of the candid signs of life Richard had only just left behind: a half-read book left open on the table, an unsent letter and a blank envelope, whatever. She knew that the sight would probably flatten her either way. “If you spare me the lecture for as long as you can manage without spontaneously combusting, then sure, whatever. Lead the way. Conga line.”

Angus frowned in response to her answer and then further at the tone with which she continued. "They circulate phone and email lists at meetings for the very purpose of communication, don't they?" he asked, unsure of where he took a misstep and completely bypassing the sarcastically served you're a real joy to talk to for his own sake. He wasn't trying to be a joy; he wanted her to stay sober.

Grief was painful. It triggered your flight-or-fight response, leaving your emotional system struggling to connect with your prefrontal cortex where rational thinking occurs. And the brain always tries to protect itself. And the quickest, easiest, and most reliable way to numb pain, for Reece, was alcohol. He didn't want her brain to cross any wires and lead her somewhere she shouldn't go. Talking was supposed to help with that. Talking with someone who walked the same path as her was even better.

Angus tugged at the collar of his dress shirt, feeling as though his throat had gone a little dry and uncomfortable for a moment. "I clearly remember reading about the importance of establishing phone buddies, so I'm not sure why you haven't given her a call." When they made it to the landing, there was only one more set of stairs to the third floor. Angus took a deep breath, readying himself for the answer. He gave her crumbs of truth.

"And we're going to my old room—briefly—to get something. Then I'd like to head back down to Uncle Richard's study if necessary." Not Uncle Richard's office, of course. "And if you're amenable. It'll be quick."

[starrrling]

RACHEL SENNOTT in the '360' music video by Charli XCX

[starrrling]

“It’s so insane how I actually don’t give a fuck,” Reece exclaimed in response to Natalia’s fixation on the pedantics—it couldn’t matter less to Reece if there was some letter of the law by which Natalia hadn’t been interrupting Reece. And then Natalia told Reece to have respect, and it was like Reece could feel every one of her atoms shift: the laugh that roared out of her was incredulous and mean, and it sent the forest’s nearby birds fleeing from the trees. She was pretty damn sure she’d fallen down the fucking rabbit hole, or something. All of the anger that she’d been swallowing down to make room for everything else was suddenly right there with Reece, pooling in her mouth, pushing underneath her skin. Some part of her subconscious felt certain that all of the fucking unkindness Reece had been enduring lately was being inflicted for the sole intention of enjoying watching Reece hurt, and the urge to hurt somebody back was overwhelming, almost tidal.  “You know? You’re really just so fucking incredible,” Reece said, her tongue scraping against her tongue as she spoke. She gave a couple of slow, theatrical claps, and her hands were shaking, only a little. “You just fucking love to act like you’re Little Miss Perfect, and anybody who fucking bought it? That’s because you save all of your fucking evil for me, but I see what you fucking do, Natalia! And, you know what? Now that his body is in the ground, there’s no fooling him anymore, right? Because if there is an afterlife, then that means there’s some part of him that sees this right now, that sees you for the absolute cunt you are.” She knew that she was being awful, but it felt so fair in that moment, you can’t even imagine. “And whatever you tell yourself, and Mrs. Tristan, and everyone else—all of the fucking dead people just saw you come up to me and say some of the meanest shit imaginable, then act like I’m crazy when I don’t smile to your face and seethe internally so you don’t have to deal with how fucked up what you said was. That’s who you are. You get so wet over fucking etiquette and rules and manners until any of it has to apply to you, because you’re a fucking hypocrite, and that’s why there isn’t anybody on this fucking planet who will be able to love you if they actually know you; not unless they’re as awful as you.”

Natalia blinked, both unimpressed and stunned by the sudden outburst from Reece. "Okay, calm down," she instructed, feeling as though there was no need for all of this theatrics. "And I'm not here to interrupt you. I'm here to have a cigarette. You, just happen to be here. It's not all about you, you know." It was mere coincidence that Reece had also been taking a break from the crowd when Natalia snuck off for a smoke. It's not like Natalia was actively seeking Reece out like a shark smelling blood in water.

"And God, what is wrong with you?" She couldn't help but say after a moment. If she were the type to truly care about what Reece went through in her daily life, she might consider what just happened concerning. But right now, it was just felt distasteful. "Dressing up Richard's corpse? We only put the man in the ground hours ago. Have some respect."

[starrrling]

It made Reece antsy when Angus was this way with her—calculated, complimentary, too smooth and talking circles around her, in a sense, and that wasn’t an easy thing to do: Reece could filibuster with the best of them, but the six-syllable words would throw her off every time. “That doesn’t surprise me,” she deadpanned, toying with the hem of her jacket.   Fine, he won, he caught her way off-guard: she’d been anticipating a hell of a lot more subtlety, but apparently, Angus’ cryptic backbone wasn’t going anywhere. “No,” she answered honestly, and only after did she realize that she was just a little bit mad at him, although she wasn’t certain she could articulate why, exactly—was she angry at his directness? His intrusiveness? Did she get some sense that he viewed her, foremost, as a problem that he had to control? “You’re a real joy to talk to, you know that? Remind me where you’re having me ‘walk with you.’”

"Don't sell yourself short, you have plenty of skills," Angus said, a little absentminded as he continued up the stairs at a steady pace. When he said he needed her help—they were the first words he could think of, borne from a back-of-the-brain thought that he'd been hesitant to touch for the last 48 hours. Now, it seemed, it was time to face it head-on. And Reece was along for the ride. "Hypothetically, I could use your help with a great deal of things."

"Perhaps I need someone to aid me in writing a circumlocutory speech sprinkled with your signature witticisms. I've been told my verbal communication can run rather dry." Which was, in part, truth. Angus' work meetings were almost completely made up of here's the situation and let's focus on the real action item and this is what it is going to take to close the deal. All very classic Angusisms, none of which were very colorful and dynamic, and not something he sought to change. They still got the job done.

Then, as an added kicker, he tacked on: "Have you spoken to anyone from your program today?" Angus looked over at Reece. "Zelda, perhaps?"