Free A Field Guide to Deception by Jill Malone Page B

youth like a sword they’d fall on.
    â€œThat’s hilarious.”
    â€œDude, I told you this was a small town. Fair warning and all.”
    â€œBailey, what is it you want? Claire, do you want Claire? You signing on to be the personal chef here?”
    Bailey laughed. It sounded hysterical to Liv.

    â€œYou hit your head super hard, Liv. Just keep mellow and watch the pollen blow or the grass sway or whatever the fuck.”
    Liv inhaled something bitter, held it a moment, and let it go. It hovered above the trees like a dazzling helicopter. Wow, she thought. She knew already, not to say it out loud.

    In Simon’s room, Claire had grabbed a thin blanket from the closet and uncovered a box of Denise’s papers. Cross-legged on her bed now, she riffled through the box, and found, mixed in with legal documents and tax forms, the sketches of Amanita varieties that she knew to be her aunt’s missing research. How had this box ended up in Simon’s closet? She set the research aside, and emptied the box onto her bedspread. More documents, a photograph of Claire’s parents, a brochure from a lecture series, and then she read the following, typed letter: We admire what you have taken on. We are grateful. Claire will always hold herself apart. She is steadfast without loyalty, and loving without demonstration of feeling. She is, always, patient and controlled. You may find her difficult. We believe that she is difficult. We hope that you will understand her better than we. We hope she will thrive there with you.
    Her mother had signed the letter for both of them. Claire read it until the words shuffled together, meaningless. A harsh letter, wasn’t it? Not untrue, certainly, but unkind. Laying the letter aside, she flipped again through the sketches. It wounded her, that letter. She felt as though she might be bleeding.
    Bailey would still be out there, prattling on. So Claire stayed in her room, re-packed everything but the sketches, and ignored the box—particularly the letter. She wished for Liv. Much later, she wondered if her aunt had answered, and if so, what she’d written.

    Claire crept into the camper. Stood, trying to quiet her breathing, her heart. Spooled in her bag, Liv slept on. Looking about her, Claire
considered dropping a water bottle, or slamming a cupboard door, anything to rouse the girl. Instead, she climbed into bed and put her hands on Liv’s bare torso. Even then, the girl only groaned and curled into Claire.
    â€œWake up,” she whispered. “Please. Wake up.”
    It hurt to speak. It hurt to have her hands on Liv. It felt like pressing bruises. It hurt as she bent lower and kissed Liv’s mouth. It hurt to pull the girl into her and kiss her and cling to her and weep. God, finally to weep, and that hurt worst of all. The tears covering both of them and still coming, and Liv had woken; her arms flexed around Claire and brought more tears yet. And then the noise began, guttural and ragged as though it came from Claire’s very cells, some ancient voice from her conception; it shook through her viciously, and left her shivering harder.
    Liv had reared up on her knees and braced herself against the wall of the camper to hold onto Claire. They were wedged too tightly in the narrow bed to rock, but Liv sang, the way she would have to Simon, and Claire felt herself cradled as the noise, almost a possession, drained away from her. Everything drained away from her. Liv held fast, sang until the shivering stopped, kissed Claire’s damp face.

Twelve
    A kind of awareness
    Paint spattered Liv’s hands. Chronically incapable of painting without mess, she’d worn her grubs, and reveled now in the tangy smell, the texture of color on the wall, the feel of the brushstroke along her entire arm. She’d promised Claire, no power tools until she was off the meds, and so they’d spent the morning choosing colors for the basement. Mauve and a