Free Snapshots by Pamela Browning Page B

party?”
    I glared at my sister, disheveled and clutching her stomach. “I’d say that’s out, Martine. You can’t show up at the Finnerans’ like this, and there’d be too many questions if I went without you.”
    â€œOkay,” Martine said weakly. “You’ll be up to bed soon, right?”
    â€œYeah, but I suggest you take a few Tums. Dad’s planning a belly buster for tomorrow.”
    I pushed Martine toward the hall. “Go on. Before Mom decides to wake up again and get chatty because she can’t go back to sleep. And hide the dress. We’ll drop it off at the dry cleaner’s Monday.”
    Martine went.
    â€œNow you,” I said to Rick. “I’m afraid you’re going to resemble a piece of raw hamburger tomorrow.”
    â€œI guess, considering where the cut is, I can’t pass it off as a shaving nick,” Rick said.
    â€œThere’s always running into a door.”
    â€œOr falling downstairs,” he said.
    We kept a well-stocked first-aid kit in the hall bathroom, and I made Rick sit on the toilet lid while I washed out his wound with peroxide. He winced but didn’t complain.
    â€œThis is deeper than I thought,” I said as I studied it. “No wonder it bled so much.”
    â€œThe shirt is ruined,” he said, gazing down ruefully at the blood-spattered tucks and pleats.
    â€œI’ll handle that,” I said. “Take it off.”
    As he shrugged out of the shirt, I peered at the cut on his head again. I didn’t like the way it splayed from the center. Stitches might be required, and I said so.
    While I ran cold water into the sink, Rick stood and inspected his reflection in the bathroom mirror. “It could be worse. Just stick a Band-Aid on it.”
    He sat back down, and I pressed the bloody shirt into the water before rummaging in the first-aid kit. I remembered how, when Dad cut his hand while sharpening a lawn-mower blade, he’d refused to go to a doctor. Mom had positioned the two sides of flesh together before securing them with a butterfly bandage, and I was lucky enough to find such a bandage in the kit.
    I squirted a liberal dose of Bacitracin on Rick’s wound, padded the cut with gauze and applied the butterfly. I did a pretty good job, and I was sure that when Rick washed his hair and it fell in its natural pattern over his forehead, the cut would be barely noticeable.
    â€œThere,” I said. “We’re finished.” I turned my attention to the sink, where the blood had colored the water bright pink. I swished it, rinsed it, squeezed some of the water out and studied it. “The bloodstains are fading,” I said.
    â€œAre you going to tell your parents that we went to Alec’s party?” Rick asked as he followed me into the kitchen, where I rolled up the shirt and shoved it into a plastic bag.
    I shook my head. “No point in lying if we don’t have to. I’ll invent some reason we didn’t go.” I handed the bag to Rick, who squished it smaller and stuffed it into his pocket. He picked up the tux jacket and slung it over his arm.
    â€œLike what? Let’s coordinate our stories.”
    â€œCramps. One of us had cramps and had to come home, so the rest of us skipped the party, too.” I’d let Martine have the cramps, I figured. That way Dad might exempt her from his belly buster in the morning.
    â€œOkay. That’ll work.” I felt no embarrassment talking about something as intimate as menstrual cramps with Rick. He’d heard many discussions of female topics over the years.
    â€œI might stop by the party after I change,” Rick said. “I could explain to Alec that you’re staying home. That way no one will call here to find out why we haven’t shown up.”
    I certainly didn’t want anyone calling us. Any unusual activity at this hour or later had the potential for raising our parents’