February 2009

It took less than a year for their father to remarry. They’d barely gotten used to their mother’s absence when he had made the announcement, confirming what Michael had feared from the start.

“I thought it’d be nice to have a woman’s touch around here again,” he’d put his arm around Kara’s shoulders, a fresh pair of gold wedding bands glinting on their fingers. Her wide smile was a contrast to her eyes—clouded, careless and cold. He and his siblings had had no part in the ceremony, they’d only heard about it second-hand from their aunt, when she’d haltingly explained one morning that their father had left on his honeymoon. It had been almost a month until he and Kara had brought them home.

“I’ll try not to change too much around here,” she’d said, the smile turning down. “But there will still be a few new rules.”

Those ‘few new rules’ had turned the house into a prison. The television had been moved from the living room to the master bedroom, the remote locked away with Kara’s jewelry. The GameCube and discs had been sold, their arts-and-crafts supplies tossed. The playroom had been cleared out for office space, their toys and games donated. The treehouse had been dismantled, the tree removed to make room for a daffodil garden. The old basketball hoop had been taken off the garage, the backboard and treehouse parts used for bonfire kindling.

The weekday curfew was four-thirty, barely enough time to get home once school let out; every weekend saw the girls deep cleaning the house while the boys did the yard work. Chores had to be finished by dinner at six-thirty, or they went to bed hungry. If their homework wasn’t done by bedtime at nine, their beds were stripped to the mattress, even in winter. They weren’t allowed to go anywhere with friends, or to have friends over. Any excessive noise or mess was met with swift, harsh punishment. They had even been banned from visiting their mother’s and grandmother’s graves.

“Ugh, I can’t stand this!” Michael glared at the stark ceiling. It was their mandatory nap hour, the house as quiet as an empty church. His rock star bedroom had been gutted, his posters thrown out, his CDs and drum kit sold, the red walls painted a cold, sterile white. Lena’s Bratz room and the triplets’ outer space room had gotten the same treatment, their handmade furniture replaced with bland, uniform white sets. “Why can’t Dad see what she’s doing?”

Sitting on the floor across from him, Lena tugged at her tight, lacy collar, scratching at the growing rash on her neck for the hundredth time. She’d been sensitive to it all her life, but Kara didn’t care. She also hated dresses and skirts, the rules stating they were all she and Brianna could wear.

“I don’t think he notices,” she said quietly. Their father had transferred to a job that required year-round travel, and if he did have any concerns about what Kara was doing, he didn’t voice them. Michael growled, wishing he could punch something.

“This is such bullcrap,” he sat up and yanked off his polo, not caring when his glasses came off with it, and threw it on the floor. Like his siblings, his skin had gone pale, pocked with scars, his thin stomach covered by a nasty, dark violet bruise. The remnants of the latest beating he’d taken for Kyle. “As if uniforms at school weren’t bad enough!”

Most of their clothing had been sold or donated, their closets filled with khakis and polos or puffy sleeves and plaid gingham skirts. Their shoes had been swapped out for plain brown loafers and shiny black Mary Janes; no shorts or sandals were allowed, even during the humid Michigan summer.

“You think we should tell someone?” Lena asked. He sighed.

“I try that at school every day,” he scratched his head. He and their brothers had been forced to get military fades, she and Brianna pixie cuts. “No one listens to me.”

Lena brought her knees to her chest, picking at a loose piece of the thin, spotless white carpet. Her dull eyes trailed across her short nails, filed round and painted white as always. On a good day, a mistake would net the girls sore tails and a hungry night, but a bad one? It was a hungry night in the crawlspace under the back porch, then a morning beating for tracking dirt and mud into the house.

“You think they’ll ever find who killed Mom?”

He scoffed. The cops sure weren’t trying too hard.

“You and I both know who was behind that,” he threw himself back on his pillow, though it barely counted as one. He was surprised Kara let them have pillows at all. She sniffled, blinking away tears.

“It’s not fair,” she murmured, resting her forehead on her knees. “She does whatever she wants to us, and no one even tries to stop her!”

He sat up, his fists tightening on his thin sheet. They didn’t get blankets until December.

“She won’t get away with it forever, sis,” he wasn’t sure he believed it himself. “I can promise you that.”

She started to speak, then her mouth snapped shut when they heard Kara on the stairs. Lena shot to her feet and went to the door, pausing with her hand clenched on the polished brass knob. She glanced back at him, flashing what had become her usual small, bitter smile.

“As long as you don’t keep promises the way Dad does.”

She slipped out, closing the door silently behind her. He hoped she’d make it back to her room before Kara caught her.

“Lena Amber Sione!”

Oh, no…