Young Writers Society

There were two stalls in the women's bathroom, across from a cracked mirror and lone sink.

I closed the door behind me, leaning against it. Through the thick wood I could still hear footsteps, the sound of people exiting the building. The service had gone uninterrupted, which was a relief, but no one wanted to stay afterward. They came to listen intently, then bolt out.

It didn't make sense to me.

The door pushed hard, suddenly, against my back, and I stumbled forward. The willowy young woman who sat in the back pew slipped in, then stopped, and stared at me.

I stared at her. 

Now that I had a good look at her, I saw she was older than I had assumed - maybe somewhere in her mid-twenties - but just as beautiful as when I first caught a glimpse.

High cheekbones, flawless white skin, a long beige dress wrapped around her curvy figure - she was like a finely sculpted marble pillar. Lovely, but there was something hard about her. Something cold.

"Madison," she said. Her voice was low, almost subtle.

"Maddie," I corrected.

She lifted one small shoulder, moving forward to examine herself in the mirror. "I don't care for nicknames."

I blinked. "Oh. Excuse me. I didn't realize I was supposed to care about your preferences."

The corner of her mouth turned up slightly, as if she were about to smile, but she kept her eyes traveling across her face, up to her smooth forehead, down to her soft chin. "You remind me of Jackson, in a way."

Jackson?

I shouldn't have felt a flash of surprise, but I did. I had never seen the two even exchange a word. Yet Jackson had been in such a strange mood, lately, I could only wonder what else he did that I didn't know about.

"Surprise," I finally said. "He is my brother."

"Oh, it's obvious." Her eyes left her face and flickered to mine. In the light, I could see they were green, a light olive green. "Why are you here? You don't want to be, do you?"

I bunched my thick knit sweater up in my hands. "I could ask you the same."

A ghost of a smile touched her lips. "Oh, no. You're mistaken there. I do want to be here." She looked back at her cracked reflection and ran her pale fingers through her hair. "We're all here for the same reason."

"Oh. Right." I crossed my arms over my chest. "Remind me of that reason again? To spy on us? Criticize us? Report us to the police because we're not part of your little cult?"

Her eyes snapped to mine. The smile evaporated.

Dang it.

I closed my lips tightly together. I'd said too much.

I didn't know what I expected her to say. Agree with me? Throw a fist in my face? But no, she seemed like a person who kept her true feelings buried deep behind that marble facade.

She turned to face me. And though I towered inches over her and was much broader and built than her, I didn't feel superior. I felt very small, and ignorant. As if I were a child.

I pressed my arms tighter against my chest. 

I didn't like that feeling.

Her olive eyes narrowed a tad. "You are," she mused. "So very much like Jackson."

"Leave my brother alone," I hissed.

"No, thank you." That ghost of a smile flirted with her mouth again. She turned, pushing her dark hair behind her. "Not until he leaves us alone."

I stared hard at her. "What did he ever do to you?"

"Not me, Madison. I said us."

"It's Maddie," I snapped.

But she had already disappeared out the door.

----

Papa is depressed. But he's trying to hide it. As if we're somehow going to fall for his overly bright smiles, and ignore his half-hour spacing outs. The visitation rounds didn't go as well as planned, apparently. People don't know how to act around him, apparently. 

Or so Kentucky says.

The people are distant and aloof, and they stare. They stare a lot.

I want to go with him when he goes to Justin's house. I don't think it's likely he'd receive Papa like the others did, anyway.