Martin Did This

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
So this is my first attempt at writing a "literary" story. In my creative writing class, my professor is adament that "commercial" stories (ie. most vampire stories, horror stories, etc) are filled with horrible "commercial" writing. Thus, I'm trying my hand at "literary" writing. Give me feedback?
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*1

2

It was five a.m. when I jerked awake, eyes snapping open so hard that I was surprised they didn’t make an audible sound. If it had been a nightmare, I couldn’t remember it, but I could feel my heart through my chest and I knew, with absolute certainty, that I didn’t want to close my eyes again. 3

“Stand up,” I whispered. “Get dressed.” 4

I obeyed. I pulled on my jeans first, enjoying the sensation of the denim sliding up my shaved legs. I’d shaved last night before I went to bed, tearing the hell out of my skin with my free-sample razor I’d gotten in the mail, but it was worth it. My knees peeked out of the large holes in my jeans that I’d managed to cut with a pair of kiddy-scissors a few days ago. I sat back down on my bed, half-dressed, and contemplated the torn jeans for a moment before reaching into my dresser drawer and pulling out a black magic marker. Very slowly, I spread the holes in the denim with one hand and drew a winking smiley-face on the round of my knees, first on one leg and then the other. 5

A sound came from downstairs, a muffled thump, and I stood up and pulled on a flannel long-sleeved shirt. Belinda was probably at it again. A loud, high-pitched laugh knifed through the thin walls of my room. When it came to sound, shutting my door was merely an aesthetic decision – no mere piece of wood could block out my stepmother’s laugh. If I went downstairs she’d probably want to talk to me, which was a definite negative...but then again, I also wanted to suck at a cup of coffee like a leech on a hemophiliac. 6

Holding onto the railing, I took each step carefully. The worst part about going downstairs was the final few steps; the last two yards of railing had broken off several months ago and no one had ever fixed it. I could only press on the smooth wall for balance; there was nothing else to grab, and I’d fallen before. My smiley-knees creaked with every downward step – if their little ink-mouths could talk, they’d scream at me to not put so much faith in them and, for fuck’s sake, grab a hold of something. 7

I made it to the bottom of the stairs without dying. I considered this a good omen for the rest of the day. 8

I made my way through the labyrinthine hallways of Tuttlebutt Manor, quietly patting each door that I passed for good luck. The kitchen was located at the center of the house and, even now, I could sniff out the ghost-scent of past coffeepots brimming with the faded promise of liquid brown reason-for-living. Of course, in the dark of five a.m., the only glow of electric light was coming from the kitchen. Belinda was often where I wanted to be when I didn’t want her to be there. The rare times I’d wanted her to be there? Not so much. 9

I shuffled into the kitchen, built originally in 1905 and only recently refurbished with the most modern of appliances. The coffeepot, stained with frequent use, sat in a corner and I almost waved to it, like greeting an old friend, before I caught myself raising my arm. Stop being a freak, I ordered myself, but I knew I didn’t really mean it and so forgave myself for the early-morning rudeness. 10

As soon as I glanced around the room, I realized that I didn’t need to worry about being called out for my dumbassery. My step-mother was in a corner, her wild brown hair flying everywhere in ten thousand ironed-in kinks, her glittery halter top patterned in tiger stripes. I thought it looked tacky, but the man she was kissing apparently didn’t seem to mind; he was busy rummaging through the front of her shirt like a deal-hunter at a garage sale’s 10-cent bin. Neither of them saw me. I looked down at the floor the moment I realized what was going on, but the image was already burned into my brain. One of my stepmother’s boobs had popped out of her shirt. God, coffee wasn’t worth this. 11

I quietly turned around and pushed the swinging door open so I could slip through it, but the movement must have caught the man’s attention. 12

“Who the hell is that?” 13

I cringed and waited while Belinda gasped and, I hoped, adjusted her shirt accordingly. After three horrid seconds of standing there facing the door, I turned around and prepared myself for the worst. Thankfully, my stepmother had fixed her clothing. The only sign of what she had been doing was the giant stain of cherry-red lipstick smearing across her lower cheek. Belinda didn’t believe in expensive makeup. 14

“Oh my god, Dae Hyun! Jesus, what are you doing up so early?” Belinda was blushing, which was a nice change. She was standing directly in front of the man, so I couldn’t really see his face. When he leaned to peer over her shoulder, she moved a little bit to the left and I realized that she was standing in front of his crotch so I wouldn’t have to see any bulges. Thank god, she’d learned from the last time. 15

Still, I tried to keep my eyes aimed towards the floor, just in case. “I couldn’t sleep, so I wanted some coffee,” I muttered. 16

“Who the fuck is this?” the man groused. “The maid?” He slid his arms around Belinda’s front and made a grab for her boob again. I gave up attempting to stare at the floor – it wasn’t working – and instead concentrated on glaring at the man. He was incredibly short and skinny and his hair was a curly butter yellow. A second later, he succeeded in tweaking the sought-after boob. 17

“Martin!” Belinda shrieked and smacked him on the hand, not nearly hard enough in my opinion. “This is my daughter, Dae Hyun Lee. Dae Hyun, this is my old friend Martin Dillinger. We used to play cello together.” She leaned forward and stage-whispered, “He’s in finance now.” She gave me a wink, which I studiously ignored. 18

“She’s your daughter? She don’t look it,” Martin slurred. It was at that point that I realized that, while Martin was stinking drunk, Belinda wasn’t. The fact that she could make-out with such an asshole sober made me want to burrow my head into a pile of compost. He thrust his face into Belinda’s mess of hair and spoke into her ear. “She looks Chinese to me. Daughter, my ass.” 19

“Step-daughter, thank you,” I said. “And I’m Korean, not Chinese.” 20

“Oh, sorry,” Martin said. He looked me up and down, and if I cared at all, I’m sure his eyes would have felt like slugs. As I had already decided that he was a walking pile of excrement, his actions meant nothing to me. Nothing. Still, I was secretly glad that my outfit was so baggy, although now I was really wishing I’d put on a bra. “She coming to the party tonight?” He wiggled his eyebrows at me. 21

“She’s my daughter,” Belinda said as she stepped back and pushed him, harder this time than her playful slap earlier. Martin stumbled against the wall, but didn’t fall over like I’d hoped. Instead he laughed and raised up both of his hands, palms out, like “peace, peace.”22

“I was joking, baby,” he said and she gave him an exaggerated glare, then smiled at him loopily. I decided that Martin must have a lot of money. 23

“So,” he continued, pulling out one of the kitchen chairs and carefully lowering himself onto the cushioned seat like it was going to buck him off, “which ex-husband do you belong to?” 24

I raised my eyebrow at Belinda – how much had she said already? – but she just shrugged at me. “Dad married Belinda after Mr. Tuttlebutt died,” I said. Mr. Tuttlebutt had been Belinda’s first husband, 89-years-old and ex-CEO of one of the larger agricultural companies on the west coast. Mr. Tuttlebutt had died of a stroke about three weeks before Belinda had met my dad. Belinda worked fast. 25

Martin turned his languorous head towards my stepmother. “You married a Korean guy? I didn’t know that.” 26

Belinda waved her hand. “Stevie wasn’t Asian. He was doing his missionary thing in South Korea when he saw little Dae Hyun. Adopted her. Saved her life.” 27

“South Korea isn’t that bad,” I started to argue, but then shut my mouth. What the hell did I know? I’d gone out of my way to not learn about South Korea, since all my teachers in school thought I should be some expert or something. The only thing I knew was that “Anyonghasao” meant “hello” and that kimchi tasted like salted dog shit. 28

“A missionary?” Martin started to laugh, a horrible gagging snort that just increased in volume the longer he chuckled. “You? You married a missionary?” 29

Belinda shrugged. “He was a sweet guy. So what if he was religious?” 30

“Jesus...” Still laughing, he pushed himself off the chair using the table as a balance and staggered towards the door. “Okay, babe, whatever. I gotta go get some of my shit from the ex-wife before she sells it all.” He paused, and then spat, “Goddamn bitch,” before muttering, “Sorry.” He looked at me, blinking his bleary eyes to try and clear them. “Hey, um, Die-Young or whatever...”31

“Dae Hyun,” I corrected.32

“Uh, anyway, it was nice to meet you.” He reached out as if to shake my hand, but the movement threw him off-balance and he stumbled backwards. He caught himself and walked, with exaggerated caution, through the kitchen door. 33

“I’m calling you a cab,” Belinda said, grabbing the kitchen phone as she followed him towards the front of the house.34

“You’re a cab,” I said for her when she didn’t, but it didn’t matter, because by this time I was talking to an empty kitchen. The coffeepot was still sadly bereft of coffee, so I hurriedly remedied that, enjoying the smell of the dark French roast even as my mind wandered. Dad had died during a mission in Uganda when I’d been eight. I’d wanted to go with him, but he’d said no, that I wasn’t old enough. He’d left me with Belinda for the summer and never came back, dying from an infected mosquito bite in some small village in the middle of nowhere. 35

Unconsciously, I rubbed the spot on my face where the bite had been, just above the left cheekbone, as the drops of coffee drip drip dripped into the small pot. I was slapping some salmon cream cheese on an onion bagel when Belinda came back into the kitchen, her lipstick even more smeared. 36

“You’d better not marry that guy,” I said. “I’m moving out if you do.” 37

“You can’t legally move out until you’re 18, hon. Plus, he’s loaded.”38

I almost choked on my bite of bagel. “You’re kidding, right?” 39

She grinned at me, looking down from her six foot three frame. I was only five foot three, so whenever I looked up at Belinda, I got a neck cramp. With her gigantic mop of kinky hair flying every which way from her head, plus her skinny frame (minus the boob job), she looked kind of like a giant feather duster. 40

“Of course I’m kidding. I can do better. Martin and I go way back – we were in the orchestra together - but he’s always been a bit of a jerk.” She smiled. “That’s the way I like ‘em.” 41

“Dad wasn’t a jerk,” I said and then immediately regretted it. Initiating a conversation like this with Belinda was never a good strategy. 42

Belinda sighed and, grabbing the bag of bagels from the counter, began to twist the plastic bag open and shut with her hands. “Your father spoiled me for decent men,” she said. “Big jerks are the only ones I can have fun with anymore.” 43

“Uh...” I took another bite of my bagel as I thought of possible responses. 44

She wrinkled her nose as I chewed. “What in the heck is that you’re eating?” 45

“Salmon cream cheese,” I said and lifted the bagel towards her. “Want a bite?” 46

She took a quick step backwards. “Um, no thank you.” She pressed one of her large hands to her stomach for a moment and closed her eyes. “Ugh...” 47

“Are you okay?”48

She stood still for a moment, then nodded. “I’m fine. Just been feeling a little under the weather the past couple of days.” She gave an evil grin. “Martin’s probably just wore me out. Man’s got more energy than a well-hung bull moose.” 49

I didn’t know what to say to that, but the visual image was too horrible to deal with so early in the morning, so I decided to beat a hasty retreat. “I gotta go get ready for school,” I lied and scooted out of the kitchen. 50

I was halfway down the biggest hallway when I heard Belinda behind me. “Dae Hyun?” 51

Reluctantly, I stopped and turned around. “Yeah?” 52

“The party Martin was talking about? I’m hosting it here. Tonight.” 53

She had the grace to look embarrassed, at least, but not embarrassed enough to stop it if I put up a fuss. This had to be at least the fourth time she’d hosted one of her “parties” here. The first time she’d done it, I’d been sixteen. I guess, before, they’d always been held at other people’s houses. 54

“I thought you said you were sick,” I argued. “You shouldn’t be hosting parties.” 55

She rolled her eyes. “Like I’d let stomach problems keep me and my friends from having a little bit of fun.” 56

“Whatever,” I said, but my cheeks were burning red at the thought of what my step-mother considered “fun” and I was glad I hadn’t turned on the hallway light.57

“Make sure you stay at a friend’s house tonight,” Belinda said. “Stay the night. Don’t come back here until at least mid-morning.” 58

What friends? I thought as I reached out to touch an un-patted hallway door. My last real friend, Sheila, had moved back to Australia this summer. I still emailed her all the time, but it wasn’t like I could go visit. All the other people at my school teetered between “boring” and “asshole.” I still had the stuffed koala Sheila had sent me in a recent care package under my bed. Sometimes I even slept with it. 59

“A friend’s house. Yeah,” I muttered, and then raced through the hallway and up the stairs. By the time I’d reached my room, my knees were hurting enough that I took an extra pill, so that way by the time I started going downstairs to leave for school, they were only numb and wobbly. 60

****61

Maybe it was the meds. Maybe I’d pissed off the great Knee Gods when I’d profaned them with my black marker. Or maybe it was the fact that I had been diagnosed with Juvenile Rheumatoid Arthritis four years ago and I was never as careful as I should be. Whatever it was, when my right knee gave out on the third-to-last step down the stairs and I felt that too-familiar sensation of plunging forward into space and hard right angles, I didn’t even have time to swear. I landed hard on my elbows, scraping both of them across the wooden floor as I half slid/half rolled into the wall. My left knee, the one knee who hadn’t betrayed me in my hour of need, slammed on the hard corner of the last step. Its little ink mouth was now screaming mutely from the agony of the impact, spreading hard throbbing fire up my leg in frantic explosions. 62

“God fucking dammit,” I moaned, the blaspheme escaping my lips in an utterly unsatisfactory manner. I curled my legs up into my chest initially, but bending my knee made it ache worse and I immediately stretched it out again, haphazardly, against the stairs. I laid like that, keeping deathly still except for my shallow panting as the air slowly came back into my lungs. At least one of my elbows was bleeding – I could feel the slow drip of blood running down onto the floor. Just lying here wasn’t going to do anything, so I forced myself up, slowly, hating the fact that I was putting all of my weight on my trickster right knee, but I didn’t have any choice if I didn’t want to lie there all fucking afternoon. 63

Fuck! I glared at the stupid lack-of-railing and almost punched the wall. What the hell had Belinda been doing with all of her stupid money? She was always getting checks and shit from all of her ex-husbands, she should’ve called the fucking repairman months ago. 64

I limped towards the living room and glared at my backpack that was sitting expectantly on the antique chair by Belinda’s favorite cello. Like I was going to school today. There wasn’t any point. If Belinda made a fuss about skipping, I’d just remind her of all the stupid things I’d seen her do before. 65

Speaking of, where was my stepmother? I’d made more than enough noise falling down the goddamn stairs. I took a deep breath and exhaled, then took several more steps. At least the pain in my left knee wasn’t getting any worse. I twisted my arms around to try and see my skinned elbows. They didn’t look as bad as they felt. Still, I hobbled to the nearest bathroom to get some band-aids. 66

“Belinda?” I called out as I left the bathroom, wounds neatly patched up. There was no answer in the house, save for the creaking of some old pipes. Maybe she had gone out shopping for her – I cringed – “party.” There were probably some sex toys she hadn’t introduced her friends to yet. If she had been in the house when I’d fallen, I could have used the accident to maybe guilt-trip her into cancelling the embarrassing thing, but since I was still walking upright, the opportunity was wasted. 67

I was near the front door, so I hobbled over to the huge mahogany and stained-glass monstrosity and swung it open. Belinda usually parked her hot pink Maserati near the end of the driveway rather than in the garage. She claimed it was more convenient that way, but I knew it was because she wanted the neighbors to see it. When I peeked outside, it was still sitting there in its professionally waxed glory, looking so slick like sunshine would drip off of it. So the car was still here. Maybe that asshole Martin had given her a ride somewhere, or one of her girlfriends. God, I really didn’t want her to marry him, but Belinda had a tendency to get hitched every few years to a complete asshole I was expected to call “Dad” until they inevitably divorced. Belinda claimed she did it for the money, but at each of her weddings I’d been forced to attend, she’d always claimed that, this time, this was the one. 68

I was about to go inside, close the door, maybe go crash on the couch and watch some TV, when I noticed the woman. She was a big woman, three hundred pounds, maybe three fifty. Her hair was cut close to the scalp, like mine, but hers looked professionally done, while I’d simply hacked at mine with my favorite pair of kiddy scissors one night when I’d been bored. She was wearing a bulky knit sweater and khakis. It may be autumn, but it definitely wasn’t sweater weather. It had to be at least 75 degrees outside, maybe close to eighty. 69

She was standing on the front lawn, maybe twenty feet in from the street. She squinted at me – she was wearing the oversized glasses that old people sometimes wear, even though she wasn’t that old – and then I noticed the strap running across her shoulder. At first I thought it was just a purse strap, but then she pulled it off of her shoulder and I realized it belonged to a duffle bag. Still squinting at me, she unzipped the dull green bag and then turned it upside down. Something thick and red and glistening fell out onto the lawn in an undignified pile. 70

She scurried over to a small scooter parked near the edge of the property. I didn’t want to come out from behind the door while she was still there, so I watched her gradually motor away down the main road before I opened the door and limped towards the thing on the lawn. 71

As I got closer, my view became better and better. Belinda’s fifth and most recent husband, Gustav, had been slightly more decent than the previous two, even if he did sound like a mild-mannered Hitler with his German accent. Sometimes he would take me hunting, waking me up at three in the morning to drive out to a rickety platform in the middle of a woods to shiver for hours with a rifle. Gustav would bring beer and I would sometimes steal sips from his when he wasn’t looking, but for the most part I had to settle for a diet coke while staring blankly at the world’s most boring forest. 72

Only once had he managed to shoot something. As I’d stood there in the freezing cold of the early morning, he’d shown me how to skin and clean the deer, leaving a pile of the animal’s guts on the forest floor like the world’s grossest way to mark his territory. 73

The dead animal on the front lawn wasn’t a deer, but it had definitely undergone a similar process as Gustav’s kill. It wasn’t a woodland creature, however – it had four legs and a prominent snout. I guessed it had been a small dog. I could see the pink tongue still sticking out from between the sharp teeth of the jaw, as though it had paused mid-pant. 74

What the hell is wrong with you? I demanded to myself. It’s not like you’re a dog-lover or anything, but this is fucking disgusting. Why aren’t you panicking?75

But even with my ratty tennis shoes standing only two feet away from the animal, even with the smell of fresh meat and the stink of spilled intestines that, unfortunately, were still partially attached to the body, I didn’t scream. Real girls would scream and run away; normal girls would screech with horror, but a freak of nature like me? I just stood there, staring down at the vivid reds and whites, all the while thinking, go back inside. The crazy lady is gonna come back and see you. Go inside the house, but I didn’t. I just stood there and, suddenly, I wasn’t standing. I was sitting down on the grass, feeling the prickles of the individual blades under my palms as I wondered what had happened. Had my knees given out or did I just lose the will to stand? 76

It didn’t matter, though. A bumblebee, fat and hairy and undoubtedly drunk from sucking flower juice all morning, hovered briefly around the animal’s head before taking off again. The dead eyes were looking at me, all like, “You think you have it so rough? Look at me. At least you still have your skin.” 77

I had no answer, but when the bee landed briefly on my face, the touch of its six spindly insect legs was enough. Shrieking, I flailed my appendages like I was being electrocuted before leaping to my feet. The burst of pain from my left knee was almost immediate, but I ignored it in favor of the fact that, while jerking into a standing position, I’d accidentally kicked the animal’s head, tipping it over a little and revealing a single piece of torn notebook paper halfway trapped by one of the curled legs. 78

You have blood on your tennis shoe, my brain told me, but I ordered it to shut the hell up because, even though the paper was upside down and smeared with a viscous red, it was thin enough that I could see the faint black lines of something written on the other side. I couldn’t make out what it said, no matter how hard I squinted. I knew I’d have to pick the paper up. 79

More bees were showing up. Were they attracted by the scent of the blood or what? I’d thought they only liked flowers, but still, four more were buzzing around the carcass and a fifth nearly sideswiped my cheek before correcting course. From over the hill, probably on one of the streets running perpendicular to mine, came the faint sound of an ice cream truck trolling for the elementary school kids who hadn’t left for school yet. The song, It’s A Small World After All, tinkled inanely in the background as I tasted blood in my mouth. I realized that I had never grabbed a cup of coffee this morning. 80

No wonder this day has gotten so shitty, I thought. The coffee gods are angry that I have not paid them homage. 81

It was my stupid, distracting brain doing this to me, making me not think about what I was doing, which, at this moment, was reaching a shaking hand down towards the note on the ground, clasping the edge of it between my pointer finger and my middle, and slowly pulling the paper towards me. As I did that, one of the curled paws of the dog began to straighten out and I froze. It was still alive. Oh, shit, it was still alive.82

The moment passed with a wrenching tedium as I listened to the shrieks of small children chasing after the ice cream truck, gotta spend that lunch money somehow. The carcass was still, unmoving, and I almost nudged it slightly with my shoe to make sure it was dead before seeing the bloodstain on my toe and stopping. The creature didn’t move. 83

“It’s dead,” I asserted aloud and, snapping my mouth closed as a bee flew too near, I yanked the paper the rest of the way free. 84

Turning it over, I blinked stupidly at the large handwriting, scrawled in thick black marker over the bulk of the page. 85

“Martin did this,” the writing proclaimed. There was no other message, nothing else. Just “Martin did this,” in big, rounded letters like a child’s handwriting. 86

I pictured the drunken, tiny man from this morning, his curly yellow hair falling past his ears, his fat, rounded nose like something out of an illustration of gnomes. Belinda was dating him. He was going to be at her party tonight. Belinda was...87

Where the fuck was my step-mother? 88

****89

“Belinda?” I shouted, my voice feeling raw, my left knee a rounded ball of pulsing, tormented nerve-endings as I hobbled around the house. “Belinda!” 90

There was no answer. I grabbed one of the cordless telephones and dialed my step-mother’s cell phone number. It rang twice through the ear piece before I heard the mechanical ringing coming from the sunroom. Stumbling inside, I saw the bright pink cell phone lying ignored in front of Belinda’s makeshift shrine to the Hindu god Ganesh. I picked it up as it rang, the vibration buzzing in my hand, and read the bolded line of text that flashed across the front of the phone: “Home.” 91

“Shit,” I said and dropped the cell phone back at Ganesh’s bronze feet. Where was she? Had the crazy lady got her? Had Martin? Who the fuck was that lady anyway? 92

I stared at the phone receiver in my hand. Should I call the cops? I’d never called the police before, though it wasn’t like they were entirely unfamiliar with my step-mother. Belinda had been arrested twice by the local P.D.: once for public drunkenness and once for streaking naked through a bowling alley. After the bowling alley incident had happened, her picture had been displayed on the front page of the local paper. Belinda had had it framed – it was hanging up in her bedroom. I’d been so embarrassed after I’d seen the paper that I’d spent the entire school day hiding in the handicapped stall of the girl’s bathroom. No one knew that Belinda was my stepmom, since I’d kept my original last name instead of changing it to Belinda’s, but I had still been paranoid that someone might make the connection. She’d just thought it was funny.93

Okay, so the dead dog on the front lawn was awful, but there was no frickin’ way that Belinda was hurt. Nothing hurt her, ever. She’d barely even cried when we’d gotten the news about Dad, and he was the only husband that I knew she’d loved. He’d been the only one without any money, for starters. Some fat lady with a dead dog had nothing on Belinda. That tiny little punk Martin? He couldn’t even stand straight after she’d shoved him this morning. 94

I put the phone down. I didn’t need to call the police. Belinda had left home without her cell phone before, usually for just some quick errand or something. She’d be fine. She’d show up and I’ll tell her what happened and she’d...she’d...95

I blanked out. I had no idea what she’d do. Brain failing to work for me yet again, I settled on yelling. 96

“Belinda?” I shouted, my throat raw with frustration, leaning against the sunroom to take the weight off of my knee. 97

“What?” 98

I shoved myself off the wall and rushed out into the grand hallway. Her voice, though faint, had sounded like it had come from inside the house.99

“Where are you?” I called out. 100

“By the garage.” She sounded like she was so far away. 101

Clinching my teeth while putting the majority of my weight on my right leg, I managed to stumble through the three hallways and two rooms I had to go through to reach the garage. Belinda was standing there, alive, skin intact, if a bit dusty, holding a hammer in one hand and a dirty, orange toolbox in the other. It was so weird to see her holding those things; her inch-long nails were painted with lime-glitter French tips, for god’s sake. 102

“What...what are you doing?” I asked, a slamming weight of confusion and relief and anger knocking all logical thought out of my brain. 103

“You’re been complaining about the stair railing for like, the past three months,” she said. “I thought I’d put up a temporary one.” She gestured to the long stick trapped underneath her arm. “I found this old broom handle in the shed that I thought would work, at least till the repair guy comes.” 104

“You called a repairman?” The information was coming too quickly. 105

“Yeah, a few days ago. Lazy bum still hasn’t shown up yet.” She looked me over, frowning. I gave up trying to stand on my own and grabbed the coat-rack by the door for support. “What happened to you? You look like a walking hangover.” She paused. “Why aren’t you at school? Did you miss the bus?” 106

“There’s a dead dog on our front lawn,” I tried to say, but instead of words, a guttural sob rolled from my throat and, to my horror, I began to cry. Thick, fat tears fell down my cheeks as I collapsed on the floor and tried to hide my face with my hands. 107

“Oh, Dae Hyun,” Belinda said, setting her tools on the floor as she moved over to where I was. She fell on her knees beside me and hugged me to her chest even as I struggled to get away. I hated crying, hated hugging, hated doing anything stupid and girly and useless like this, but I couldn’t stop myself. She didn’t let me go and, after a moment, I stopped trying to pull myself out of her arms. Through choking sobs, I told her what had happened, about falling down the stairs and finding the dog and thinking she was dead. 108

“It was Martin,” I said, shoving the tears off of my face like they were personal affronts. The touch of my hand to my cheek stung for a moment, but I ignored it. Belinda stared at me like I’d sprouted a third eye. “I don’t know who the hell that woman was, but that asshole Martin is responsible for that dead animal. It was his fault. He’s dangerous.” 109

Already Belinda was shaking her head.110

“You need to stay away from him,” I insisted. The spot on my face was seriously stinging now. “He’s going to hurt you if you don’t. The note SAID!”111

Belinda stood up, still shaking her head, her oversized earrings rattling with the gesture. “I can’t believe that,” she announced, pushing her mop of hair back behind her ears in a futile effort. She was talking louder than normal. “I’ve known Martin for years. I’ve never, ever seen him act violent.” 112

There’s a fucking dog with its skin off on the front lawn, I wanted to yell, but the words died in my mouth. “Go see,” I choked out instead, a lousy substitution. 113

Belinda walked over to a box of Kleenex and grabbed a tissue. Handing it to me as I sat on the floor, nose dripping, she patted my shoulder. “I’m going to go check out the lawn. In the meantime, I want you to stay off of that leg, okay? Don’t go wandering all over the house.” 114

I just looked at her, disbelief crawling through my throat like vomit. Was she smiling when she said that? Seriously? Like my knee aching like this was some sort of joke? Seriously? 115

God. I blew my nose with the tissue that proved to be way too thin, then forced myself up to get another one, wiping my soiled hand on my jeans while I moved. 116

This part of the house was the furthest possible spot from the front door. The garage was located directly behind the rest of the house, added long after the original Tuttlebutt Manor had been built. After waiting for three minutes without hearing anything, I decided to go find where she was. As soon as I started moving, I began to hear the faint sound of her voice. She was talking to someone, quietly. By the time I’d limped over to the living room, Belinda was hanging up the phone. 117

“I saw the dog,” she said. “The note you said you saw? It wasn’t there.” 118

“Maybe it blew away.” 119

“Maybe,” she said and shrugged. “I was just on the phone with Martin.” 120

I slid down on the plush, velvet loveseat, grabbing one of the decorative pillows to worry with my hands. “Did he admit it?” 121

She blinked at me. “Admit it?” She snorted, but it was a happy sound, and I felt my shoulders start to droop. “Dae Hyun, he explained everything.” 122

I sighed. I needed more of my meds, so badly. Even sitting down, everything hurt, all of my joints, not just my knees. I felt the top of my forehead, suspecting that I was getting the beginnings of a fever, one of the annoying symptoms of Juvenile Rheumatoid Arthritis. Pretty soon all of my joints would be swelling up and I wouldn’t want to leave my bed. 123

“Just tell me, Belinda.” 124

She leaned forward. “I told him how you saw the woman with the bag and about the dog. He asked me to describe the woman, so I told him what you told me and he recognized her almost immediately.” 125

“Who is she?” The pillow scrunched beneath my hands. 126

“His bitch of an ex-wife,” Belinda declared, like this made perfect sense. “The woman is crazy, completely nuts. Before their divorce, they used to have a pet dog. A beagle. When I told him about the...thing on the lawn...over the phone, he started crying!” She sounded almost proud, like this was proof that he was innocent. 127

I pressed my hand to my forehead. 128

“He should be over here later,” she added.129

A horrible thought occurred and my head shot up. “You’re not still having the party!” I didn’t want to be trapped here, even in my room, while all her friends were in the house, doing...stuff. The walls were too thin. I’d rather sleep in the woods. Fuck, I’d rather stay with Martin’s crazy ex-wife than be anywhere near my step-mother’s party and her sickening idea of fun. 130

Belinda held up her hand. “Relax. The party is already cancelled. Martin’s just going to show up by himself. He said he’d move the dog’s body to his car so he can bury it later.” She smiled then, a dopey smile, like this was the sweetest thing in the world.131

“What about the note?” I demanded. “What about the fact that it frickin’ named him?” 132

“His wife is a crazy person,” Belinda repeated, speaking with exaggerated slowness. “Of course, she’d try to frame him. She’s only trying to get him in trouble.” She nodded emphatically. “His ex is just crazy.” 133

Or she was trying to warn you about him, my brain screamed, the images of the skinned animal flashing across my eyes as the pain in my joints throbbed a bass accompaniment to my certainty. 134

“I don’t know, Belinda...” I started, but she interrupted me. 135

“Why do you always call me Belinda?” she asked. “Why don’t you call me Mom? I’m your mother, after all.” 136

Step-mother, I thought, but I didn’t say it. Instead, I said, “Why do you ask?” 137

She paused. “There’s another reason I invited Martin over. I know you just met him, but we’ve been seeing each other on the sly for about a month now. After our little conversation this morning, I started thinking about some of the stuff that’s been happening recently, how I’ve been feeling a little sick now for the past few days, and I...” 138

Please don’t say it, I prayed. Please just let this be one of your meandering segues into nothingness. Please. 139

She laid one of her hands on her stomach, rubbing the flat area with a disturbing tenderness. “I had a spare early-detection pregnancy test in my bathroom. It came out positive.” She squealed loudly, so suddenly that I almost jumped in my seat, and grinned at me as she clapped her hands, bouncing up and down on her heels. “Isn’t that amazing? You’re going to be a big sister!” 140

She grabbed my hands in hers, almost vibrating with excitement. “I want you to try and call me ‘Mom’ from now on, okay? I don’t want little Martin Junior to be confused once he’s born.” 141

I didn’t say anything, because I couldn’t. I could feel my gorge rise and I tried to fight it, constricting my chest and muscles as tight as they could go. It was a losing battle. Still, when the salmon cream cheese and onion bagel revisited the world all over my step-mother’s halter top, a tiny evil part of me was happy about it. At least she’d stopped smiling. 142

“Ew! Oh my god. You must be feeling worse than you look.” She wrinkled her nose and looked down at the mess. “I’m going to get some wet paper towels, okay? You just sit there. I’ll be right back.” She hesitated before she left the room, turning to stare at my face. “I’ll go get some calamine lotion for that bee sting on your cheek. Did you take the stinger out?” 143

She didn’t wait for an answer, but left immediately. I sat still for a moment, but the relief that comes from vomiting cleared my head enough that I became aware of how much my face frickin’ stung. I got up and hobbled towards the oversized filigreed mirror that hung beside one of the windows. When I got close enough to see my face, I realized that Belinda was right. The bee that had landed on my face earlier must have stung me before it’d taken off. It was kind of amazing that I hadn’t noticed it until now. Like I’d been numb or something. 144

I walked a little closer to the mirror. The sting had grown into an ugly reddened welt, just above my left cheekbone. I flashed back to the photograph of Dad we’d received in the mail from the village in Uganda. They’d taken a picture of him right before he’d died, the infected mosquito bite marring the same part his face as the bee sting now marred mine. I stared at myself in the mirror, unable to believe it, almost unable to comprehend that the sting was in the exact same location. 145

From somewhere inside the room, a bee buzzed. 146