“How does it move on land?” asked Collette, but she knew the answer. It slithered, like a snake.
“Do you see it?” Collette shouted out in the early morning. “Do you see it?”
“Jesus Christ, Collette,” said Valerie. “What’s your problem?” The room was empty and clean, lit with the cold light of early morning. Dawn was windless, and the water outside was smooth. “I thought someone was in here.” Collette couldn’t remember what she had dreamed.
The bathroom door stuck when Collette tried to open it. “Stay out!” Valerie shouted, but Collette went in anyway. The bubbles in Valerie’s bath had popped and the soap formed a skin on the surface of the water, the rounds of Valerie’s knees all that were visible of her body. As recently as that winter, Collette had been allowed to sit on the edge of the tub while Valerie lathered her hair, and they would talk about school. Collette would glance at her naked sister, trying to learn something about what her own woman’s body would someday look like. Valerie had shown Collette how she shaved, drawing the razor over her legs twice, holding it under the tap to rinse flecks of hair clean from the blade. Collette wasn’t allowed to shave yet, but Valerie would let her practice putting on shaving cream and running the backside of the razor up her legs, never above the knee. Madge always said there was no need for a girl to shave above the knee. Collette’s leg hair was blonde and thin. She didn’t want shaved legs, but she liked the minty-clean smell of the shaving cream, and the way it made her skin tingle afterward.
“Collette, please, out!”
“I just wanted to brush my teeth,” Collette said. “You’ve been in here for an hour.”
“I’m putting a lock on this door,” said Valerie.
Collette put a streak of toothpaste on the brush, not bothering to squeeze from the bottom of the tube like she was supposed to. She brushed her teeth in the hallway, harder and longer than usual, until foam spilled from the corners of her mouth and she couldn’t help but swallow it.
“Mom,” Valerie yelled over the sucking sound of the drain. “Can I spend the night at Jill’s?” She opened the door and the smell of her coconut shampoo drifted into the hallway.
“I’m working the night shift,” said Madge.
“Can’t Mr. Reed babysit until you get home?”
“No, come on, guys,” Collette said. “I’m not a little kid. I’ll be fine alone.” Valerie blocked the hallway. She snapped her neck up and down, flicking her hair in an arc, speckling Collette’s face with droplets of water.
“It’s not fair to ask him on such late notice,” said Madge.
“You kidding? He loves it. Gives him something to do,” Valerie said.
Madge flipped a Mickey Mouse — shaped pancake. “He probably has plans for his Saturday night.”
“Please, Mom. He’s like, forty. No one has plans when they’re forty. You’ve seen his TV glowing when you get in late from work. He’s an insomniac. He’ll be up. Please, please? Jill’s dad is making pizza.”
Madge shook her head and dialed Mr. Reed. The screen door hit the back of Collette’s legs as she went outside. The rocks she collected were hot, and she skipped them hard into the water. They splashed in and quickly sank.
Collette was reading Goosebumps on the couch, her cheek propped in her hand and her pinky falling asleep, when she nodded off. When she woke up the sounds of the house were different. Valerie’s stomping and her long, shaking sighs were gone, and so was the sound of Madge shuffling in bedroom slippers. She could hear someone digging around inside a crinkling bag, and she opened her eyes. Mr. Reed sat in the armchair, eating caramel corn. He put one piece into his mouth at a time, and Collette imagined that he ate them like she did, letting the kernel dissolve on his tongue without chewing. It must have been past midnight, because Collette knew that’s when X-Files came on. Collette had seen this episode before, where an alien came lurching out of the woman’s stomach and latched its mouth onto the man beside her. She’d watched it in Madge’s bedroom with Valerie, all three of them unable to sleep and staring at the screen through the spread of their fingers. Collette didn’t want to watch this part again. She closed her eyes. Mr. Reed got up and ran the tap. The screams from the television rose until the show cut to a commercial break. Collette began to dream that she was sliding down a very long banister, so fast that when she reached the bottom the banister behind her was on fire.
It wasn’t until he was very close that she realized Mr. Reed had come back into the room, had crouched down beside the couch and was holding his fingers just above her chest, the space between his fingers and her skin tingling and warm. She was wearing an old soccer jersey of Valerie’s, and Collette was aware now that the shirt hung off one of her shoulders. She told herself that she was imagining things, but the air smelled buttery with his breath, and then she heard the creak of his joints, and the sound of him moving, ever so carefully, against the shag carpet as he rocked to the balls of his feet. On the television a woman talked about a powder that would make your face look airbrushed. Collette tried to focus on the woman’s voice, to bring her heart back into rhythm, but the other sounds, the human sounds of the body beside her, were too loud. She could hear his stomach gurgling, his tongue shifting inside his mouth. Keep your eyes closed, Collette thought. She realized she was holding her breath, and tried to inhale secretly. Keep breathing. Then his fingertips were on her, lightly, very gently, almost not there at all. As soon as he had touched her he was gone from her side. He cleared his throat, turned down the volume on the TV, creaked back into the armchair. Collette could still feel his calloused fingers grazing her skin and then drawing quickly back as though she had burned him.
* * *
“Why do I have to go to bed?” said Collette. “Valerie gets to stay up.” Splashes came from the bathroom where Valerie soaked and soaked inside the tub. She was singing softly to herself from behind the door.
“Valerie is five years older than you. And Valerie doesn’t have bags under her eyes, like you do.” Collette drew a finger under each eye. The skin there felt puffy.
“Fine,” said Collette. She walked down the hall to Madge’s bedroom. The bed was made, and Collette pulled back a corner of the covers and slipped under.
There were two pictures on Madge’s nightstand, one of Collette and one of Valerie. Collette switched them so that hers was angled closer toward the bed. In the picture she was playing dress up, wearing Madge’s dress. The dress trailed on the ground behind her, and she held a parasol. She had her hair in a style she used to insist on, that Madge deemed “The Unicorn”—one ponytail right above her forehead.
Madge rapped at the door and Collette pulled the sheet over her face.
“I just want to stay in here,” said Collette from under the sheet.
“You have a nice room of your own,” said Madge. The bed shifted as she sat down beside Collette.
“I know Valerie used to sleep in here all the time, when she was little.”
“She slept in my bed when she was four. Dad had just left. She needed to sleep down here for a while. You’re ten.” Madge peeled back the sheet. “What’s your excuse?” She stroked Collette’s cheek with the back of her hand.
“Never mind. I’ll just watch TV in here with you for a while.”
“Sweetie, you look so tired. It’s time to go to bed. I’ll heat you some milk.” Collette could feel her chin threatening to wobble, so she pressed her face to the pillow and nodded. She didn’t move until Madge came back from the kitchen. The mug burned her hands. She had to hold it carefully by the handle.