Page 145 of The Initial Insult

I knew this because Mom patiently led me away every time I sat with Jessica Stanhope on her towel, a spread of melting Skittles between us. Mom would draw me back to the right group of people with a promise of ten minutes of screen time with the game I’d downloaded to her phone. Mom was careful; Mom was cautious. Mom was not going to let me have a new friend if that new friend didn’t fit certain criteria.

And back then, Tress did.

The backpack that she produced the cockroach from was brand-new, and the magnifying glass wasn’t some hokey toy for kids. It was heavy, the real deal, and the cockroach was part of an entire set. Tress had a dozen bugs of all kinds sealed in these plastic cubes, clear as glass. I knew because of the bugs that Tress was different from me; I knew by the quality of them that she was the same. So when Mom asked who my new friend was, the smile ready to fall from her face at a moment’s notice, I said with confidence, “Tress Montor.”

There was a careful calculation behind Mom’s eyes as she considered, the smile stiffly in place as options were weighed. I knew what it was then; now I even know what the formula was.

Lee Montor + Annabelle Usher = Tress Montor.

Montor > Usher [therefore] Tress = [unknown]

In other words, Annabelle Usher married up. Her last name might be worth something, but the Usher bank account certainly wasn’t. Lee Montor was a great guy from a good family who scored a beautiful wife. And they loved each other.

I close my eyes, not having to remember to know that it was true. Tress’s parents had loved each other, something that had taken me some time to sort out once I started doing overnights at their place. Her house was a lot like mine in so many ways—modern and clean, with a shiny kitchen and a well-groomed dog. But Tress’s house had added touches: Annabelle’s garden in the back, where my yard had only a shorn lawn. A piano that wasn’t there just to hold family pictures. Lee would play; I hummed the song he would rattle off for us whenever Tress asked, no music required.

“The cold song,” I’d say, then an echo, Lee’s voice correcting me. “Coldplay.”

It took me a while to figure out it wasn’t just things that made her house different but the actual family. I bounced into their kitchen one afternoon to refill our water bottles, Tress waiting outside on the trampoline, only to surprise Lee and Annabelle. They had jumped away from each other, guiltily, Annabelle pushing black hair from her eyes.

“Hey, kiddo, what do you need?”

I’d gone back out to the trampoline, ice cubes clinking inside the bottles, and handed one to Tress. “I think your parents were kissing,” I said.

“Ugh.” She rolled her eyes. “Yeah, they do that a lot. Hey, want to see me flip in midair?”

I watched Tress, her hair fanning out behind her, sweaty and loose as I sucked on my water, wondering what it was like to have parents who kissed.

And it was like that for a long time, right up until it wasn’t anymore.

Right up until that night.

I’ve shied away from it ever since, not wanting to remember, not wanting to know what I saw. But Tress wants to know, and Tress is someone who looks right at the cockroaches.

“Right up their assholes,” I agree with myself.

Tress wants to know, and Tress can take it. Remembering is the only way I’m getting out of this. And if Tress Montor wants me to remember, that’s what I have to do.

Chapter 45