How It Ends Read online

  “Oh my God, Mom. Please, please, please put that away. Can we not do the sombreros tonight?” The thought of Annie wearing that straw monstrosity was more than I could bear.

  “What in the world are you talking about, Jessica? Of course we’re doing the sombreros. We do the sombreros every Friday. It’s tradition.”

  “A tradition I think we should most definitely keep in the family. Exclusively in the family.”

  “You’re being ridiculous,” my mom scolded, pulling the other three sombreros out of the pantry while I broke into a cold sweat. “Annie is excited about taco night. She’s going to love this.”

  My heart banged against the inside of my chest, and I debated telling my mom that she was coming dangerously close to giving me an anxiety attack. With my luck, though, she’d have an ambulance here in five minutes, and Annie would arrive to sombreros and paramedics.

  “Mom, maybe we should set down some ground rules before tonight,” I said, trying not to sound shrill. “Let’s not scare Annie away forever with our craziness, okay?”

  “What’s gotten into you? This is hardly the first time Annie has been over here. What are you so nervous about?”

  I opened my mouth to explain, but words failed me. How do you tell your mother that she gets embarrassing when she hits the tequila on taco night? Or that cutthroat Monopoly might not be cute to an outsider?

  Before I could translate my panicked thoughts into words, the doorbell rang and Avery Family Games Night began.

  Of course, as usual, I’d worried far too much. Annie embraced my family’s craziness like she was born into it. She wore her sombrero with pride and devoured a whopping seven tacos, beating my dad out for the title of biggest eater and forever earning his respect. She also convinced me that we should speak Spanish all throughout dinner, which proved hilarious given that our only exposure to the language had been Dora the Explorer episodes and Taco Bell commercials.

  “Hola, soy Annie.”

  “Un taco, por favor.”

  “Cuidado, amigo.”

  “Vamanos!”

  Later on, while my dad was destroying us all in Monopoly, Annie masterminded a strategy in which the three of us conspired to bring him down. I watched with a mixture of amusement and reverence as my parents laughed their way through the bending and warping of the rules. Only Annie could get away with messing up Monopoly during games night.

  When my parents busted open the tequila, Annie and I escaped to my room.

  “Thanks for tonight,” I told her, my voice breaking.

  “What are you thanking me for? I’m the one who invaded your family night.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Endured my family night, you mean.”

  “No,” she said, suddenly serious. “You’re really lucky, Jess.”

  “I take it your family doesn’t do games night?”

  “You know I have a stepmom and stepsister, right?”

  I nodded. “You mentioned.”

  “My mom died in a car crash six years ago,” she said flatly. “I haven’t had much of a family life since then.”

  My stomach started to hurt. “I’m sorry.”

  She shrugged. “It is what it is. Now my dad’s remarried to a total bitch and I’m the freak of my family.”

  I reached out and put my hand on her arm, feeling awkward. I had no idea what to say.

  She swiped at her eyes and flashed me a too-bright smile. “Think your parents would adopt me?”

  “In a heartbeat.”

  “Then I’ll be an honorary Avery,” she declared. “And we’ll be sisters.”

  “We can speak Spanish and eat tacos together forever,” I confirmed.

  The conversation moved on, but I felt unsettled, like I’d left something unfinished.

  It wasn’t until hours after she’d gone home that I finally thought of all the things I should have said. I considered calling, but I didn’t want to drag her mind back to that sad place.

  I sent a text instead: “Friendship is its own kind of family.” —Jessica Avery

  Her reply was almost instantaneous: “Yo quiero Taco Bell.” —Chihuahua

  Annie

  Sketchbooks, graphite pencils, modeling clay, canvas, brushes, acrylics . . . Charcoals! I forgot charcoals.

  I yank a pencil from the bun on top of my head and add yet another item to the list I’ve been compiling since third period, when my art teacher announced our independent study project.

  It must be almost seven o’clock by now, I figure. But when I check my clock, it’s only 5:09. Crap. So far, I’ve cleaned my room, organized my desk, finished my science homework, and revised my list of art supplies . . . and there are still nearly two hours till my dad gets home.

  I’m seriously losing my shit over this art assignment.

  I had a full-on out-of-body experience in class today when Mr. Belachuk explained how we’ll be creating a portfolio of work that expresses who we are as artists. One minute I was sitting there looking over the assignment sheet, and the next I could see my mother’s paint-flecked hands and smell the solvents she used to clean her brushes. There was this ache in the middle of my chest, and I just knew that the only way to fix it was to create something.

  That’s when I started making my list and fantasizing about shopping for supplies. I want to do it all—sculpture, paintings, sketches. I want to take the mess inside me and transform it into one beautiful thing after another.

  Two hours.

  I let my head fall forward onto my desk. We’ll never make it to the store tonight. Even if we eat right at seven o’clock, when Dad gets home, he’ll still want to check in with Madge and get changed and watch the news. The sign in the window of Morton’s Art Supply will flip to CLOSED and I’ll still be stuck here, crawling out of my skin.

  I groan and pull out my sketchbook in an effort to distract myself. Of course, it just happens to fall open to the drawing I started at Jessie’s house the other day, ratcheting my frustration level up even further. It’s driving me crazy that I can’t get this sketch right. Portraits are usually my specialty. There’s this point when I’m drawing a face where everything comes together and the essence of the person shines through. It’s like magic, the way it happens. One minute it’s a simple drawing, and then, with just the right line here or bit of shading there, it suddenly springs to life. I can’t seem to get there with Jessie, though. No matter what I do, the sketch stays lifeless.

  I throw my pencil down. I have got to get out of here.

  There is one option. The absolute last-resort, can-barely-even-stand-to-think-about-it option. Madge. If I swallow my pride and suck up just a little bit, she might cave and give me some cash so I can take the bus across town and start shopping.

  I close my eyes and let myself imagine the feeling of wandering the aisles at Morton’s with no one to rush me or complain when I spend twenty minutes marveling over the rainbow of colors in the acrylics section or admiring the shelves of blank canvases just waiting to be transformed.

  Before I can think twice about it, I’m suddenly in the kitchen, clutching my list like a talisman.

  “Smells great, Madeleine,” I say, cringing at my own false sincerity. “Need any help?”

  Madge’s eyes narrow in suspicion, and a smile tugs at the corners of her mouth. “You can set the table,” she says. “And then fill me in on whatever it is you want.”

  I grip the page tighter. “I have an art project coming up,” I tell her, “and I really want to buy some new supplies.”

  My heart starts thumping as her lips press into a straight line.

  “You don’t have to drive me or anything,” I blurt. “I’m totally cool with the bus. I just need some money, and I don’t want to wait till Dad gets home.” The words are flying out of my mouth and I want to snatch them up and stuff them back in there. I never beg Madge for anything.

  The balloon of excitement that’s been keeping me afloat all day hardens into a heavy weight as she gets that look on her face. The
one that says I’m an inconvenience.

  “Have you been through the boxes downstairs yet?” she asks with a sigh. “We paid the movers a fortune to haul everything here, and I remember at least four or five boxes from your room labeled Art Supplies. There’s also Sophie’s old art kit, and I’m sure my watercolors are down there too. It would be such a waste not to use what we already have.”

  Yeah, right. First off, I’m pretty sure Sophie’s old “art kit” has Crayola written on it. And second, Madge hasn’t picked up a paintbrush in all the time I’ve known her, so whatever watercolors she’s talking about are ancient.

  Her mouth keeps moving but I tune her out. I know this lecture already. Madge loves words like wasteful and responsibility and sacrifice. I’ve heard every combination of them imaginable. Don’t let her get to you, I remind myself, stuffing my list into my back pocket. Madge doesn’t matter. My dad will understand. I’ll just wait and ask him.

  By seven o’clock I have a solid plan. I’ll wait until dessert. Dad’s always in a better mood after he eats. I’ll tell him all about art class and show him my sketchbook so he knows how serious I am. My school sketchbook, that is. Not the one I keep under my bed titled 101 Ways to Make Madge Disappear.

  I manage to choke down two whole bites of dinner before realizing that I’ll never last till dessert. My heart is pounding and my knee is bouncing and everything tastes like cardboard. I run my fingers over the list perched on my lap right before I explode.

  “I need new art supplies for a project, and I made a list!” I practically shout, waving the page like I’m performing a magic trick. Everyone jumps in surprise, and Sophie looks at me like I’ve sprouted another head.

  My dad recovers first. “Art supplies? For school?”

  “Yeah,” I say, feeling my cheeks go hot. “We have this big independent study project where we have to make an artistic statement using different media.”

  “Well, now,” Dad says, sitting back in his chair and looking at me closely. “It’s good to see you excited about something again.” My heart throbs. Dad’s always rushing from one thing to the next. I can’t remember the last time he stopped and gave me his full attention.

  All the hard edges around my father disappear for a moment, and he suddenly looks just the way I remember from when I was a little kid. Before Mom died. Before Madge. There’s a warmth in his eyes that I haven’t seen in forever. I want to race to my room and grab my sketchbook to capture him just like this.

  “A portfolio,” he says wistfully. “You sound just like your mother right now.”

  Dad hardly ever mentions Mom anymore, and never around Madge. I think on some level, he knows that hearing about my mom is too much for her. It’s not like my parents got divorced or broke up or anything. Mom died. And a piece of him died with her. This happiness Madge fights so hard to protect is a pale shadow of the happiness he used to know.

  I beam at him and then, without even meaning to, sneak a look at Madge. All the color has drained from her face. My heart skips a beat, and I have a confusing moment of pity for her before my anger flares up. I should be able to talk about my mom in my own house.

  My dad obviously notices her too. “You know, Madeleine is quite creative, just like you, Annie,” he says.

  I raise my eyebrows and fight the impulse to laugh out loud. Madge is the opposite of creative. The first thing she did when she moved in with us was take down all my mother’s paintings and replace them with hokey prints of kittens and sunsets.

  “I know nothing about the art world,” my dad goes on, turning to Madge. “You’d be the perfect person to take Annie shopping and help her pick out supplies.”

  “Oh, I don’t think Annie would be interested in that,” Madge sniffs. “We already discussed this earlier, but apparently she didn’t like the plan I proposed.”

  My dad looks back and forth between us, his brow furrowed. “Plan?”

  “I told Annie that if she went through the boxes of supplies downstairs and made a list of things we don’t already own, then I’d take her shopping for what she needs.”

  I gape at her. “Um . . . no, you did not!”

  “Pardon me?” she says. “Did I not tell you specifically to check the supplies downstairs?”

  “Yes, but you never said you’d take me shopping. You said I should use whatever leftovers were down there.”

  Madge sighs and gives my father a pointed look. “This is exactly what I’ve been talking about, Martin. I’m just trying to put some basic rules in place, but she has no respect for my authority. When she doesn’t like what I have to say, she just runs to you for a different answer.”

  Dad rubs his hands over his face. “All right. Annie, I didn’t realize you already had an arrangement with Madeleine.”

  “She’s lying! She just doesn’t want to spend the money on my supplies, and it’s totally unfair. How come Sophie gets to spend two hundred dollars on a pair of jeans and I can’t buy new supplies for school?”

  “Whoa!” Sophie says. “Don’t drag me into this mess. Besides, I have an interview at the mall next week anyway. I can pay my own way, thank you very much.”

  “But Sophie, your schoolwork!” Madge cries.

  “Relax, Mother, it’s a part-time job, not a career choice.”

  “I’ll get a job too, then,” I say, turning to face my dad. “I’ll pay you back every penny, but I really want new supplies. This is important to me.” I widen my eyes at him, willing him to understand. Art is sacred to me. It’s what ties me to my mom. I don’t want to use Madge’s cast-off leftovers for this project. I don’t want Madge involved at all.

  “Enough with the job talk,” Madge snaps, slapping her hand down on the table. “This isn’t about jobs or money. It’s about entitlement, Annie. We all know you’ve had to make adjustments, but just because your life is hard, that doesn’t mean you get to do whatever you want and get whatever you ask for.”

  I grip the edge of my chair to prevent myself from launching across the table and slapping the smug expression off her face. I can’t believe she’s calling me entitled.

  “Dad,” I say, ignoring her, “you know I never ask for anything. I’m not being unreasonable here. I’m asking for stuff for school.”

  “You girls are killing me,” my dad groans. “You know that, don’t you?”

  Madge and I both sit on the edge of our seats, waiting to see whose side he’ll take.

  “Of course you can have the supplies you need, Annie. We are not in such dire financial straits that we can’t afford materials for school.”

  I beam at him.

  “However,” he says ominously, “Madeleine does bring up an important point. You can’t just ignore everything she asks you to do. We’re a family now, and you need to show Madeleine the appropriate respect. It’s not fair to her that you don’t follow the rules she sets out.”

  I can feel Madge’s gloating eyes on me, and I refuse to give her the satisfaction of a reaction.

  “The plan she’s proposing seems perfectly reasonable to me,” he goes on. “No one is forcing you to use old materials that don’t meet your needs, but it’s only logical that you should at least look through what we have to see if there’s anything worth saving . . .”

  “Fine,” I say, knowing I won’t find anything useful.

  “And I want to see you put a genuine effort into reusing anything that might work,” Madge lectures, unable to hold back. “In fact, I plan to compare your shopping list to what’s down there to make sure you’re keeping up your end of the bargain.”

  I glare at her before turning to my dad. “Are we done here? I’d like to be excused.”

  Dad looks to Madge for approval, making my blood boil.

  “She hasn’t finished her dinner,” Madge says disapprovingly, “but I suppose if she clears her space and agrees to make more of an effort . . .”

  I stand up before she can finish her sentence and gather my dishes with a clatter. Make more of an effort. What a
bitch. Madge hardly even talks to me, except to order me around and remind me that she’s in charge. She slobbers all over Sophie, giving her every little thing she asks for, and then ignores me ninety percent of the time.

  Back in my room, I flop onto my bed and fumble with my headphones, pushing them into my ears and cranking up the volume on my iPod until the music is punishingly loud. Three Days Grace’s “I Hate Everything About You” slams into my brain, obliterating the image of my dad letting Madge crap all over everything important to me.

  I burrow under my covers and let the music wash over me until there’s no more Madge or Dad or Sophie or me. Until my heart stops pounding and my brain stops screaming. Goddamn that art class, making me feel all inspired. I know better than to get my hopes up like that. Stupid stupid stupid.

  A Nine Inch Nails song is pulsing to an end when I finally crawl out from under the covers. I turn the music down to a less earsplitting level and switch from my angry playlist (“Madge Sucks”) to my relaxing playlist (“A World Without Madge”). Paramore’s “The Only Exception” washes over me as I reach for my secret sketchbook and flip through the series I’ve been working on, detailing the many and varied ways Madge might meet an untimely end. Right after #41, Abducted by sadistic aliens with a penchant for medical experimentation, I start in on sketch #42: Buried alive beneath an avalanche of second-rate art supplies.

  Jessie

  “I know!” Annie shouted, shattering my concentration for the millionth time. “A werewolf who secretly does good deeds . . . like fighting crime. A werewolf superhero.”

  “You mean, when he’s not morphing into a cold-blooded killer?”

  “Exactly. To make amends for his sins.” Annie pecked away at her laptop and then frowned at the screen. “That’s cheesy, isn’t it? I can’t do cheesy.”

  “A werewolf with a heart of gold? Definite cheese potential.”

  Annie groaned and pushed her laptop away. “What have you got?”