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EmeraldCity_88

I'm what they call 'tough as nails'—that's what my relatives used to say about me, growing up. Most great aunts and uncles in Georgia pinch cheeks. Mine just told my Mom how tough I was...every time, a different simile: 'like an overdone steak, that one'...'like the hard part of the Brillo sponge, never cries, never complains; she's so silent, what do you feed that girl?'...

I didn't care; I didn't listen.

Except now.

Except now I know what they mean because, although my insides are screaming, my body is numb, moving with soldier-efficiency as I march beside Skipper. And my skin must be made of armor—steel-plated and spiked—to contain such emotions tangled, bundled and wadded-up inside me, all jumping in different directions. How am I supposed to turn them off this time? Swallow them? Suppress this joy that wants to leap right out of my throat and inhale me, headfirst with my feet still kicking like I've been disemboweled in an alligator's mouth?

I take a shaking breath, sending a sideways glance at Skipper again. Maybe being dead has done something to her that she's not having the same problem—actually, I should ask her about that. I make a quick, mental note. I thought for sure she'd at least be smiling—giggling and girlish like I remember the look on her face when we'd sneak out at night. Because this feels like that right now—like we've cheated death and, somehow, gotten away with it. Like she's not sick anymore. Like we can finally have all those years back and, yet...

Her lips are twisted in a turned-down frown.

And I'm left clenching my fists together to keep myself from throwing my arms around the back of her neck and hugging her while we walk.

Did she miss me? Does she know how much I missed her—every day? Every hour? She can't possibly know, can she? I'll have to tell her.

This cake is getting sticky in my hand. I'm almost regretting insisting like a toddler that I take two of them, but like who can regret a free cake so...??? The pink icing, formed into puffing roses, is sliding down over my fingers around the base—melting due to the hot sun overhead. If we don't stop soon, dyed sugar will be tracing rivulets down my arms like I've cut myself and all that damned emotion started trickling out.

"Hey, Skip, think we could make camp at some point?" I ask, trying to come off super casual.

Of all the things I want to ask, I have to hold back? I have to ask...that? When everything inside me is yearning, itching, screeching to ask her stupid things like: Skip, you want to run through the meadow like we used to when we were kids? Pick daisies off the shore of some river? Wanna stuff our faces full of this cake and see who barfs first? Or wait till dark and tell our secrets to each other when no one's listening? Do you want to...pick up where we left off?

...Where we'd left off... I swallow a lump in my throat, trying not to remember, but it's hard to erase a large portion of your life in the blink of an eye...even alter it. How can I alter it, so that I don't remember how sick she used to get after radiation treatment? How she wanted to sleep all the time with her cheek pressed against the worn pillowcase and not even I could get her to smile? The bills that came in, how Mom used to snap at me but never her even though this was all her fault? Kind of. Of course, it wasn't her fault. Of course, the trailer we ended up in was just because we were doing what we had to do...the cereal lunches and dinners...the mosquitoes that seemed to find their way through all the nooks and crannies even though we sealed them... How could I forget so much tragedy even with the miracle right here in front of me? Forget her grave? Mom's tears? How Mom'd stopped talking to me after her death—never really did the same again. Because she told me I reminded her too much of Skipper. God, I could do without remembering that.

College wasn't an option. I did odd jobs for a while till a lady down the street took me under her wing and taught me how to cut hair. The memories cycle in my head like an unstoppable cyclone now. I lived with that woman for a while till I found out she was only being nice to me because she had a crush; she liked girls, and I suddenly liked the thought of living anywhere else. A couple friends from the salon and I bought a trailer and...well, I started making YouTube videos of video game walkthroughs then—all the ones I liked. The good ones, you know? Classic horror. That was when things turned around, when I finally felt like me again.

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Does she even know all the shit I went through while she was gone? Or all the hours I spent at the cemetery telling her about it? Could she hear me then? Is she the same person or a game replica, and how the hell am I going to tell?

"Cassandra?"

What?

I jolt out of my thoughts to realize Skipper is blinking into my face. I'd think she was a dream or illusion if I hadn't already pinched myself fourteen times. "What?" I blurt.

And she laughs—throws her head in the carefree way she used to. "You seriously look so dumb right now," she jokes, her Aussie accent dominating her words, "I asked you if we stop, will you share some of that cake?"

"Or smash it into your face," I jest back.

And she smiles cheekily. We stop under the shade of an enormous tree. I've, honestly, barely noticed my surroundings on the trek. There's, maybe, been some mountainous terrain around us, but we've stayed on the flat plain, due to the tank, and every field looks identical to the next with my current tunnel vision. The green grass here is tall and sways steeply in the abundant breeze. Storm clouds have begun to roll in over the sun, determining my call to take cover might have been a good one—brilliant, I know. I'm always the one who has to think ahead. And thank God I can finally put this cake down... I wiggle my fingers which are currently caked in sliding, buttercream frosting.

But Skipper, also, wiggles her fingers.

And, suddenly, the field is less of a field. There's circus tents—red and white—stretching into the darkening sky in huge, ballooning structures. And the crowd behind us cheers, dispersing in a million different directions to explore...

While I gape.

Skipper shrugs, throwing open the nearest tent flap to reveal a dining room table and two, sleeping cots. "Well, we needed a table, didn't we?" she winks at me.

And I set the leaning tower of sugar on the wood surface. Thank goodness.

"We all can create without penalty now," Skipper continues as though we're talking about the weather, "I'm not sure if you could see the system message while you were locked up. ...Not that penalty matters very much to me. I want that Game Maker Rosabella off her high horse—"

"What'd she do to you?" I ask, just as nonchalantly, licking frosting off a finger and pretending I don't care about how this conversation is going when I most certainty do.

But Skipper's off-topic now. She's intent, like a bloodhound on a scent. Her eyes are molten lava as she turns to me, "Rosabella messed with The Game. You don't mess with The Game. The Game messes with you."

"Finally, we get to talk," I interrupt, too glad to change things from a boring topic and direct it back to us, "I've missed you," I pipe, trying not to let my throat get thick on me and, yet, wanting to scream it from the roof. "Those cots," I nod at them, "Two beds, side by side, like when we were kids." I smile.

She does too. "I remember," she says, plopping down on one and unlacing her combat boots.

And silence is back as her fingers work in silent progress. For some reason, I find the quiet like a mirror I want to break. Because it's reflecting back at me all the space still between us. Years. Questions. Hairline cracks I can't just brush over. And I need them to disappear. I need to hit it hard enough for that breakthrough moment—that avalanche where we connect again. And it's just us.

Sisters.

On the same team.

The same side.

Again.

Always again.

I open my mouth to fill the breath-sucking void when the tent flap presses in. A bulky man with a dark beard bows low to Skipper.

"My Queen, there must have been a rodent infestation again last night. A fourth of the rations are gone. I caught this one prowling around outside and thought I'd start early." He proudly holds up a rectangular cage where a scared, orange tabby cut huddles in the corner.

"Aw!" I reach for the animal, but Skipper's look shoots me down.

"We'll hold it till further notice," the man bellows.

And Skipper nods, "Thank you, Banner." The guy ducks out of the tent, unfortunately, taking the kitty cat with him.

"Did he just call you 'my queen'?" I choke out, stifling a chuckle and grin behind the back of my hand.

Skipper rolls her eyes dramatically, "Let's just say the men here are easily suggestable."

"What are you going to do with the kitty?" I ask, "The color kinda reminds me of Mr. Noodles. That cat—you remember! The one that we used to play with outside the back of the Chinese food place? We always wanted to take him home and Mom wouldn't let us." I grin, looking up, but, strangely, find Skipper's face stone-cold and scowling.

"Pesky prowlers," she spits.

"You have to remember," I insist. "You were the one who named him!"

"I don't remember anything about a cat," she throws back, and that hard, glassy look in her eyes tells me not to bring it up again.

...So much for a breakthrough...