going to be part of it. The stage was set for the performance of a lifetime. Murphy was waiting in the wings.
That’s how it had been for the first couple minutes.
Then Murphy’s bladder had begun to fill. She could practically see it expanding beneath her puffer coat, inflating like a balloon. Little stings shot through her body, making Murphy want to squirm. She couldn’t though. If she did, they might hear. She tried to focus on something else. Something solid, outside her body.
The music was a good distraction, even when the same songs began to play over and over again:
Eight maids a-milking
Seven swans a-swimming
Six geese a-laying
Five
golden
rings
As she listened, Murphy got to thinking. Deeply. Really, what kind of sicko Christmas presents were these? Who had room in their house for six geese, let alone the a-laying kind? And what newborn baby enjoyed a little boy drumming? Wouldn’t that keep him up, screaming through the night? Mary probably loathed that drummer kid.
But even Murphy’s song-scrutinizing was interrupted by incoming signals that bladder bursting was imminent. Eileen—and then Claire, after that incident—had been driving for hours, and who knew how much longer there was to go. At last Murphy decided it was better to ruin the surprise than to pull her stunt in pee-soaked jeans.
So she’d spoken up.
And everyone had gone totally crazy.
Murphy lost her balance when Claire swerved the van. She fell in an awkward squat, conking her head against an armrest.
“Holy shit!” shouted Eileen, looking at Murphy as though she were one of the undead.
They’d pulled off on the shoulder, and the van shuddered with every high-speed pass of a car on the highway.
Murphy rubbed her head and decided to try the No, I’m affronted! approach.
“What?” she demanded. “I wasn’t going to let you have all the fun without me.”
“You’ve been in here the whole time?” Claire choked. She’d undone her seat belt and was up on her knees, staring at Murphy over the driver’s seat.
It was time for the Shock them with what I know! approach.
“This trip’s about an Uncle Patrick.” Murphy’s face heated up. “Well, if he’s your uncle, then he’s mine too. I’m your sister, and I deserve to know what’s going on.”
Claire looked at Eileen. Eileen looked back. They were silent, both of them panting. Claire slammed an open palm to her face.
“This is the last thing we need,” she groaned.
Music played on, a crooner singing about Jack Frost nipping at your nose. Eileen cut him off midsentence by way of the volume knob and turned on Murphy with heavy-lidded eyes.
Murphy gulped. Why had she thought this plan was ingenuous? Eileen had been driving buzzed, apparently, but what about Murphy? Had she been drunk on Dr Pepper?
“You’re right, Murph,” Eileen said. “You deserve to know.”
Claire, who was tapping frantically on her phone, jolted to attention. “What? Are you kidding me? You don’t give in to her. That’s not how discipline works.”
“Who the hell is disciplining her? She’s our sister, not our kid.”
“I’m not a kid, I’m fourteen,” said Murphy.
It was dark in the van, but not so dark that Murphy missed Claire’s glower as she said, “I seriously can’t believe you.”
Murphy scoffed. “Me? You were going to leave me home alone! Overnight! Like, wow, how considerate.”
Her sisters didn’t answer. No doubt because “being considerate to Murphy” hadn’t been at the top of their to-do list for years.
Eileen leaned over the console and shifted the car into drive.
“WHOA!” shouted Claire, pumping the brake. “What are you doing? We haven’t decided—”
“We can decide when we’re not on the side of the road at four in the morning.” Looking to the rearview mirror, Eileen added, “Sit down and put your seat belt on.”
Murphy wondered if Eileen was talking to her or to Claire. They both obeyed. Claire craned her neck to make out the oncoming traffic. When her path was clear, she revved onto the interstate.
“Where are we going?” Murphy asked, because maybe this time she’d get actual answers.
“What do you think, genius?” said Eileen. “We’re finding you a piss pot.”
FOUR YEARS BEFORE
CAYENNE CASTLE
By its third year the castle had grown. Its blanket walls and quilted parapets stretched past the den, down the hallway, and into the kitchen, where snacks of chips and kettle corn—luckily, no bad chili—could be easily obtained.
This year Claire went by an alias: Princess Paprika. She sat on her throne, a white-and-green lawn chair, tapping away at her brand-new phone.
Well, not brand-new. The iPhone was used, purchased from eBay, and yes, it was four whole versions