her friends were crazed in the solemn rains/she could try, she could try it

— "Suicide Saturday," Hippo Campus

---

I haven't seen my dad so at-ease in ... I don't know how long.

It's strange, seeing him all smiles and relaxed shoulders as he dishes up way too much bacon for us at the table. He's already dressed for the day, in typical Dad Wear™—a too-large T-shirt that sags around his gut and the same khaki shorts he's probably worn every summer since I was born.

Ginger had woken up a few minutes before me. She didn't try to be quiet as she got dressed. I guess I don't blame her; maybe I wouldn't have been quiet if I had to share my room with my cousin too. By that same token, however, I was not the sleep-depriving noise machine of sleep apnea doom, so. Who knows.

I had waited till she was done getting dressed before I headed downstairs, still in my pajamas. Ginger and I don't get along. Never have. We're completely different people, and not in the fun way that "inside" and "outside" can't exist without each other, but more like oil and water.

For example, while I have wandered downstairs in an old Hippo Campus shirt of mine and Target sleep shorts I got in the sixth grade, Ginger is decked out in a floral dress that seems built for her squarish, stick body. Her dirty blonde hair is curled and blown out, and she's done fake freckles with her makeup today.

Opposites may attract, but I disdain Ginger's 'not like other girls,' 'I came straight from a Netflix original movie' vibe. I fully appreciate people who put effort into their appearances, don't get me wrong. But, with people like Ginger, who feel too good about being the only person who cares in a room of people who couldn't care less, I'm just constantly irked.

Also, I hardly slept at all. Thanks to her. So.

Dad slides a hefty plate of bacon across the counter when I sit down at the kitchen island. "Your bacon," he says, like he's a royal officiate. "It's turkey bacon. It's better for you ... or something."

"I love turkey bacon," Ginger says, picking up a piece with her subtly manicured fingernails and taking a big bite. "Mmm."

I stare blankly at her. "Why turkey bacon?"

"Because pigs are intelligent," Ginger says, giving me a side eye that says die, you foul bitch. "I prefer not to eat intelligent creatures."

"Uhuh." And then, just to fuck with her, I say, "You know, turkeys are the eleventh smartest animal, right?"

Ginger's side eye turns from death glare to incredulous. "Um, okay?"

"Yeah, they're right up there with dolphins, dogs, and squirrels. And only five away from pigs. They definitely know when you want to eat them."

"That's nice, Hadley."

"No, I mean it. It's really sad. They had to rework how to slaughter them, like, a bajillion times because they kept figuring it out and making a break for it."

My dad has turned around to deal with his eggs, but I know he's listening. This was an art he taught me at a very young age: the art of the bullshit.

"Really?" Ginger says. And, her being Ginger, she looks like she believes me.

"I read about that in the Times, I think," Dad says, and I try not to smile. We used to do this to Mom all the fucking time. "A whole turkey slaughter farm made a run for it. It was like 101 Dalmations, but with all this frantic gobbling. There's a massive domestic turkey population running wild up in Vermont, right by Canada."

"Because what else would happen in Vermont?" I add, then shake my head. "Those poor turkeys."

Ginger drops her half-eaten piece of turkey bacon.

"They'll do anything to escape," Dad says, turning around with a plate of scrambled eggs. "It's futile. That's why the POTUS pardons them, you know. Because they're so smart they understand the gesture. And they appreciate it."

"That is so messed up!" Ginger says. It's pretty sad.

Before she can launch into some high-and-mighty performative social justice warrior spiel, I add, "Yeah. A shame they're just so delicious," and take a bite of my own piece of turkey bacon.

Ginger gawks.

Dad takes a piece too. "A real shame," he says.

Aunt Cassie bustles into the kitchen, her hair piled on top of her head in a giant bun, the same dirty blonde as Ginger's. The combination of its messiness and her form-fitting athleisure wear feel a little unnatural, like seeing a dog walk on its hindlegs or a teacher in public. Like, bordering on age inappropriate? I'm not entirely sure; simply put, something about it feels off.

"They're messing with you," she says to Ginger, tapping something on her Apple watch before leaning forward for a piece of turkey bacon. The sheen of sweat on her forehead shows that she's probably coming back from a run. And it's only, like, seven a.m. right now.

Ginger's eyes bug out from her face, like she can't believe it. I give her a shocked look of my own.

"Us?" I ask, pressing a hand to my chest in mock affrontation.

"Never," says Dad, mimicking the sentiment with joking puppy dog eyes.

Aunt Cassie rolls her eyes, smiling. She and Ginger look a fair amount alike, with their naturally pin-straight hair and their stupid Gwyneth Paltrow bodies, although it's just as obvious that Ginger and her dad, Uncle Fred, are father and daughter. It's the eyes. And the noses. Her creation was an honest transaction that created a slightly disturbing, somewhat punchable outcome.

I don't look like either of my parents, really. I'd like to think that I'm saving people the confusion of trying to figure out who I look most like: the answer is, neither. I look like Dad's grandfather apparently, which is not a compliment, because he couldn't even make retro photos look aesthetically pleasing. And I feel like it was just easier to be photogenic back then. So I'm fucked looks-wise.

Jules looked like both of my parents, apparently. Another clearly honest transaction, like Ginger and her weirdly ambiguously inherited features. That's a theory—maybe Aunt Cassie and Uncle Fred chose each other because they're narcissists and look so similar that it was almost like getting it on with themselves. Oh god, that's a theory in my head now.

I take another bite of my bacon and try not to think of my family members' selective breeding choices.

I try to wonder what Jules would have looked like if she had made it to a few years older than she had been when she died, if she would have begun to favor one of our parents as she aged (even just slightly), if you would have been able to tell that she and I are sisters. Were sisters. Weren't sisters, practically. I mean, I have vague memories of her but nothing concrete enough to feel her lack of presence—her lack of existence—enough. And photos of her don't show me anything. I have no sense of who this person, this stranger, was.

Aunt Cassie lets her hair down, flashing the sweat stains in her pits. "So what's the plan for today? Ginger? Hadley?"

"Not sure yet," Ginger says with a sniff. She hasn't touched her food yet. "I'll probably go to Cally's tonight. They just had the pool cleaned."

The thought of a pull fool of little Ginger lookalikes, clad in their bikinis beneath the warm, starry night sky, is strangely unnerving. It just feels ... weird. And, unfortunately, sounds better than anything I'll have to do.

"How about you, Hadley?" my dad asks. "You could go with Ginger to her friend's, if you wanted."

Ginger gives me a side eye that says, no, I most definitely cannot go with.

"I dunno." I shrug. "I'll probably walk around tonight, when it's nice and pitch black. I think Podunkington kidnapping rates are at an all-time low, so hopefully I can avoid making you have to pull a Liam Neeson in Taken. I make no promises, however. Keep your nipple clamps on hand, just in case."

Dad tries not to sigh. "Hads, you can go do something fun. You've graduated. Go live it up."

"Is there anything you can think of for your cousin to do?" urges Aunt Cassie, giving Ginger a tight smile that feels more like a warning than anything. "Anything at all."

She wrinkles her brow. "I mean, Athens Blackmore is having a party, but it's Athens Blackmore. Beeves will probably be going though."

"What kind of name is Athens Blackmore?" I ask. Normally Beeves would be what I'd ask about, but I've met Beatrice Reeve, the girl next door, a few times. Beeves suits her. "That's awesome. That's like, a total bad boy name. Does he have abs and has a desperate need for a tutor, one for which his parents will pay anything? Do you think he can bully me for being an antisocial nerd before we fall desperately, madly in love?"

"Well, Athens does have abs, but I don't think she's very much of a bad boy," Ginger says. The amount of disgust that drips from her tone, like poisoned honey, automatically grabs my attention. It's not that I think anyone who has earned Ginger's scorn is automatically dope, but it certainly makes them intriguing.

"Okay," I say, "that's disappointing. I was really hoping to have a One Direction fanfic type summer, but I see how it is. Unless, wait"—I turn my gaze to my dad and give him a wide-eyed look—"do you think you could sell me to a boy band? For booze money?"

Ginger scoffs. "What?" I ask. "You're the one who made me read them."

"I don't want to know," Aunt Cassie says. "Athens's parties are sometimes a bit ... scandalous, but it's nothing we didn't do when we were kids."

"Mom!" Ginger says, scowling. Like, maybe Aunt Cassie saying something like this would be a shock, if you were to completely disregard the fact that her eighteenth party last fall, Ginger's mom made ginger schnapps for her party, because she's not like other moms. She's a cool mom. If you're going to drink alcohol, she'd prefer you do it inside the house. And tell her all about it later.

Aunt Cassie shrugs. "I think experimentation is a good thing. Once, in Bali—"

"We're not going to talk about Bali," my dad says. I'm surprised he hasn't broken a visible sweat. "What happened in Bali, stays in Bali."

"What about Bhutan?"

"That was Brunei, not Bhutan—"

"I'm pretty certain I'd know where I—"

"They don't need to hear that story, Cass."

Ginger and I go about our breakfast while our respective parents bicker like the siblings they are—where the hell is Bhutan and this is why you failed geography—and all I'm thinking of is how strange sibling relationships are. I don't pretend to get them, but it's strange knowing that I might have had this. Especially now, realizing that I have nothing. Nothing at all.

Closest thing I have is Ginger. So. We're not doing so hot.

She leaves the counter with one last side eye. I glance over at her still untouched turkey bacon. She's just no fun.

A/N:

Pov you're me, working through your saved chapters without writing more 🥵🥵🥵

Aaaanyways, hope you enjoyed this chapter! Save me from college pls!!! :DDD

UPDATED A/N: y'all i am burning two candles rn, who is she