Page 10 of Because I Killed Him
“We’ve only got an hour left,” I cut in, pushing to my feet. “If you two want to piss it away, fine. But after that, everything changes.”
Hillaire crosses her arms, looking confused, while Vivian’s eyebrows knit together in realization. In less than a day, I’ll be at Grandmaster for nine months, and when I return, Vivian and Harrison will be married. Things will never be the same again, not like they are now, not like they’ve been for our entire lives.
“You’re right, Lore,” Vivian says at last, lifting the torn hem of her gown. Her face hardens again as she looks at Hillaire. “One-hour truce?”
Hillaire checks her watch and frowns. “Make it until tomorrow. I need to be in bed by ten.”
“Fine.”
Vivian snatches her emerald hair comb from the ground just as the dinner bell chimes through the open doors. We all pause, exchange grimlooks, then shuffle inside to take our seats. At the table, I roll up my sleeve to keep blood from staining the fabric.
Hillaire’s hair sticks up where it was pulled, and Vivian’s evening gown is torn, with her lipstick smudged, but neither of them is injured. A Pinkie delivers warm, wet cloths and a tube of regenerative gel, which usually heals injuries like mine within forty-eight hours.
By the time I finish treating the scrape, Mom and Dad enter the dining hall, hand in hand, with all traces of worry gone from their faces. Dad’s hair is styled, his silk ascot perfectly arranged, and he’s holding a glass of scotch. Mom wears a beaded gown with a draped silhouette that flows around her ankles like a cloud. Her long black hair is twisted into structured, glossy waves, and her makeup does a good job of covering the bruising from her recent facelift.
“Girls.” Mom’s mouth drops at the state of us. “What have you done to each other?”
“Loredana told me to tell Vivian how I feel,” Hillaire replies. “So I did.”
“Told?” Dad sets down his scotch. “Or showed?”
He turns on me, head cocked, as if expecting a detailed rundown, but I stay silent.
“All right, then. We’ll talk about this when Loredana’s gone,” Mom says, trading a disappointed look with Dad. “And don’t think I’ll forget.”
Mom takes one chair at the end of the table, while Dad settles at the other, his chin bowed low. “For this meal, and for all that we possess, we thank the Civilized World,” he says.
Two Pinkies bring out the first course. I lean back, nauseated by the sound of chewing around me. After watching the executions, the thought of food turns my stomach. Instead, I keep my eyes lowered and spread another layer of numbing regenerative gel over my hand. The somber gazes of Mom and my sisters chip away at my resolve, and for a moment, I wish the gel could numb the rest of me, too.
“Is this a family dinner or a funeral for the cow?” Dad finally asks, nudging the Beef Wellington with his fork. “Should I be giving a eulogy?”
Hillaire sets down her glass of sparkling water and frowns. “Jokes are hardly appropriate right now, Father.”
“No good joke was everappropriate.”
Across the table, Vivian and I share a small smile, grateful that Dad is trying to lighten the mood.
Halfway through the first course, a Pinkie wearing white evening gloves enters the room. The robot leans over Dad and whispers something in his ear that wipes the humor from his face. Mom rises from her chair, moves to his side, and fidgets with her drop earring as she listens.
I can’t hear much, but when the wordprohibitionslips from the robot’s mouth, I realize they’re talking about Bliss, the deadly drug Dad’s been fighting to eradicate from our streets throughout his political career.
Dad listens for a moment longer, his fingers twisting in his napkin, then pushes his chair back with a screech of wood. “Oh, hell.”
“What’s going on?” Vivian asks.
“Those bastards.”
“Who?” Hillaire asks, watching the Pinkie as if she might corner the robot in the hallway after dinner and squeeze answers out of it.
“The Blues.” Dad throws his napkin onto the table. “We agreed to vote on the Bliss Prohibition Act next week so all the representatives could consult their constituents, but now they’re rug-pulling us. We have to do it tonight.”
“You think you’ll finally get enough votes to ban Bliss?” I ask.
“At this point, yes.”
“Dad, youcan’tban Bliss.” Vivian shoots up from the table. “Almost everyone I know uses it, even Harry’s mom. If you ban it, everyone will hate you. Everyone will hateus.”
“I don’t give a flying fuck through a rolling donut if I’m hated,” Dad says. “We’ve had this conversation enough times for you to understand why this ban is necessary. Over a thousand Greens died from Bliss overdoses last month. It’s time to cut the cord.”
