MICKEY

“DO YOU EVER LOOK at someone and think you’d love to rip your nails through their face?” Ruth asked, her foot aligned along the porch banister, hand hovering with the nail-polish brush.

“Of course,” Sean answered. He held his book like he was reading it, but he hadn’t turned a page in over ten minutes, preferring instead to click his pocketknife open and closed over and over, a metronome with an edge. He was faking. He was looking at Ruth without looking at all. It was pathetic, Mickey thought. She had never seen her big brother as pathetic before. Cruel, stupid, sure. But not pathetic.

“Really?” Mickey asked. “With your nails?” She reached out with her foot and pushed the couch swing under him, disrupting his false concentration.

“No, I mean, not with my nails,” Sean said, setting his feet solidly onto the ground. “With my fists.”

“Fists leave bruises,” Ruth said as she leaned over her knee and blew on her toenails. “Bruises heal. Nails do real damage. They rip you open, leave tears. Haven’t you ever really wanted to rip into someone? Not just punch them in the face—I mean really change their surface. Ruin them.”

Mickey and Sean were silent.

“Come on, guys, don’t act like you haven’t thought about it.”

Mickey hadn’t. She honestly hadn’t.

“Of course I have,” Sean said, “but you make it sound sick.”

Ruth blew on her nails again and spread her toes. Their nails were dark green. They matched the trees behind her.

“Wanna go for a swim, Mick?”

“You’ll mess up your toenails.”

“Worth it,” Ruth said as she leapt off the porch railing into the grass.

Sean looked up. “I could go for a swim,” he said, putting his book down.

“Too bad we didn’t invite you!” Ruth yelled over her shoulder, already running toward the lake. She reached her hand back for Mickey, and Mickey caught it.

—

THEY SWAM OUT TO the float off the dock and pushed themselves up over the edge, gulping for air. Mickey lay on her back. Ruth lay next to her. It was a perfect New Hampshire day, just like every summer memory.

“Whose face do you want to rip off?” Mickey asked, squirming against the dry wood’s heat.

“No one’s in particular,” Ruth answered. She lay perfectly still. She never fussed with her body, never writhed like she was a thing caught inside it. Mickey always felt that way.

“So why did you ask that?”

“I wanted to freak Sean out.”

She laughed, and Mickey did too.

“He would do anything you said,” Mickey said, “including rip someone’s face off.”

“Well, I better start making a list, huh?” Ruth asked, rolling onto her stomach. “Who has wronged me?”

“I brought you here,” Mickey said, holding her hands up.

“Your face will stay intact.”