Pink and Black

The heat clings to everything — my skin, my hair. And it seems to be gathering at the back of my neck where my hair starts to curl. Sweat beads between my shoulder blades and I lift the straps of my sundress to keep it sticking to my back. I couldn't remember a day ever being this hot and oppressive.

 

I stand at the dining table, folding napkins into triangles so sharp they could cut someone. My mother would want them perfect. Everything in this house has to be perfect. The fan above my head hums uselessly, just shoving hot air from one side of the dining room to the other. Everything smells like my childhood: fresh-cut grass drifting through the open windows, polished silver, my grandmother Eleanor’s rose-scented perfume.

 

The front door opens. I don’t have to look. I already know who it is.

 

Lilith.

 

She sweeps in like a storm cloud — black tank dipping just below her ribs, boots heavy enough to dent the floor, dark hair hanging half in her face. There’s a silver cross around her neck, dangling right between her breasts, and I hate myself a little for noticing. I steal another glance as she shakes out her hair. It’s longer than I remember.

 

Virginia, her mother, wobbles in behind her, clutching a bottle of wine wrapped in tissue paper. “We brought something special,” Virginia says. I wondered whether she'd already had some, or something else, on the way. Everyone preferred to say that Virginia had a habit of drinking, although I preferred the term alcoholic. Not that I judged Virginia for it, she'd had a harder life than most.

 

My dad swoops in to greet them, sparing me the task. He hugs Virginia, kisses her cheek, and gives Lilith a clap on the back like they’re old buddies.

 

“Sophie! Lilith! Y’all both go to State now, don’t you?”

 

Lilith flashes a smile. “That’s right. Small world.”

 

It’s the kind of polite warmth she never uses when we’re alone.

 

Dad disappears with Virginia, promising her a cold glass of the white they’ve already started. I’m left standing in the dining room with Lilith — the last place I ever want to be. I glance toward the hall, hoping my mother or my Grandma Eleanor will wander in and save me. Doesn't look like it.

 

It still feels strange to think of her as my enemy. Most people would assume I don't care much about Lilith either way. But it’s true - She is my enemy, and I care more than I could ever admit to anyone. We’ve known each other forever — two girls from two families tangled up together for generations. Summers at the same lakeside house. The same Christmas parties, the same Easter egg hunts. Forced into the same photos at weddings and funerals.

 

But knowing someone isn’t the same as liking them. I was the cheerleader, fun, athletic, always smiling and always the center of something - attention, envy, gossip. Lilith couldn't have been more different. She was always stomping around like she had fury in her blood. She was always pissed off with someone, or maybe just the world, and she wasn't quiet about it. When my friends would call her a freak she would give it right back, saying they were going to peak in high school or making fun of their appearance. No one ever listened though, to us, Lilith was a freak. An angry, spiteful, freak. But to most people, she was just a goth who considered herself too smart and worldly for our small town. So, we were never friends. But we were never nothing either.

 

Lilith’s eyes sweep over me, landing on my pink, strapless sundress.

 

“Still dressing like Barbie threw up on you,” she says.

 

I roll my eyes. “Still dressing like you’re single-handedly keeping Hot Topic afloat.”

 

Lilith laughs, but there’s no warmth in it. “I’ll leave you to practice being a good little housewife.”

 

My face burns. She always knows exactly what to say to piss me off the most. I'm not sure why this comment bothers me so much but it does. Is it because it fits with the narrative she's created of me? That I'm shallow, domestic, and utterly predictable, everything she despises? Probably. And I hate that I'm proving her right.

 

I turn back to the napkins, folding faster now that I'm angry. I hate that she can still do this to me — walk into a room and make me feel twelve years old again, awkward and stupid in front of her sharp little smirk.

 

My mother breezes in, hair perfectly pinned despite the heat, a half-empty glass of white wine in her hand. “Sophie, honey, are we ready?”

 

“Almost,” I say.

 

Lilith drifts past me, her shoulder brushing mine — just enough contact to make it clear it wasn’t an accident. I swallow the urge to shove her back. My mother would be mortified if I acted like a "child", and I'd be getting lectured for the next two weeks. Lilith knew that too, and it was this dynamic she would exploit when we were kids.

 

Everyone files into the dining room, taking their places under the heavy crystal chandelier that hums with moth wings. The table’s set with my Grandmother Eleanor’s best china — the ones I’ve been terrified of breaking since I was old enough to hold a fork. My dad pulls out my mother’s chair. My brother and his wife are already seated, both scrolling their phones under the table like teenagers even though they're both approaching 30.

 

Eleanor sits at the head, as always. In most families, the grandfather would be at the head of the table but not in my family. My grandmother always said she earned the view by outlasting every other opinion at the table. She was a stubborn woman.

 

“Gentlemen,” my grandmother says as my dad and grandfather start loosening their jackets. “This is a formal dinner. Jackets stay on.”

 

My mother sighs dramatically. “Mama, it’s ninety degrees and they’re going to sweat all over your tablecloth.”

 

“Then they’ll sweat like gentlemen,” Eleanor says.

 

Lilith snorts, and I can’t help glancing at her. She clearly didn't get the memo about it being a formal dinner. Black jeans and a tank top, really? Not that anyone would say anything. They were our guests and my family was nothing if not hospitable.

 

Lilith, somehow, looks perfectly at ease despite the inappropriate attire. She’s sitting up straight, shoulders back, hands resting lightly on either side of her plate. Polite. Present. Not trying to provoke anyone — at least not them. It’s almost worse this way. Like she knows exactly how to move through a room like this, and just chooses not to most of the time.

 

My mother takes a long sip of her wine and launches straight into gossip.

 

“Did y’all hear about the Parker boy? He's gay. Brought a boyfriend home from California”

 

“Dear lord,” Eleanor mutters into her napkin.

 

Lilith sits up a little. “So what?”

 

My mother gives her a sunny smile, all fake sweetness. “I’m not saying it’s wrong, honey. I’m just saying it’s...a lot for his family to deal with. Especially his mother, you know all the trouble she had last year with her brother going to prison.” Why my mother thinks those are comparable tragedies, I don't know. But I'm not surprised.

 

Lilith doesn't drop it. “Deal with what?” She asks in a flat voice. “That their son likes guys?”

 

“Well, you have to admit, it’s a shock. It’s not the kind of life you picture for your child,” my mother says, like she’s explaining something obvious.. “I’m just glad we don’t have anything like that to deal with.”

 

My grandmother laughs softly and picks up her glass. “Well, we can't know that. You never know what kind of secrets are hiding in a family.”

 

My mother laughs too loud, a little shrill. “Come on now. My son is married. To a woman.” She waves at my brother and his wife who also laugh.

 

“And a lovely girl she is." Eleanor says, "Who knows, maybe it’s not your son,” she adds.

 

Everyone is laughing this time. I'm not sure if it's because the idea of me being gay is just so unbelievable or because it's just what we do when my grandmother says something prickly and we're not sure how to respond.

 

“Sophie’s not gay,” my mother says, like it’s ridiculous. “She was a cheerleader! Dated Tyler Whitman for two years.”

 

My grandmother dabs her mouth with her napkin. “I'm just saying, that summer she stayed with me when she was twelve, she read Carmilla five times.”

 

The whole table erupts in laughter. My face goes hot. “I...like books. Jesus.”

 

“Language,” my mother snaps automatically.

 

“You never liked any other books,” My grandmother says, laughing so hard tears are gathering in the corner of her eyes. I shake my head and excuse myself to go to the bathroom.

 

By the time I return, the conversation has drifted somewhere else, real estate prices, and my brother’s new boat. I start to gather some food on my fork but my mother places a hand on my wrist - her signal for “You’ve had enough”. It’s a habit she developed during my cheerleading days. I was a flyer, and flyers have to stay tiny. And she made sure I did - obsessively. She never did grow out of the habit.

 

I place my fork down and look at the table. I can feel Lilith watching me. Not just watching — dissecting.

 

I lift my head. She leans her chin into her hand, elbow on the table, eyes steady on mine. Like she’s working something out.

 

I’m not sure what she’s getting at but I don’t like this attention. I shake my head, small and quick. No.

 

Lilith’s smile curves. Yes.

 

Dinner drags on, the way family dinners always do when there’s too much wine and too many opinions. By the time dessert is cleared, Virginia’s slurring her words and laughing too loud at things that aren’t jokes.

 

“Alright,” my mother says, standing up with that hostess smile plastered on her face. “I think it’s best if y’all just stay the night.”

 

Virginia waves her hand, like she’s trying to dismiss the offer, but her wrist is too loose and it’s clear even she knows there’s no way she’s getting behind the wheel. “Well, if you insist!” she says.

 

My mother smiles "Of course. Virginia, you can have the guest room. And Sophie…” She turns to me, already giving me that expectant smile. “Why don’t you go make sure your room’s ready? Lilith will stay with you.”

 

My stomach drops. “Can’t she—”

 

My mother’s eyebrows lift, and that’s all it takes.

 

“Yes ma’am,” I say, standing up so fast my chair scrapes against the floor.

 

I walk out of the room to the sound of Virginia insisting they all have a nightcap on the porch.

 

Just as I reach the stairs, Lilith grabs my wrist and steps close.

 

“Better make sure it’s spotless for me, dyke,” she whispers.

 

I freeze, my hand tightening on the banister.

 

“You can talk,” I hiss, turning just enough to glare at her. “You literally dated a girl.”

 

Lilith’s eyebrows flick up — surprised for half a second, then delighted. “And?”

 

“And funny how you left that out during dinner.” I smile, all teeth. “Guess you’re not as proud as you pretend to be when we’re on campus.”

 

I take the stairs without waiting for her, leaving her standing at the bottom, watching me go.

 

 

Pearl Necklace

I’ve been cleaning for almost an hour, but the room still feels wrong. No matter how many times I smooth the bedspread or rearrange the perfume bottles on my dresser, I can’t shake the feeling that Lilith’s already judging everything.

 

Because my room is a lot. Pink everywhere — walls, sheets, curtains. My dollhouse still sits on the dresser, its tiny rooms perfect, untouched.There are trophies on the shelves, monogrammed pillows on the bed, and fairy lights coiled like vines around the mirror. It’s all a little girl’s fantasy, frozen in place. I know exactly how it looks.

 

The door opens, and Lilith stands there, arms crossed, already smiling like she’s won something.

 

“Oh my god,” she says, stepping inside. “This is fucking adorable.”