Olive Juice

Here they were, Alice asleep on Phillip’s chest, face painted like a tiger from her birthday party, eyes closed, a little thin line of drool wetting Phillip’s shirt as she slept, tuckered out from her very special day.

Here they were, the three of them, her diploma in her hands, a wide smile on her face, David and Phillip on either side of her, both of them in ties, their eyes red, their own faces a little puffy.

And here she was, here she always wa

s, she was six and four and twelve and fifteen and eight and seventeen, and she was a baby and a toddler, a little girl and a preteen, and then a teenager until she was a beautiful young woman.

Here she was.

The last picture taken of her.

It was her nineteenth birthday, sixteen days before she disappeared. It was a Saturday. She’d gone out with friends the night before and was going to go out with friends that night as well, but she said that the day was for her daddy and her papa. So they’d woken her up at the asscrack of dawn, banging pots and pans as they climbed the stairs, bellowing out happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you, happy biiiirrrrthday, dear Aaaaaaaaalice, knowing full well she was slightly hungover. She groaned and put her pillow over her face, yelling at them you are both terrible and I hate you so much, but laughing while she said it.

David and Phillip finished big just inside her doorway, smashing the pots and pans together, making as much noise as possible. She sat up then, glaring while hugging the pillow against her chest, and her hair a little funky and her eyes bloodshot, but she was their baby girl, and she was nineteen years old.

I can’t believe you two, she said with a scowl. It’s not even daylight out. You both suck.

David snorted. We both do. Your father is pretty good at—

David Greengrass, Phillip said. If you finish that sentence, you’ll won’t get to have that ever again.

David grinned.

Ewwwww, she cried, lying back down on her bed, pulling her comforter over her face. Old people should not be having sex.

Old, Phillip said, sounding sufficiently outraged. Who are you calling old?

The two of you.

Funny, David said. Especially since this is from a girl who is one year away from not being a teenager anymore. Then come the wrinkles.

Excuse you, she said, throwing the comforter off. Black don’t crack. Don’t be jealous.

Did you hear that, dear, Phillip said with an exaggerated sniff. Black don’t crack.

Whatever shall we do? David asked.

You could get out of my room and let me sleep, she said, squinting at the both of them.

Does that sound like something we should do? Phillip asked David.

Nah, David said easily. That doesn’t sound like something we should do at all. In fact, you should get your butt out of bed, because we’ve got some plans for you.

Plans? she asked them suspiciously.

Great plans, Phillip said. Probably involving greasy bacon and runny eggs, the yolk going just everywhere—

Ugh, she groaned. Kill me now. I’m never drinking again.

Probably a good idea, David said. Especially since you’re underage.

I’m safe.

We know.

You can trust me. I would never do anything stupid.

We know that too. Doesn’t mean it’s legal.