56 STEPH KWIATKOWSKI Cellophane • eep in the woods, past the 7-Eleven off Exit 233, there is a churning vat of cake batter. There are whirs and clicks, steady as a pulse, and the slick drag of plastic over tiny cakes that have been poured into a uniform shape. And miles away, there are two sisters growing up on the oak-tunneled highway between home and town. In the backseat after church, shedding tights like snakeskin, and later, on the way to middle school parties, foundation sinking into their pores, they count litter along the shoulder between the asphalt and forest edge: Styrofoam , chip bag, beer can. The game lives on even after they’ve drifted apart. Throughout high school, when it becomes clear that Hannah can’t stand the heat of Grace’s shoulder against her own, and college summers they spend eating cereal on opposite sides of the porch. Scrolling through their text history, it’s all you see. Coke bottle. Sonic cup. “Wrapper.” When Grace says it, the thing is already gone. Just a spark in the headlights somewhere along the road. Hannah doesn’t respond. She just writhes in the passenger seat, jean skirt bunched up around her waist like it did when Grace pulled her across the parking lot of the bar in front of the guys smoking outside . They’d seen Hannah’s cheeky lace underwear and the red lines where denim had pressed into flesh. At first they jeered, then Hannah hit the gravel with a sound like a hard-boiled egg. After that, no one was smiling anymore. The radio buzzes, sibilant, turned down low. Grace pulls the car over because Hannah has passed out and Grace wants to make sure her sister is still breathing. She searches concussion symptoms on her phone. She already knows the ones for alcohol poisoning by heart. A truck speeds past, and the whole car quivers; then they’re alone in the blinking red of the hazards. It occurs to Grace that the muted light smooths the acne craters of Hannah’s cheeks in the exact way Hannah would want. There was a d 57 time when Grace would tell Hannah she was beautiful, but eventually Grace learned that was worse than saying nothing at all. The proof of Grace’s ignorance remains in the bathroom cabinets: bar soap in hers, while her sister’s is filled with stinging creams, serums that peel. Isotretinoin , known to thin the hair and inflame the gut, and yet still it comes. Vulgaris. Nothing more than sebum and dead keratinocytes trapped in the dermal layer, and what it means is that Hannah has avoided mirrors every day since she turned thirteen, that she can’t meet the eyes of a single person she talks to. Grace can hear it in her sister’s voice when she’s five Jack and Cokes deep: the numbness, the amnesiac release. A momentary gift Grace can hardly begrudge her when Hannah wants so badly to shed the skin from her bones like the papery casing of a cicada, but things are starting to get worse. Tonight the call came from the bartender. Hannah had gone out alone and downed four whiskeys on an empty stomach, not including the many probable sips from the plastic fifth of vodka she keeps in her closet, beneath an old Halloween costume with the orange sequins flaking off. Hannah lifts her head, voice groggy, a watercolor smear of mascara up to her temple. She rolls down the window and spits pre-vomit down the side of the car. “Something stinks.” “It’s the factory.” Grace bites the cuticle of her thumb. This stretch of highway smells like horse chestnut and frosting. It’s different depending on the day and direction of the wind—cocoa or strawberry or a musty-sweet blend of oil and burnt sugar—but always something there, a current of vanilla under the dead oak leaves and loam. When they were little they used to stop at the factory outlet on the way home from school events, clopping across the tiles in shiny plastic block heels and polyester dresses that felt hot and cold at the...
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