Beach Day

6: Legalize Sunscreen

Tiff takes in her reflection. It mocks her from the mirror in the guest room while she changes for lunch. She can't very well be covered in paint, mud, and whatever else was in the hole in front of her grandparents or— heaven forbid— her actual parents. Ruth and Herman Sheridan would never stand for that kind of thing. They never did before.

She can't keep herself from poking at the scars. There are so many now: the burns across her chest and shoulder, the small dark mark on her forearms where the shadows tried to get into her, the burn from the whip around her ankle, the spiraling lines and bite marks up her hands and wrists. Some have healed well over the past month; others have not. She doesn't need to lower the band of her underwear to know that her hip still bears the marks of burns from all the times her stupid idiot child self ran into a cigarette. Peepaw Zacharias hasn't smoked in years, though, after Meemaw Hilda and the church convinced him to quit. Does he even remember, she wonders? Or is it just as faded as the magic-burn on her sternum?

She has never been so grateful for modesty rules. She has never been so grateful for what was drilled into her as a child and for the choice to do this in the way that she wants to. Why shouldn't she? She can wear a one-piece and swim trunks. Who the hell is going to stop her?

Ruth Sheridan might; Herman might make it known that he disapproves. It's only correct if you do exactly what you're supposed to do— if you're a girl in the right way, if you're exactly what they want you to be.

Oh, fuck them. She shrugs the clothes on, and a shirt over them. The fact that it's a t-shirt she painted herself doesn't evade her. It's fine. She needs to cover her shoulders somehow. They don't need to know why she's so okay with it. She doesn't need questions on why it looks like a bull gored her in the shoulder. Even if the scars are fading, they're still there.

Tiff sits on the edge of the bed, ignoring the floral patterns of everything around her, the Psalm- and lamb-themed decorations, the lace lining and running everything, the overwhelming feeling of being trapped, the portrait of Jesus over the dresser. This is the room she and Adrianna would share when they were younger, staying the night with Meemaw and Peepaw before church. Tiff was never allowed to have sleepovers (Girl Scout camping trips didn't count), but she was allowed to have this. This room feels like dying. It feels like choking on the fluid filling her lungs.

Tiff pulls her bag up from the ground and takes the book out of it. Ignoring the bite mark that she left behind, she opens the front cover and traces the words on the first page. Curious; how curious. The page is written— no, scrawled— in thick, near-illegible black ink. It's all wide loops and jagged letters. It would take her a second to read it if she tried. She flips through. Most of the other pages are blank.

As soon as she tries to prod further, a familiar knock sounds at the door. Her aunt opens it a split-second later. She, too, has changed: a pale yellow sundress over a bathing suit Tiff knows her mother would throw a hissy about, like the sleeves of the dress and its delicate blue flowers could ever keep the peace.

"Tiff, honey, are you—" Aunt Esther spots the book on Tiff's lap before she can do anything to hide it. She whisper-hisses, eyes wide, "What the hell is that?"

"Okay, so— don't get mad—"

"Tiffany May!"

"I found it in a hole! I didn't bring it with me, I swear! I wouldn't have even had room! Something weird is going on— I swear I didn't start looking for it. Or— I did, but she disappeared, and I think whoever or whatever it is might be hurt! Also, I found this sick-ass journal and fell out of the sky because I messed up the portal— I need more practice, I guess—"