This Is What You Wanted (Excerpt)

Chapter 1: Rules

Amanda Keefe was a woman of few talents, but one of them was getting off before her alarm went off.

That Friday, she lay in bed, steadying her rapid breathing, and staring vacantly up at the popcorn ceiling. Less than a minute later, at exactly 6:30 AM, the tell-tale beep!beep!beep! shook her from the fading paroxysms to reach over and hit the OFF button on her phone. Her last order of business, after stepping into her slippers and wrapping herself in her bathrobe and before shuffling into the hallway, was to turn her stuffed cat, Bobo, away from the wall and back around to face the rest of her cramped bedroom.

While groping for her baby shampoo from the cabinet under the sink, Amanda accidentally bumped a tiny, yellow-handled paring knife out from the folds of a brittle, mildewed washrag. It rolled forward, exposing itself between her mother's stack of Ivory soap and an unopened box of men's razors, a flash of painful fluorescent light reflected off the metal blade. As she retrieved her shampoo, Amanda nudged the knife back into hiding behind the clutter and drain pipe and shut the cabinet door.

Her shower was only lukewarm, even set to the hottest setting. That was her punishment for being the last to get out of bed and the third to get a shower that morning. But a middling temperature shower killed the aroma of her brother's designer cologne, her father's aftershave, and a hint of bleach out of her nostrils as she lathered the open wounds on her thighs. Hotter water would have agitated them. As part of her ritual, Amanda gently daubed her legs with her own bar of lavender soap and watched flecks of dried blood become wispy streaks in the tub and disappear down the rusty drain. She finished when the water ran cold.

Her hair was easy to braid when damp: just her usual three-part plait that fell between her shoulder blades. In the summer she would affix the braid to her head with a claw clip to keep it off her neck. But this was late Fall and nearing the end of the semester when her appearance was more about staying warm than looking stylish. Lucky for her, Amanda's outfits were the same as they were every day—a long-sleeved blouse (white today), dress slacks (always one of two black pairs), and sensible flats (also black). Her only jewelry was a wide, elastic bracelet over her right wrist and the crucifix her grandmother brought over from County Wicklow. A coat of Chapstick and hand lotion ended her dressing routine.

Amanda kissed her fingers and touched Bobo's raggedy head before departing her room for the final time that morning. His glassy eyes stared back at her.

*

The whiff of turkey bacon in the air was her mother's doing, but the burned toast and black coffee were certainly her father's. Norman Keefe's food preparation skills stopped at pressing reheat on the microwave. That was better than Colin, however; their mother still poured his milk on his cereal. Amanda, at least, could boil water and stir in Ramen noodles.

Janice Keefe hunched at the sink, scrubbing the frying pan with steel wool and some dish soap when Amanda walked into the room. A plate of food had been arranged for her at her place against the wall, complete with a still-steaming cup of dark-roast coffee.

The clock on the wall, the one above the stove, read 6:55. Amanda blinked at it.

"Good morning," she breathed, the first use of her voice since waking up. She patted her father on the shoulder as she sneaked behind his chair to get to her own. Both of her parents responded to her greeting in kind. Her father glanced at her from his breakfast and replied with a gruff Mornin', Panda. Her mother looked over her shoulder and sighed a reluctant Hi, sweetheart as if acknowledging her interrupted her pan scrubbing. Amanda slid into her chair and picked up her coffee before she touched her fork.

Except for the sound of utensils on plates and the woosh of the sink, all was quiet for a solid two minutes—Amanda watched the clock.

"Morning!"