To get my brother, my grandmother drowned seven of my sisters. When my brother was finally born, he was more beautiful than any girl. Growing up, he was convinced he was a girl. He stole dresses to dance in. He wrote love letters to his handsome, broad-shouldered high school teacher. The folks in our small town said it was a curse, the revenge of the dead girls. Only I knew the truth. This was all my doing. The Miller family line was always destined to end. 1 I guess I was just born bad. My brother, Caleb, looked like a porcelain doll from the day he was born. Mom held him, her eyes crinkling until they vanished. "They say the last child is always the prettiest! It’s true!" Her eyes slid over to my older sister, Beth, washing diapers by the sink, and then to me, scraping an apple into mush with a spoon. We were the counter-evidence. Beth and I were plain, maybe even ugly. We both got Mom’s thin lips and sallow skin, and Dad’s wide, heavy bone structure. But Caleb won the genetic lottery. He got Dad's long lashes, big eyes, and pale skin, and Mom's slender frame. Between Caleb and me, there were seven sisters. Or rather, seven ghosts. Each one was born, then immediately plunged head-first into a slop bucket. At night, my grandmother would take the bundle, dump it in the backwoods, and let the coyotes erase the evidence. "Two girls is enough for chores," Dad said. "Two dowries. That's it. We can't afford more." Every time, Mom would have a huge crying fit. But never in front of Dad or Grandma. She'd lock her bedroom door, and while she cried, she’d pinch me. Hard. On the soft skin of my inner thighs. Purple welts would instantly rise. I’d just bite my lip. I learned young not to feel pain. When she was done, she’d shove me away. "Get out! You useless block of wood!" I was happy to be a block of wood. If I cried, she pinched harder. In college, I learned in Psych 101 that this was a subconscious defense: zero feedback. It robs the abuser of their satisfaction. Caleb was in my arms until he was three. I was a sly kid. I figured out fast that "babysitting" got me out of the heavier farm chores. And when I was holding Caleb, I never got hit. Mom wouldn't swing the rolling pin at my head. Dad wouldn't kick me in the stomach. They were terrified of hitting their precious boy. I got a lot of perks. When Dad brought back expensive formula from town, I’d secretly eat a scoop of the dry powder every time I made Caleb a bottle. The man who invented formula was a genius. One scoop and I wouldn't feel hungry all day. To this day, I still eat powdered formula. When I'm stressed, I'll buy a can and just eat it by the spoonful. It's better than any antidepressant. We were poor, but not that poor. My parents were just farmers, and their entire existence revolved around one single, high-priority goal: having a son. Dad had to eat well so he could "plant the seed." Mom had to eat well so the "soil" was fertile. Grandma was the elder. She ate well. Beth and I? We just had to "not starve." My sister Beth was like a starved cow. She chose to eat less. She thought if she ate little and worked hard, Mom and Dad might finally love her. She never got that love, not even on the day she died. I never had that illusion. Being hungry just means you're hungry. I stole everything I could. Mrs. Gable's hollyhocks next door. The buds and the little green seed pods were edible. Tart, clean, and better than any organic "wild green" I’ve eaten since. I’d pick up Caleb, who was all soft, milky-smelling dough. "Come on, Cal. Let's go pick flowers." He'd giggle, patting my face, clueless. I'd slip along the fence line, put him down, and quickly snatch the fattest buds, shoving one in my mouth. The sweet juice was heaven. I'd stuff the rest in my pockets and hand him a flower petal to suck on. He was never hungry; for him, it was just a game. 2 "You little brat! Messin' with my flowers again!" Mrs. Gable stormed out of her house, grabbing my arm. My heart jumped, but I moved faster. I pulled Caleb behind me, shielding him with my own body, and pitched my voice high and wailing, loud enough for the whole neighborhood to hear. "Hit me, Mrs. Gable! Don't hit my brother! He’s just a baby! He wanted the flower, I had to get it for him! I had to!" Her angry expression faltered. She knew about my family. My mom came out, her face dark. "Annie! You lookin' for a beatin'?" When she saw me, shielding her "golden boy," she hesitated. Hitting the daughter who was protecting the son? Not a good look. Mrs. Gable spat on the ground. "You Millers. You look at this girl you raised! A damn thief! You people are rotten to the core. I can't wait to see what kind of 'son' you end up with. Probably a curse!" "A curse." That one word lit the fuse. Mom and Mrs. Gable had gotten married around the same time. Mrs. Gable popped out three sons, one after another. She owned this town. Mom’s face turned purple. "You shut your damn mouth! My Caleb is perfect! Better than those three pigs you call sons!" The two women were at each other's throats. Mrs. Gable's three boys, all teenagers, ran out and shoved my mom to the ground. She sat in the dirt, wailing. I’d already grabbed Caleb and retreated to our porch, watching the chaos. I patted his back. "Shh, Cal. It's okay." My eyes were fixed on Mrs. Gable. She was winning, and she knew it. "Yeah, you cry! It's karma! You wait! Your precious Caleb... he's gonna turn out just like 'Freaky' Frank down on the highway!" "Freaky" Frank. His name hung in the air like a disease. Frank was the town pariah, the "monster" who liked men. His wife had caught him, and the story was legendary. She’d left, his own son disowned him. He was filth. This was the most venomous curse you could cast in our town. Mom’s wailing stopped. She scrambled up, her eyes red, and ran back inside. I knew what she was going for. The big butcher knife. "Your line is ending!" Mrs. Gable was still screaming. "The Millers are done! Freaky Frank at least had a kid! Your boy's gonna be worse than him! You'll have no grandchildren! You're gonna die out!" Mom burst back out, the knife gleaming. Beth ran out and threw herself in front of Mom, taking the brunt of the boys' punches. The fight finally broke up when the sheriff pulled in. Mom and Mrs. Gable were both bloody and disheveled. Beth was bleeding from her temple. Mom, still furious, slapped Beth. "Useless! You can't even fight right!" And me? I just stood in the shadows, holding my brother. My heart was calm. "Your line is ending." "Done." "No grandchildren." Mrs. Gable's words had a certain... appeal. I looked down at Caleb. I leaned in, my voice as sweet as honey. "It's okay, baby. Big sister scared the bad lady away." He hugged my neck. "Sissy." I held him tight. Destroying this family. That sounded... nice. 3 Freaky Frank’s son was named Jesse. The whole town already knew he'd "end up like his dad." I saw him in the woods, wearing a skirt, dancing on his toes. He had a scarf around his neck that flew in the wind. He saw me, and he’d just smile, this shy, pretty smile. I started taking Caleb to the woods. "Look," I'd whisper. "Isn't that pretty?" Caleb would nod, his eyes wide. "Want to try?" He’d shake his head, scared. I wasn’t in a hurry. I started braiding Caleb's hair. His hair was long—Mom and Dad were superstitious about cutting their "miracle" baby's hair. He loved it. We walked past Mrs. Gable's yard. She had a pink, frilly dress hanging on the line for her granddaughter. Caleb looked at it. I looked at him. I snatched it off the line. We ran to the woods. I put it on him. It was a little small, but it worked. He danced. He spun and spun until he was dizzy and sweating. I clapped. When he was done, I buried the dress. That night, Mrs. Gable was on her porch, cussing out the "thief" for hours. Caleb was terrified. "Sissy... should we give it back?" "No! Cal, do you want to get me killed?" "No! I won't tell! I promise!" The next time I saw Jesse, he was sitting on a rock, his head covered in dried blood. He just smiled and offered me half a stale biscuit. "I saw your brother, Annie," he said, his voice soft. "He's a good dancer." I froze. "Everyone needs an audience, Annie," he said, still smiling. "Everyone except you. Because what you're doing... you can't have an audience." The biscuit turned to ash in my mouth. He pulled the pink dress from behind his back. It was clean. "It's a shame to only wear it once," he said. "I'll hide it in this hollow tree. I'll... I'll wash it for you." When I put it on Caleb again, the ripped seam in the back had been fixed with a neat, elastic stitch. Caleb loved dancing. Soon, he and Jesse were dancing together. I stole more dresses. Jesse altered them. Caleb's hair was down to his shoulders. When we were in the woods, I'd undo his braids. He looked just like a girl. He and Jesse would fight over who got to be the Swan Princess. I was always the evil vulture. 4 Caleb started elementary school. He still refused to cut his hair. "He's... sensitive," my parents told the teacher. The teacher just sighed and put him in the back, next to the trash cans. His deskmate, a big girl named Molly, pulled his hair on the first day. I stormed into the first-grade classroom, jumped on Molly's back, and bit her hand until she bled. I screamed, "He's the only son! You touch him again and I'll kill you!" Caleb looked at me like I was a superhero. That night, Dad gave me two hard-boiled eggs. I gave them both to Caleb. No one messed with Caleb after that. No one talked to him, either. I didn't care. We had Jesse. We'd read, we'd dance. "I'm never going to be fat and ugly like Molly," Caleb would say. Jesse and I would just look at each other. He already knew our family was the one who'd snitched on his dad. He hated us, too. "Of course not," Jesse would say, "You're prettier than all of them, Kiki." Kiki. That was the name of a princess from a cartoon. It was Caleb's name for himself. One day, Mrs. Gable caught us. She’d followed me. She stood at the edge of the clearing, her mouth open, watching Caleb—her granddaughter's dress, his hair flowing—dancing with Jesse. She watched for a full minute. Then she turned and walked away. That night, I didn't sleep. But she never came. She never said a word.
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