Read Where You End for Free Online

peeking through her fingers, a kid cheating at hide-and-go-seek, to check on me. Like I said, a test.
    I light the match and then blow it out before it can reach my fingertip.
    â€œLight it again,” she says, her hands still in mid-air, mid-prayer.
    â€œYou do it, Mom. I don’t remember how.”
    â€œLight it again, Miriam.”
    I put the matches down and look for Dad, whose eyebrows squint to read what’s behind the tension. He lets me drown.
    â€œI don’t feel good, Mom.”
    She drops her hands. God can wait until I get a grip.
    â€œI thought you felt fine.”
    â€œYeah, I did … I do. I just don’t want to do this right now. I just want to sit down and eat. I’m really tired. Can you do this, please?”
    â€œThat sounds reasonable.” Dad jumps in like a tiger through a hoop of fire.
    Mom’s shoulders assume position. This is familiar.
    You may have your ice cream when you’ve finished your peas. You may watch TV when you’ve cleaned up your toys. You may go to Adam’s when you’ve done the dishes. You may walk home alone when you know how to punch. You may use my Leica camera when you graduate from college. You may sleep with someone when you are ready to be with them. And always use protection.
    Protection from what?
    Dad lets out a weak sigh.
    â€œI will say the blessing when you’ve lit the candle,” she says.
    I roll my eyes.
    â€œSarah … ” Dad says, his eyes begging.
    â€œSeth?” she says.
    â€œMaybe we can try again next Friday,” he tries.
    â€œIt’s not that hard, Seth. I’ve cooked an entire meal. She can light a candle.”
    â€œI know, Sarah, it’s great. Everything looks great. Let’s just say the blessing and enjoy it. I’ll say it.”
    â€œYou can’t say it, remember? Only the women, it’s tradition. Right, Mom?”
    My voice comes out whinier than I intended, a kind of silly, entitled whine.
    â€œLight it, Miriam.” Her final words.
    I strike a match against the box, wait a few seconds until the flame is getting close, then drop it in my plate. Mom actually gasps. Before the flame can turn blue, I cover my eyes and say the blessing, for the bread, for the cup, for the Jews. Then I push my chair in and walk upstairs to my room, unable to shake the rage that has swallowed my head since Elliot told me he just didn’t know.
    I don’t know, Miriam. I don’t know if I’m in love with you.
    As I dive onto the bed, I hope Dad is lighting the candles after all, that Mom is lifting the towel off the bread, and that he is devouring her delicious feast. To hell with me. It’s not her fault I’m not as strong as she is, is it?
    It’s not her fault, it’s not her fault, it’s not her fault.

five
    The mal de mer wakes me up. Mr. Wallace’s ghost is silent and limp across the street. Next to my bed, there’s a tray with some bread and a plate of leftovers, but I’m too nauseated to reach for it. I check my underwear. Clean. I tiptoe to the bathroom and try with the toilet paper. Nothing. I know I won’t fall back asleep, so I do what I’ve done almost every night since the thought first occurred. I button my jeans, pull my hair into a messy bun, and I scan my room for his socks. Dark gray, slightly worn on the big toe, they smell like a basketball game. I’ve learned to roll them up so they don’t bunch in my shoes. I’m a women’s eight, Elliot a man’s eleven. He forgot them here the last time we slept together, at the end of the summer, just before school started. That time.
    When I bend down to tie my shoelaces, it feels like I’m on a hellish plane ride. The challah beckons, so I take a bite, hoping it will ease the sudden motion sickness. I brush my teeth twice, swishing and spitting furiously. My face is pale, and the freckles across my nose are graying. I have a crooked mouth.
    I