Six Years Old and Sworn In

I remember everything. Every word, every face, every lie. I just don't always say it out loud. That's why nobody believed me when I told them about the candy. The dining room at my grandfather's house smelled like roast beef and lemon polish. Thirty people filled the long table, all of them talking at once. Lawyers. Every single one of them. My grandfather had been a judge. My father ran the biggest firm in Harbor Heights. My uncle argued cases in front of the state supreme court. Even my cousins, still in high school, debated at nationals. And then there was me. Six years old, sitting on a stack of cushions so I could reach the table, holding my spoon like a gavel. "You're quiet tonight, sweetheart," my father said, squeezing my shoulder. I shrugged. I wasn't quiet. I was listening. There's a difference. My mother died when I was three. I don't remember her voice anymore, but I remember everything after. The hospital smell. The black dress my grandmother made me wear. The way my father cried in the kitchen when he thought I was asleep. Then came Diana. She walked into our lives eight months ago with a smile so bright it hurt to look at. She brought me gifts. Stickers. A stuffed rabbit. She called me "sweet girl" in front of everyone. That night, at the family dinner where my father announced their engagement, Diana found me in the hallway. I was on my way to the bathroom. The candy from dinner was still in my fist, wrapped in a napkin. Butterscotch. My grandfather always kept a bowl of it on the side table. Diana stepped in front of me. Her heels clicked on the hardwood. Up close, her perfume smelled like flowers left too long in water. "You've got something for me?" she said. I held out the candy. I thought she wanted some. She took it. Then she crouched down, her face level with mine. Her smile was still there, but it looked different. Tight. Like a rubber band about to snap. "Listen to me very carefully," she said, her voice soft as a lullaby. "Nobody likes a tattletale. Nobody likes a weird little girl who stares at people and never talks." She opened my fingers and pressed the butterscotch into my palm. Then she closed my hand around it and squeezed. Not hard enough to hurt. Just hard enough to remind me she could. "You're a broken one," she whispered. "And nobody will ever believe a broken little girl over me. Not your daddy. Not your granddaddy. Not one single person in that room." She stood up. Smoothed her dress. Walked back to the dinner party with her perfect smile glued back on. I stood in the hallway for a long time. The butterscotch melted in my hand. Sticky. Warm. I didn't eat it. I walked to the bathroom, opened my fist, and watched it circle the drain. When I came back to the table, Diana was telling a story about her trip to Italy. Everyone was laughing. She caught my eye across the table and winked. My father leaned over. "Did you have fun with Diana today, sweetheart?" I looked at him. I looked at her. I looked at every lawyer at that table: thirty people who had spent their lives learning how to tell truth from lies. I opened my mouth. Diana's smile didn't move. But her eyes did. They went cold, like a frozen lake in January, and she let her fork slip from her fingers. It clattered against her plate. Everyone jumped. "Oh, clumsy me," she said, laughing. "Go on, honey. What were you saying?" The whole table looked at me. Thirty lawyers. Waiting. My father smiled. "Tell us, CeCe. Was today a good day?" I looked down at my plate. Then back at my father. "Yes," I said. "It was a good day." Diana won that round. But I remembered everything. And I started keeping count.