by Kate Gable
"Yeah, pizza sounds great." She nods.
"Vegetarian?"
"Sure. Of course."
I grab my phone, order from a local shop, and tell her that it should be here within the hour. I lean over.
"You know, I have the TV right there. You don't have to watch stuff on your iPad."
"Oh, I like it this way. It's easier. It's closer. Besides, I'm technically doing homework."
"How's that coming along?" I ask, leaning over the computer and seeing a Word document with the heading ‘Vietnam War’ at the top.
"Kind of long-winded," she says. "I have to write 2,000 words on this and I can't use Wikipedia."
"Of course not. It's not a reliable source." I laugh. "Well, let me know if you need any help."
"Like what? You can write an essay?"
"Duh. I can write an essay. I've been to college. USC, nonetheless. Besides, I love writing."
"You do?" she asks, genuinely surprised.
"You see all those things over there? You know, all those papers bound and put on shelves?"
She nods.
"Those are called books. I love to read and some people who love to read also like to write,” I joke.
"Really?" She puts her laptop down, closing the lid, and even puts the phone on top of it.
She looks genuinely interested in what I have to say.
"What? Why are you so surprised?" I get up and walk to my bedroom to change out of my clothes.
I put on a pair of joggers and a loose T-shirt while taking off the bra to make sure that I fully relax.
"Wait, you never said anything about writing?"
"Well, I don't know. We never talked like this before."
"I know, but still."
Violet leans on the door frame. Her flannel shirt is so big that it reaches down to her kneecaps, resembling a robe. She pulls it tight and crosses her arms. "So, you really want to be a writer?”
“I didn't say that. Let's not get out of control." I raise my hand and laugh.
"Tell me," she says.
“Okay.” I hesitate and then come right out with it. “I thought about writing a novel."
"You have?" She raises her eyebrow clearly excited. "I thought that you weren't interested in anything, not law and order related."
“Well, I didn’t say I was going to write a fantasy novel. More of a suspense, a mystery thriller."
"Tell me about it."
"It's boring.” I shake my head.
"It is not boring.” Violet follows behind me like a puppy dog, pestering and pleading as if I had a cookie in my hand.
"Fine. Please don't tell anyone. This is top secret, you got it?” I say.
She nods. I take a deep breath and I can't believe that I'm actually contemplating saying any of these words out loud, but why not? She's my sister, right?
"Okay. I'm working on a novel."
"You are?" She jumps up and down and grabs my hand, pulling me in for a hug. When she pulls away, she wants to know more.
"Yes, I'm working on a novel about an LAPD detective and these cases that she solves. Different murders, missing persons, and that kind of thing."
"Oh my God, I have to read it."
"No."
"Come on, I'm your sister."
"It's not ready yet. I only have 30,000 words and ..."
"30,000 words? That's like halfway in!"
"Yes, but I'm a little stuck and I haven't worked on it for a month. Now I'm thinking of putting it aside."
"No, you cannot put it aside. You have to finish it. That's rule number one when working on your first novel."
"What do you know about that?"
"Maybe I don't know that much personally, but that's what people say. I've read a number of books on this."
"You have?"
"Yes. Don't laugh, but I'm just ... people have been publishing books on Kindle and on Amazon so there's been a lot of stuff about that kind of thing. I just wanted to learn more about it. A friend of mine wants to be a writer, too. So, it's kind of investigating what’s out there. There’s YouTube, Udemy, and private courses. You'd be surprised, but there’re actually a lot of podcasts about it."
"What have you found out?"
"I found out that there’re a lot of people that like to do this sort of thing. Writing books when they're in the midst of their other careers. If it's something that you like to do and you like to read, obviously, you should finish it. Then you have to let me read it."
"No." I shake my head. "No, absolutely not. No one is reading this thing. At least, no one that I know.”
"Listen, it's your first effort. I know that it's good because everything you do is good. You're quite meticulous."
"I'm not very good at painting,” I offer.
"Yes, but you don't care about painting. It’s not the same thing.” She laughs.
The doorbell rings and our pizza arrives. I put the two boxes on the coffee table and we don't bother with silverware or plates. I fold mine in half and take a huge bite, wipe my mouth with the napkin, and glance over at her.
She's sitting curled up, her feet totally in the seat folded underneath her as if she were a bird perched on the edge. A slice is gone in three big bites and she licks her fingers meticulously to get every scrap of oil off.
It’s not exactly ladylike or refined, but it's nevertheless endearing.
"Tell me about this private school," I say, bringing up the subject at a time when her defenses are down.
Her cheeks flush red. I can tell that she's a little embarrassed.
"Listen, I told you about my book. Tell me about this private school you want to go to. Is it for real?"
"Yes, it's for real. It's an art school. It's got the best teachers. The students go on to do really important work in New York and San Francisco and just really make an impact on the art world. You should see who graduated from there. Well, you don't know anything about art, but you'd be impressed if you did."
I laugh and wonder out loud, "Seriously, how did you find out about it?"
"I’ve known about it for years. I’ve always wanted to go there.”
“So, you applied behind Mom’s back?” I ask.
She nods.
“I wasn’t sure if I would get in, but I did. And then I got a scholarship on top of that, but Mom still didn’t want to hear about it.”
"What happened?"
"She's just so, I don't know, closed off or something," she says, shaking her head. "She's always in a bad mood. She never wants to do anything. She just goes to work, comes home, and sits around watching TV sometimes if she's lucky."
"I think she's depressed. If she just lays on the couch then it's kind of like how she was when Dad ..." My words stop. "I hadn’t meant to say that out loud."
Violet just shrugs and reminds me, "I don't know how she was back then, remember? I was two."
I nod and it feels like a punch to the gut.
"She's just vacant."
"Did something happen? Did she ..."
"No, it just started slowly. It's like... remember she had that backache for months and then she stopped taking her daily walks. I guess that kind of threw her off and now she's just depressed."
"Oh, I'm so sorry. I had no idea."
"I don't know. It's just one of those things that, you know, when you think of it, in retrospect. I haven't really thought about it. I just was waiting for her to get into a good mood, but she never did. Then I realized that I’d been waiting for nine months. It seems like a long time to wait for a good mood. At some point, it becomes a personality."
"Yeah, I know what you mean.”
"You never visit,” she says, looking directly at me.
A flush of regret and guilt washes over me.
"I'm not saying that to make you feel bad." Violet shrugs. "It's just what it is. You have your own life. I know you're really busy. There’re all these things going on here with your career and boyfriend."
I shake my head.
"Wel
l, whatever, dating life. Besides, I get it. I wouldn’t come back ever if I were you."
"What are you talking about?" I ask.
"Mom's impossible to deal with. You know that. I'm sure she's been like this for years. I’m tired of her moods. I’m tired of adjusting to what she wants. I just can't wait until I'm eighteen and I can move out and get out of there."
I get up, walk over to the overstuffed chair where she’s sitting, nudge her over to make room for me, and then wrap my arms tightly around her.
"What's that for?" she asks, pushing me away, but I pull her in closer.
"I'm really sorry I haven't been there for you. I do know that Mom is hard to handle, and I just left you there. I shouldn't have. It's just I have my own stuff going on."
"I get it. I'm not your child. I'm not your responsibility and I'm not here to complain." She pushes me away and tells me to sit on the couch.
Reluctantly, I do as she says.
"That's why I thought maybe I could live with you and take the bus to school."
"Is it a boarding school?" I ask.
“No."
“It's just that the traffic from here to Santa Monica is kind of brutal in the mornings.”
“It doesn't matter. I'm going to wake up at five a.m. if I have to. It's worth it. I can get there early, get some work done, and work on my art. I just think it's going to be really good for me."
"Let me think about it," I say. "Don't tell Mom."
She nods.
“What about tuition?” she asks. "Maybe I can get a job."
"No, you can't. You're underage."
"I can work in the summer. I can do chores around here, whatever you need.”
"Okay. Do they have some sort of financial aid options?” I ask, unable to believe what I’m saying.
She starts to smile from ear to ear and say in a jolly voice, "Yes, they do. Are you willing to do that? Are you willing to take out a loan for me?"
"I can't make any promises, but let me think about it," I say. "I don't even know if it’s possible for me to take out a loan for you since I’m not your parent, but I will look into it."
"Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you so much."
She jumps up and wraps her hands around my neck. She holds me there tightly and I become overcome with emotion.
I feel a real connection with my sister who, until this point, has been kind of a stranger.
I push away when I feel a drop of oil run down my back and see it plop onto the carpet.
"Okay. Take that pizza and put it over a plate or at least the box."
"Sorry, sorry, sorry.” She cups her hand and puts it underneath, dropping it back in the box. After wiping her hands on a napkin, she gives me another warm hug. "You have no idea what this means to me. It's just... it's like a dream come true."
I smile and tell her, "Yeah, I can see that. I don't remember the last time I saw you this happy."
"I just know that if I go there, everything's going to be great."
"You realize, of course, this is a high school still, right? You can't have those kinds of expectations for high school."
She laughs and I laugh along with her.
7
The following morning, I get a call from my mom. She sounds tired but annoyed, so her usual state.
"How's Violet?" she asks in a huff.
I know that I shouldn't bring up the private school, but everything seems to be related to it.
"She's good. We're getting along great."
"Perfect. That's exactly what I want to hear," she says sarcastically. I can almost feel her rolling her eyes.
"Listen, you want us to get along, right?"
"Yes, but I also want you to talk her into coming back home."
I walk around the living room, keenly aware of the fact that Violet is going to stop the water in the shower any minute now and overhear our conversation.
"I'm assuming she told you about the school?" Mom says, cutting my contemplation short.
"Yes, she did."
"I'm assuming you told her that it was a terrible idea?"
"No, I wouldn't say that.” I hesitate.
"How could you not? She can't live with you."
"Look, she seems really excited about it and frankly, I haven't seen her happy about anything for a while. Have you?"
"Don't make this about me. She's not going to that school."
"Can we just talk about it?"
"We have talked about it and my answer is no."
She flips on FaceTime and I reluctantly answer. Seeing my reflection on the screen, I'm keenly aware of the fact that I haven't brushed my hair or put on any makeup.
"You look tired," she announces. "Are you getting enough sleep?"
"Yes, of course," I mumble.
"Why are you so puffy?"
"I'm just ... It doesn't matter. I just woke up."
"Now? So late in the morning?"
I can't win. I swallow hard and stare into her hazel eyes.
Given her age, she has a surprisingly small amount of wrinkles, even though she's never had any plastic surgery or procedures done, not even Botox.
Her hair is already styled and she's wearing just a minimal amount of makeup to bring out her eyes and her lips. She looks good, but then again, she typically looks good.
"Look, did you get on here to criticize me?" I ask. "Can we just talk about this?"
"There's nothing to talk about. I'm her parent. This isn't a democracy."
“So, it's a dictatorship?" I ask. "People aren't particularly happy living in dictatorships."
"That may be the case and I want to make her happier, but Violet is impossible."
The water coming from the bathroom stops and I lower my voice so Violet doesn’t hear me.
"Look, Mom, she wants to go to the school. She wants to pursue art. She's been in this funk, right? Why don't we at least talk about it?"
"When you say that you're going to talk about it, that means a yes, and I don't want her getting her hopes up. She's not going to live on her own in ninth grade."
"She won't be on her own. She'd live with me."
"Do you want to take that on? You want to raise a teenager at your age?"
I shake my head, but then stop myself. The truth is that I don't know what it would be like to have Violet live with me full time.
Everything's going well now, but what happens when she wants to go out somewhere and stay out late and I say no?
Will she listen?
Will I have to spend my precious time off, my few hours off from work, fighting with her? Scouring the streets for her?
"I just wanted to make her happy," I say, but that doesn't come out right. "I liked the fact that she was excited about this. She seems really passionate and I thought that this would be good for her."
"You don't know what you're talking about," Mom says. "You've never raised a teenager. I have. They'll tell you a lot of things to get what they want. They'll lie. They'll steal even."
I bite my tongue. I know what she's referring to; that one time I got into her wallet and stole fifty dollars after she told me that I couldn’t have it for a concert I was desperate to go to.
"They'll break your heart,” Mom says. "You don't have the authority. If she wants to go to art school, she can do that in college. She's not going to do that as a teenager."
Violet clears her throat and I see her standing behind me. I don't know how much of the conversation she has heard, but she looks pissed.
"Listen, I have to go," I mumble.
I turn the screen and suddenly they come face-to-face.
"Violet, I'm coming to get you today!" Mom yells, pointing her finger at her.
"No, I'm staying the whole week."
"No, you're not. Not if you're going to be trying to do this to your sister."
"Do what?" she yells back. She walks over and grabs the phone away from me. "All I did was ask her if she'd pay for my school and she said she'd think about it."
"Why do you have to be like this?" Violet begins to sob. "Why do you have to make my life so awful all the time? Just because you're miserable, you want everyone else around you to be miserable, too."
Big fat tears roll down her cheeks, and then Mom starts to sob as well. I've never seen her cry like this, definitely not in the middle of a fight.
With me, she always stood her ground. She always fought the battle to the end.
This time, she cracks.
She wipes her tears and then says, "I'll see you tonight. Be ready to go home."
She hangs up.
"Why did you tell her about any of this?" Violet snaps at me.
"I didn't. She's the one who brought it up."
"This wasn't the right time. Now she's going to come and get me. I can't even stay here anymore."
"Look, I'm sorry, okay? I don't know what happened."
"What happened is that you don't know Mom. You don't know how she is. I asked you not to say anything. We had a plan. You said you were going to look into financial aid options and maybe custody."
"Custody?" I ask. “I never said that.”
“You need custody or permission from the guardian for me to live with you. I'm underage, remember?”
That thought never occurred to me. Her whole body begins to shake as she sobs.
"Listen, I'm sorry I talked to Mom about this, and I will still look into everything I said, but for now, let's just relax."
"Yeah, that's easier for you to do than for me. I'm leaving tonight. I have to go back home, and you finally get to have your apartment to yourself."
Violet walks to my bedroom, slams the door, and turns on music as loud as she can. Suddenly, the thought of her moving in with me is not that appealing. Can I really handle this on top of my career? But can I have her stay with Mom if she’s so unhappy there?
When I get back to work, Thomas fills me in about his conversation with the narcotic detectives and Timmy H. He has an alibi for the night of the murder; there were two detectives watching his house.
He didn't move and he was home all night.
