I'm Not Her

by Janet Gurtler

  She crosses her arms. “Define happy.”

  “Happiness is going home,” I tell her.

  Kristina frowns and is about to continue to lecture me when a gaggle of volleyball girls burst into the room and squeal her name. The volleyball girls stick together like waterlogged book pages. She has no choice but to go to them. She turns to me before she takes off.

  “I just want to help,” she says and then she walks off, limping toward her friends.

  “I’m not the one who needs help, Kristina,” I tell her. Pure bravado. Kristina doesn’t know what I would give to be like her. So outgoing and likable. Not to mention beautiful.

  ***

  “Is your sister still in bed?” Mom asks as she enters the kitchen from the sliding patio door. “We have to go to the doctor in a couple of hours.”

  I don’t bother to ask why Kristina’s going to the doctor this time, or which one. She’s always getting tested and poked at and prodded and X-rayed by chiropractors, naturopaths, and sports therapists. My mom invests a lot of time and energy in Kristina’s volleyball “career.”

  I glance up from the newspaper and then at the oversized clock. “Yup. A new record.”

  Mom pulls out her ear buds and chugs the bottle of water she’d taken on her run. Her blond hair is pulled into a high ponytail; her aqua running band matches the stripe on her running pants, and does double-duty keeping stray hair from her face. She puts her water down on the table and checks the Garmin GPS strapped to her wrist. “Five miles in forty-nine minutes, even without Kristina keeping up my pace.”

  I raise my eyebrows, pretending to be impressed, but really, I don’t think there’s a good reason to run unless someone’s chasing me. Seriously. And that hasn’t happened since Brad Myers came after me in fourth grade when my art was featured in the local paper instead of his.

  “Kristina’s knee’s been bothering her,” Mom says as if I’ve asked a question. “That’s why I didn’t wake her to run with me. We’ve been having a few things looked at. Trying to figure out the problem.”

  Her voice sounds off, higher than usual, enough that I look up and see that she’s frowning, but then she glances at the clock.

  “Good party last night?” she asks, and turns back to me, hope I’ve actually frolicked at a party lighting up her entire face.

  My unease flees and I shrug and return to the comics. I don’t have to look at her to see her disappointment.

  “Honestly, Tess. You’re just like your father. I swear, if he didn’t have me and his golf partners, he’d be a hermit.”

  I flash my best good-daughter smile. “Well, you do give good parties.”

  If she hears contempt in my voice, she chooses to ignore it. She complains all the time but he gives her a purpose. She helps my dad, Mr. Introverted University Professor, with his networking by throwing parties for his colleagues. No one intimidates her, not even stuffy college professors.

  Despite their opposite personalities, Mom clings to Dad in public and crawls on his lap to make out with him, which is completely gross and embarrassing. It might be kind of sweet if they were someone else’s parents, but they’re mine.

  “You need to get ready,” Mom says. “And a shower would be nice.”

  “Awww, Mom. Do I have to go?” After finishing with the newspaper I was looking forward to finishing an English assignment. I know I’ll ace it and pump up my GPA. Honor Society beckons. After that I planned to work on some sketches of Melissa’s cat. A surprise for her birthday.

  Mom turns her back on me and opens the refrigerator. She bends at her waist and peers inside as if something’s calling her name. Like plain yogurt or fat-free cottage cheese.

  “I promise I won’t go on the Internet.”

  She’s got this weird thing about the Internet and rarely lets me use the computer unsupervised, as if I’m going to search around the Web for hot muscle men or be lured into private chat rooms by creepy pedophiles. It’s not like I’m the daughter with the social networking addiction.

  Mom closes the refrigerator door without taking anything out. She walks over to my side, glancing down at the newspaper. “I’m a little nervous about this meeting,” she tells me.

  “Please?” I say, ignoring her. Kristina is her purebred pony. She’s always worried about her.

  She lets out a deep breath, seeming distracted. “Fine,” she says, taking me completely by surprise. “You can do your homework on the computer and use your art program, but nothing else online.”

  I’m so shocked I don’t know what to say, but I’m no idiot either and keep my mouth shut.

  “I wonder if I should wake Kristina,” Mom asks, glancing toward the stairs.

  I flip a page in the newspaper but follow her gaze to the stairs, wondering if Kristina is suffering from drinking too much of the “special” punch at the party.

  “She’ll be up soon,” I say. “I’m sure she’s just tired from socializing last night. You know. Like mother, like daughter.”

  Even though Kristina pretty much added to my total humiliation, it’s still us vs. them when it comes to the units.

  “Yeah, and like father, like daughter,” Mom says.

  I stick my tongue out, knowing she doesn’t mean it as a compliment, but she’s already leaving the kitchen and misses it. I reabsorb myself in the newspaper and a write-up in the Arts section catches my eye. My heart skips out an excited beat. An art contest for contemporary drawing. I read on. The Oswald Drawing Prize for emerging artists.

  Me. I’m an emerging artist! I continue to read and see there’s a Junior Division for grades nine to twelve. A winner from each state will be announced along with a Grand Champion. Winning pieces will be shown in universities and art galleries across the country.

  My eyes scan the fine print. The winner from each state will be interviewed for a television documentary, plus an illustrated catalog will be published to accompany the exhibition. The catalog will include images of the winning drawings, biographical details of each artist, and a statement about the drawing.

  The Grand Champion will receive a full scholarship and acceptance into the Academy of Art University in San Francisco in their graduating year. The art school I’ve been salivating over since I studied the art school rankings over the summer. Gah! On top of all that, there’s a free trip to San Francisco for the winner.

  A rumble like the lava of a volcano surges through my body. There’s a three-hundred-dollar entry fee, but I’ve got more than enough to cover that in my bank account. The entry deadline is November 1, so there’s time. Not a lot, but enough if I get to work right away. I glance down. Winners will be announced the week of November 18 by email or phone.

  There’s kind of a destiny vibe, coming across the article like this. Feelings I didn’t know I had stirred in my soul. True, serving killer volleyballs is not in my future, but I’m truly proud of my art skills. Something no one else in my family can claim. A recessive gene, probably.

  Maybe, just maybe, winning would quiet the voice in my head. The voice that tells me drawing pictures is silly, unimportant. The voice that sounds a lot like my mom. As I try to visualize myself accepting the award and finding my voice in a room full of admirers, something brushes against my arm. I grab my throat and yelp. Kristina stands over me, looking unusually pale and drawn. Not nearly as radiant as last night.

  “Did you have to sneak up on me?” My heartbeat sprints like a greyhound charging after a mechanical rabbit.

  She takes a step back. “Sorry,” she whispers. I look closer at her. Bags under her eyes. Washed-out skin.

  “Whoa,” I tell her. “You look terrible. Did you freebase a bottle of tequila or what?”

  “Funny,” she croaks. She heads to the fridge, pulls out bottled water, undoes the cap, and chugs it, much like Mom a few minutes before her. “I must have the flu or something.”

  “Flu?” I stare at her. “More like hangover-itis.”

  “I never have more than one drink. One hundred c
alories max.”

  Mom says the same thing. One glass of red wine is acceptable as an antioxidant. Dad teases her that she doesn’t drink because it makes her mean, but I’ve never seen it and have no idea if it’s true or not.

  Kristina glares at me and then walks forward and leans right over me. “Here. Feel my forehead.”

  I stare at her and scrunch up my face to show my reluctance, but she doesn’t leave, so I relent and reach up and put the back of my hand on her forehead.

  “Hey.” Her body definitely doesn’t feel like it’s running at 98 degrees. “You feel like you slept in polar fleece or something.”

  “I know, right? I’m hot. I feel like hell.” She collapses into a chair opposite mine at the kitchen table. “It has to be the flu. I don’t want to be sick. We have a big game coming up. Against Westwood High.” She drinks more water and then plunks it on the table and stares at me. “You got home okay last night?”

  I don’t meet her eyes. “Yeah. Fine.” I close the paper and slide it away from her. I don’t want her to find out about the contest. Not yet. I have to do some thinking about the perfect entry. I want it to be my own thing.

  She gulps more water and then gets up and walks to the stove. Standing on her tiptoes, she reaches to the cupboards above and pulls out a bottle of Tylenol. The only non-herbal medicine Mom allows in the house. She opens the cap, pops two pills in her mouth, and swallows them without water before returning the bottle to the shelf.

  “Gross.” I don’t know how she swallows them like that.

  “I hope it’s nothing serious,” she says as she stares off into space. “I can’t afford to be sick in the next few weeks.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” I tell her. “You won’t get sick. You’re perfect. Just ask that drunk pimply guy from the party last night.”

  Kristina focuses and tries to hide a smile but she’s pleased. She takes a sip from her water bottle. “Which one?” she asks.

  I focus back on the paper, refusing to feed her unquenchable ego. I can’t wait until she’s gone so I can have the house to myself and start brainstorming ideas for the drawing contest.

  ***

  A few hours later Mom and Kristina walk into the kitchen right while I’m in the middle of dunking Oreos into chocolate milk. I stop chewing, with cookie crumbs bunched up in my cheeks like a chipmunk. Busted. Dad came home early and brought the cookies with him as a peace offering for making me go to the party. He often provides me with stashes of sweets instead of heart-to-heart talks. I was supposed to hide the cookies before Kristina and Mom got home. I can hear him clattering away in his home office off the kitchen.

  I’m scrambling, about to make up an excuse about why I’m gorging myself on cookies instead of something healthy like Mom’s delicious yogurt with fruit or nuts, but neither of them even says a word about my snack. I chew as quickly and quietly as I can and wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, trying not to look guilty.

  Mom takes one look at me, though, and bursts into tears. I blush, ashamed my gluttonous actions have caused her such anguish. On one hand I wonder why she’s freaking, but I also can’t help worrying if I’ve messed up my future shots at staying home alone?

  “Mom. It’s my first snack of the day. I swear. I finished my homework and I’m starving…” I don’t want to tell on Dad for bringing the treats home.

  Kristina plops hard onto the chair beside me. “Don’t sweat it.” She keeps her back straight, her posture perfect. “That’s not why she’s crying.” Her face is pale and strangely devoid of emotion, a creepy contrast to my mom’s tears.

  Mom sniffles and struggles to get a hold of herself. “I’m sorry, Kristina. No tears. It’s going to be fine. I’m just shocked, you know. That’s all. You’re going to be fine.”

  My heart skips a beat. Mom turns away from us, opens her mouth and hollers. “Dan!” she yells in a most unladylike way. “Dan, come in here. We need to have a family meeting. Now!”

  I hear my dad mumble something from his office at the end of the hall. When he’s working I think he forgets our names.

  “Seriously, Daniel, I mean it. Come here this instant.”

  Uh-oh. She used his full name. I look back and forth from my mom to my sister. Mom rarely interrupts Dad when he’s working. “What’s going on?” I ask, too afraid to even try to imagine.

  The cookies bungee-jump to the pit of my stomach. Mom pulls out a chair and sits gingerly, as if she’s afraid someone might have put a tack or a whoopee cushion on it.

  “What?” I repeat.

  “I want to wait until your father joins us,” she says to me. She avoids Kristina’s eyes. “We’ll discuss this as a family.” She stands up and leaves the room to go and get him.

  “What’s going on?” I ask my sister. I haven’t seen my mom this flustered, well, ever. It isn’t easy to ruffle old Lisa Smith.

  I wonder if my perfect sister lied about not doing it and got herself pregnant. I hope not. I know I’ll be stuck changing diapers. And rubbing lotion on her fat belly to avoid stretch marks on her flawless skin.

  “It’s no big deal.”

  Kristina’s top lip quivers a second but then she swallows and looks right into my eyes. A cold feeling runs up my spine and a chill settles on my arms. I realize I’m holding my breath.

  “I have cancer,” she says.

  chapter two

  Kristina stands up. Then she sits down again. Then she stands and wrings her hands in front of herself and then sits. I don’t know what to say or do, so I push the bag of cookies I’ve been scarfing toward her. I watch in disbelief as she reaches into the bag and shoves an entire Oreo in her mouth.

  “Cancer?” I say, not wanting to believe her. She’s too healthy to be sick. I wonder for a moment if I’ve caused it with my mean thoughts about her. I stare at her, wanting to take back every bad thought I’ve had. “How can you have cancer?”

  She doesn’t look at me but slowly chews the whole cookie she’s shoved in her mouth.

  Mom steps around the corner then, dragging my dad by the arm. He’s wearing his professor uniform. Cardigan sweater and a big pouf of gray hair standing north, south, east, and west on his head. Glasses that always slip down to the bridge of his nose are perched there now. The only thing that stops him from being a cliché is his physique. He walks a lot of golf courses.

  The look on Dad’s face mirrors my own. Bewilderment. I can tell he wants to slip away, back to his work, away from the sloppiness of real life. He sits down on the other side of me and reaches over inside the bag, his fingers rooting around for a cookie. Mom slaps his hand away though, so he pulls it out of the bag, empty.

  We all wait for her to speak.

  I stare at Kristina; Dad watches Mom. Kristina pretends to find the table fascinating but her face is pale, her lips pressed together. Angry. I want to cry. I swallow but it hurts as bad as the time I had strep throat. I focus on my chewed nails instead, studying them as if they have a cure for cancer hidden somewhere inside them.

  My heart thuds. Cancer? I don’t want to believe it, but my mom’s mouth starts moving and I’m too upset to even put my hands over my ears to block out what she’s going to say.

  “The doctor confirmed that Kristina has osteosarcoma.”

  My dad looks like he wants to leave the room and hide in his office. “What?”

  “Cancer,” my mom whispers. “Bone cancer. She’ll need a biopsy to see how…um, to see how she is. It’s in the knee. They’re testing to see if it has spread.”

  Spread? That does not sound good. I can’t make myself look at my sister.

  “That’s impossible,” my dad says. “You said it wasn’t serious, that I didn’t have to come to the appointment. You said there was no way it was cancer.”

  I look up at him. Horror is etched into his familiar features. Blame. Guilt. I watch emotions cross his mind and his face, just like my own. We exchange a look and then I drop my eyes to the table, afraid he can see inside me. Or that eve
ryone knows that as the bitter person in the family, I should be the one who gets sick. Not sunny, happy, and healthy Kristina.

  “I was wrong.” Mom’s trying hard to keep in control but her lip quivers and her eyes are watery. “I didn’t think you needed to come. I thought it was just a sports injury. I didn’t think it could really be cancer. I thought it would be okay.”

  Dad glances at Kristina and back at Mom. “You thought?” He shakes his head. His bangs fall across his forehead and he angrily brushes them back. “Kristina has cancer?”

  “Surprise,” Kristina says.

  I stare at Kristina, my mouth open. Her cheeks are blotchy and her lips tight, as if she’s seriously ticked off. She’s still the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen, but for the first time in my life when I study her features and wonder how they work so perfectly on her, I don’t feel envy.

  “When the doctor mentioned the possibility of osteosarcoma, we didn’t want to focus on it,” Mom says.

  “Oops,” Kristina says.

  My insides tighten. I struggle to breathe properly. I want to yell that no one told me a thing. That I’ve been in the dark, jealous of my sister’s perfect life.

  “I told you we were having X-rays, Dan. And that we had a follow-up appointment with Dr. Turner today.”

  “But you said they would rule out cancer.” His hand slams down on the table and he jumps to his feet. Mom and I wince but Kristina doesn’t flinch. “We need a second opinion. Krissie is too healthy to be sick. You said sports injury.”

  “I hoped.” Mom lowers her eyes.

  The power of her denial astounds me.

  “Well, I guess you thought wrong, huh? Looks like I won the prize. The big one,” says Kristina.

  “Oh, honey,” Dad says. He slowly sits back down in his chair. His face turns a worrisome color of pink. “I want another opinion,” he repeats.

  “Dan, I got the best doctor money can buy. There is no one else to confer with. The doctors will handle this, she will be fine.”