I'm Not Her

by Janet Gurtler

  Dad’s upbringing was a lot different from hers but he doesn’t talk about it much either. His dad made uncanny investments in early technology, almost as if old Gramps had a crystal ball. The Smith family will benefit for generations.

  I’ve gathered, though, that Grandpa Smith liked his whiskey, so things weren’t hunky-dory. Dad tells us money doesn’t buy happiness, but I don’t think Mom agrees, the way she fills space under the Christmas tree every year and has made shopping an aerobic sport.

  I think Mom gives parties to celebrate her good fortune.

  “We won’t say a thing,” Mom is telling Dad. “We have to show Kristina that life goes on...”

  “What about my mom?” he asks.

  “Her Alzheimer’s is too far along to bother her with this,” Mom mumbles.

  “What about your parents?”

  She doesn’t answer him and glances toward the hall where I’m standing, so I slip around the corner toward my bedroom. I consider protesting the party, but it’s way too late to cancel anything now.

  “Kristina! Tess!” Mom yells, and I hurry inside my bedroom as quietly as I can.

  “I want you girls dressed and down to greet our guests,” she calls, but her voice lacks her usual resolve.

  Kristina doesn’t even bother to answer and stays locked in her bedroom. Before long, Mom’s demands turn to pleas and she bangs on Kristina’s door, but Kristina refuses to budge. She doesn’t even bother with me. I’m not the one she usually shows off anyhow.

  I stay in my own room, taking advantage of Kristina’s rebellion and hiding upstairs, away from their friends. I’m grateful not to be forced to mingle with Mom’s party guests, listening to university profs tell me how much I’ve grown and ask how my grades are and if I’m still playing around with art. It’s like asking them if they’re still breathing.

  There’s a light tap on the door. Dad opens it and sticks his head inside.

  “You okay?” he asks.

  I bite my lip and lift my shoulder. Does he actually think I’m going to go along with the pretending and say yes? Does he want my real answer? Why isn’t he in Kristina’s room, talking to her?

  He clears his throat and runs his hand through his hair, then steps inside my room and closes the door behind him. “I heard you in the hallway.”

  I don’t say anything.

  “Your mom just wants to protect all of us,” he says, his voice gruff and uncomfortable. He walks to my bed and stands in front of it as if he’s perched on the high diving board at the swimming pool downtown. He has an extreme fear of heights. I wonder if it’s worse than his fear of expressing his feelings. But he walked into my room. I have to give him that.

  “So she’s throwing a party to keep out the bad news? Pretending it’s not happening is supposed to help?” I’m supposed to make things easier, be on his side. But I can’t.

  “You know your mom and the stiff upper lip. She didn’t want to cancel this party, give Kristina the wrong idea. That life stops. She plugs along. It’s how she copes with things.” He reaches for my hand and then pulls back. “She didn’t have it easy growing up.”

  Mom never talks about her childhood and I long to ask him more but it’s too hard, and he’s already standing up and heading for the door.

  “We’re going to need you to be strong, Tessie. Our rock.”

  My old nickname. He hasn’t called me that in years. Rock, for my own stiff upper lip. Never letting people see the things that scare me, see inside at all. Just like him.

  When the doorbell rings, announcing the first guest, I hear Mom clomp down the stairs, probably in a pair of her high boots. Her voice drifts up as she makes excuses for both of us. I grab my sketch pad and start some warm-up exercises to get my creative juices flowing and my fingers limbered up. My mind feels blocked though, and my attempts at shading are epic fails.

  The living room and attached kitchen fill with noise as more guests arrive and swarm the lower level of the house. I plunk down on my bed and start flipping through a magazine for inspiration, when Kristina slips inside my room. I hide my surprise. Her face is pale, makeup-free. Her hair hangs in wet strings to her shoulders. She’s wearing Hello Kitty pajamas. I expect her to look more mature or grown-up after hooking up with Devon but there’s no visible change.

  She tiptoes to my bed and sits on the edge of it like she used to do when we were kids. She was always the one who had nightmares, not me, but she pretended to sleep in my bed to keep me safe.

  We stare at each other without speaking, and then a ghost of a smile turns up the corners of her mouth. “I screwed up,” she says, and remorse crackles in her voice. “With Devon.” She pauses and sighs. “I wish I hadn’t done that. I mean, it didn’t make me feel the way I thought it would. I guess I thought it would make me feel more alive, you know?”

  I have no clue but nod. I want to ask what it did feel like. If it changed her.

  “I don’t even love him. And it was almost like…well, it wasn’t like when we used to kiss for hours. I’m such an idiot.” She laughs, but it’s a strange sound that’s far from happy.

  Under the circumstances she could have done a lot of worse things. But I don’t know how to say that to her. Words won’t even form in my head. My mouth seems to have no connection to my thoughts or my brain. I don’t have experience saying what’s really on my mind. Especially to her.

  Kristina sits up straighter, pushes her hair out of her eyes, and studies a photograph framed and sitting on my bookcase headboard. It’s the two of us when we were six and nine, wearing inappropriate two-piece bathing suits Mom picked out. We’re standing back to back, smiling at the camera.

  I love the memory of that day. I’d thought she was the coolest girl in the world. She’d won a sand-castle-building contest and shared her ice cream prize with me even though I’d knocked her castle over accidentally after the judging. I thought she could do anything. When she became a teenager though, she stopped finding me cute and I didn’t know how to talk to her anymore. My stomach pretzels with the anxiety of not knowing what to say to her. My own sister.

  I reach my hand out as if to touch her, but pull back when she glares at me.

  “Well, I guess you had to lose your virginity sometime?” I mutter and study the bright yellow walls as I speak, and I know even the dried paint can hear the lack of conviction in my words. It’s not what I mean to say, not what I want to convey to her.

  I wish she hadn’t done that with Devon, but not for the reasons she might think. I believe she deserved her first time to be special. Not because she felt like she had to. “Yup. At least I won’t die a virgin.” Her voice is as rough as the first sketches of my art project.

  “You won’t die at all.”

  She shakes her head and pushes herself off my bed, her expression betraying her anger. “How do you know that, Tess? Did the doctor send you a guarantee? If so, I’d like a copy of it.” She hurries out my door and slams it behind her. The sound of her feet storming down the hallway is like the rat-tat of a woodpecker pecking wood.

  Click.

  She locks her door behind her.

  On the floor below, laughter and clinking cutlery and glasses float through the air. I imagine Mom raising a toast to everyone, the way she loves to do, forgetting for the moment the tragedy in her own home. A tear runs down my cheek. It drips into my mouth and the salty taste taints my tongue.

  I want to go to Kristina and hold her hand. I want to hug her and stroke her hair like she used to do for me. When she used to put my hair in pigtails and add ribbons and pretend I was just as pretty as she was.

  I want to reassure her that I would have done the same thing if I found out I had cancer, even though I don’t have a guy I could even kiss, never mind lose my virginity to. I want to tell her that she will have sex with someone else and it will be beautiful and perfect, like the romance books she likes to read.

  I want to tell her that she’s brave and I love her. But I don’t know how to say
it. Talking about things is not what I do.

  So I sit in silence. I close my sketchbook and toss the magazine on the floor. I close my eyes and imagine all the things I should have said.

  chapter five

  Kristina refuses to go to school on Monday. I don’t really blame her. Far as I’m concerned, she deserves time to mope. Time to contemplate her abandoned virginity and the fact that a disease is eating away at her bones. She deserves whatever she wants right now.

  And honestly, I don’t really want to face her, and even though my lameness offends even me, I skedaddle out the door while she’s arguing with Mom. Mom is blabbing on about keeping up appearances.

  I should go back inside and yell at her to leave Kristina alone to chill and watch TV all day if that’s what floats her boat. Instead I clutch my backpack, run to the garage, take out my hot pink bike, and hop on it, zipping off down the road, not wanting to pick sides or face my sister and everything that’s happened.

  My shame turns to anger and it propels me along, and for a while I forget how much I hate exercise as I pedal. Soon my butt is aching, but at least the wind dries my damp hair. I consider it a free blow-out without having to deal with Mom’s annoying hairdresser in her clothes two sizes too small and two decades too young.

  I finally reach the school just as my legs are telling me to stop pedaling already. I’m about to pull into the parking lot when a horn honks behind me. I almost fly off the seat of my bike. A car streaks by and through the rear window I see Bree, one of my sister’s teammates, giggling in the passenger seat. I recognize the driver too. Drunk Pimple Guy from the party.

  His car is a Pile, capital P. Rusting and dented, an ugly thing from the 1990s. I want to give them both the one-finger salute but I’m afraid to take my hand off the handlebar in case I wipe out.

  I drop one foot to the ground, watching as they squeal into a parking spot. I could waste more energy being mad at them and their low IQs and thus low form of seeking entertainment, but my heart isn’t in it. I don’t even bother to watch them get out of the car.

  Instead I picture my sister’s face. Her bitter and broken laughter. The way she stepped on the gas pedal on the way to Devon’s, drove like she was Thelma or Louise in the movie our mom made us watch on an imposed “Girl’s Night.”

  In my daydreams I never get as far as having sex, but when I imagine kissing, it’s like licking my favorite ice cream on the hottest day in summer, not dropping the entire scoop on the ground and watching it melt.

  I hop back on my bike and head to the almost empty bike racks. Riding a bicycle to high school is apparently a faux pas. Especially a bike like mine. It’s expensive of course; Mom picked it out—only the best for the Smiths—but who buys pink bikes after their ninth birthday besides my mom? I’m not crazy about my mode of transportation, but it beats the bus.

  A lump clogs my throat. I won’t cry. I won’t. Not only would it be humiliating, but Kristina would kill me. I agreed to her cone of silence. Bawling in public wouldn’t be a great way to keep her secret.

  “Hey, Tess, right?”

  I turn and the kid from the frosh party is standing behind me, an inquisitive look on his babyish face. I try to remember his name.

  “Jeremy,” he supplies.

  “Oh yeah. Clark Trent’s friend.” My lips turn up as I think about his friend’s name. “Are you going to be in the Honor Society too?”

  Jeremy stares at me. “No, I’m not smart enough.” He glances around. “Uh, where’s your sister today? Don’t you usually get a ride with her?”

  Thunk. The mention of my sister sends spikes of pain through me.

  I turn and concentrate on opening my bike lock and unraveling the chain from around the bike seat. When I peek up, his cheeks are practically smoking, they’re so red. He looks guilty, like he’s been caught browsing a girly website or something.

  “Why are you so interested in my sister?” I ask, redirecting my anger at him for reasons not his fault.

  “I just noticed her car is all.” His cheeks stay red. “She always parks in the same spot. And you’re usually with her.”

  I wind my bike lock through my bike wheels.

  “No, seriously. Because of her red Toyota. My friend has the same one in black. I’m into cars. I noticed Kristina drove a red one.”

  Great. Kristina has a stalker. The car was Kristina’s sweet sixteen present. At the time I didn’t think she’d done anything to deserve it, except have rich grandparents, but Mom thought it was the best thing since leopard-skin spankies. And now, under the circumstances, spoiling Kristina doesn’t seem so bad.

  “I don’t think I’d ever buy a red car, the cops tend to pull over more drivers who drive them. I can’t remember where I heard it, but it makes sense, you know? Not that I think it’s bad your sister has a red car. I mean, it suits her. She’s doesn’t seem like the type to speed or anything.”

  For some reason, Jeremy’s still talking.

  I stare at him, wondering why he’s going on and on. I shrug. “I just decided to ride my bike today is all.”

  “Is Kristina sick?”

  Man, I’ve been at school for less than five minutes and I’m already getting quizzed about her whereabouts and her health. It’s not a good sign. I don’t want to explain things all day. I want everyone to ignore me like they usually do.

  “She’s fine.” The lie makes my insides percolate like Mom’s morning coffee.

  His cheeks recharge with color as if he feels my mood. “I just thought, you know…I wanted to ask Kristina if she saw the pictures I posted on Facebook. From the party. It’s no big deal.”

  He’s obviously nervous and it makes me a little less annoyed by his intrusion. The thing is, a few days ago she would have been all over his pictures. He would be the happiest guy on the planet right now, because Kristina would be giving him props for the cool pics of her. But even though he has no idea, it’s all changed.

  “She hasn’t seen them.” I start to walk away but he follows slightly behind me. I take a quick look over my shoulder and his whole body is deflated. He looks so sad that guilt nibbles at my crusty core. “I mean, I doubt she’s had time to look them up. We had a really busy weekend.” I want him to go away, to stop making me feel bad about being creepy to him, but most of all to quit reminding me why Kristina’s at home.

  I swallow another big lump, desperately wishing for my self-centered and carefree sister back but I’m afraid that girl is gone forever and I’m not sure what to do about it. When we reach the front doors of the school, Jeremy darts ahead of me, opens the door, and holds it while I pass by him. At least her stalker has nice manners.

  “I have to get to class,” I tell him, and practically run to get away. I keep my head down as I pass a group of kids in the hallway and wind my way past bodies until I’m almost at my locker.

  Melissa leans against it, her eyes on the floor. Even though we don’t have any classes together, she checks in at my locker almost every morning before we face our school day.

  Her long hair hangs in front of her face and it almost looks like she’s praying. She’s wearing an oversized yellow T-shirt, probably her dad’s. She’s always raiding his closet instead of wearing the plus-size clothes her stepmother buys for her. A long blue skirt covers her flip-flopped feet like she’s trying to hide.

  “Hey,” she whisper-calls in her soft voice when she spots me. Her eyes dart around as if to make sure no one is paying attention to us. As if anyone cares what she and I discuss before we rush off to class.

  She pushes her long bangs behind her ear. “I tried calling and texting you all weekend but you didn’t get back to me.” I hear hurt in her voice. “What happened?”

  Melissa’s parents finally allowed her to get a cell phone for high school this year, though she has to pay for it with the money she earns helping out her church’s secretary. Her social life is even worse than mine. Church both days on the weekend, Saturday for work, Sunday for services. And she has
strict weeknight curfews.

  “Oh, you know. My mom had all sorts of family stuff lined up and another one of her stupid parties on Sunday.” I glance over my shoulder as if someone called my name or I heard something interesting. Avoiding her eyes, I add, “Anyhow, I didn’t have my cell phone charged.”

  That much is true at least. I always forget to charge my phone.

  When I look back at her, Melissa rolls her eyes ever so slightly. “I don’t know why you even bother with a phone. Except you get it for free. Like everything else in life.” She says it lightly and smiles, but I’ve heard it a million times before and barely register it. She’s always teasing me about the things I have. It’s not my fault my family can afford things and my mom loves to spend.

  She pushes away from the lockers and I step forward to get my stuff.

  “So…” she says, her voice soft but excited. “Tell me about the party. Did anything happen? How was it?”

  The party. It seems so distant, like it happened or even mattered a lifetime ago. I grab the books I need for the morning from my backpack and blow out a deep breath of air, wishing I could confide the truth. The party is old news. My sister’s cancer is new.

  I’m torn by my promise to my sister and my friendship with Melissa. We’ve always shared things. Melissa narrows her eyes when I say nothing, a slightly resentful expression on her face. Her parents don’t believe in parties and she’s not allowed to go to any.

  “It was lame,” I finally say to throw her off the scent. I can’t stir up the energy to tell her anything else. It strikes me how much time we spend discussing the lives of others. She’s dying to find out if anything scandalous or exciting happened.

  “I took off early.” I shove my backpack into my locker and stand on my tiptoes to reach my sketchbook off the top shelf. My elbow knocks my blown-up picture of Randy McGovern, a wildlife artist I scanned off the Internet. I automatically straighten it out, taking care not to wrinkle his face.

  “How early?” The way Melissa bobs her head around reminds me of an agitated burrowing owl.