Then I Met My Sister

by Christine Hurley Deriso

  Anyhow, we were just killing time, browsing in the stores, when Jamie started trying to twist my arm to buy her some perfume.

  I said no, and this time I meant it. I work too hard, baking in the hundred-degree sun, to spend my paycheck on her. When I think of all the jeans and shirts and earrings she’s talked me into buying her—God, I’m such a sap. Besides, it’s not like she appreciates anything. As soon as I buy her one thing, she’s begging for something else.

  I never mentioned this little tidbit to Dr. Deadhead, but I know what he’d say, and of course he’d be right.

  So this time, I didn’t let her wear me down. “No,” I told her, just like I’d tell a two-year-old she couldn’t have another cookie. “No, no, no.” When it finally sank in that I meant it, what did she do?

  You guessed it—she slipped a bottle of perfume in her purse and waltzed out the door like she owned the place. She said that’s the trick to shoplifting—hold your head high and practically DARE some minimum-wage sales clerk to look your way.

  I almost died, begging her to take the perfume back. She just laughed at me. Leave it to Jamie to make me feel hopelessly lame for having issues with stealing.

  Even worse, we ran into Mr. Kibbits right outside the store, and I’ve never felt so guilty in my life. He was so great, giving us both a hug and wanting to know all about our summer. I stood there stammering my head off and shaking like a leaf.

  Jamie, of course, was cool as a cucumber. She even took the perfume out of her purse and spritzed herself while we were talking to him! I thought my heart was going to explode.

  She doubled over laughing when Mr. Kibbits finally walked away, telling me I looked like a bomb was strapped to my ankle.

  That used to kinda work on me, Jamie acting so cool and funny about whatever stupid thing she was doing that I’d lighten up and figure it was no big deal.

  Those days are history.

  Yes, I still love Jamie, and I really think I’m a good influence on her (God, such a Mom thing to say), but seriously, all the stuff that used to seem so cool is now seeming pretty uncool. Or worse, felonious.

  So I wouldn’t speak to her for the next fifteen minutes, but then SHE had the nerve to get mad at ME. She walked away and I figured she’d come right back, but she never did. She left me stranded right there at the mall! Can you believe it? The ONE time she actually drives us some place, she ditches me! Thank heaven I caught up with Mr. Kibbits and gave him some lame excuse for needing a ride home.

  He gave me a little heart-to-heart on the way home about trusting the right people and not letting people take advantage of you, so he must have suspected what was up, or at least had a pretty good idea that if Jamie was involved, some kind of trouble was brewing. And what could I say? I couldn’t even look him in the eye.

  Anyhow, have I gotten so much as ONE CALL since then from Jamie checking up on me and making sure I’m okay? I could have been butchered by a serial murderer for all she knows. NOT ONE CALL!

  I tried pouring my heart out to Chris, but he and his dad are busy tonight with a transmission or whatever, so here I am, lying in my bed and writing in my journal.

  Jamie’s supposed to come hang out at the pool tomorrow during my shift and I’m sure she won’t even mention what happened. That’s her. She says when something’s over, it’s over. Move on.

  Easy for her to say. She’s not the one who had to find a ride home from the mall.

  I lay the journal on my chest. Jeez, I just want to throttle Shannon right now. It’s one thing to rebel against Mom and Dad, but it’s another to be a total idiot.

  Damn. I was so tired when I picked up the journal, and now my adrenaline’s flowing and making me restless. I pick the journal back up.

  Monday, July 12, 1993

  I think Dr. Deadhead finally gets it.

  He convinced me to let Mom and Dad sit in on my session today, and we might as well have been his guests at the opera.

  As in sitting quietly, being polite and saying NOTHING. It was excruciating.

  Poor Dr. Deadhead is used to me blathering on a mile a minute, but I was totally tongue-tied with Mom and Dad in the room.

  Mom spent a few minutes doing her little spiel about what a fabulous family we are, very well-connected in the community, personal friends with the MAYOR, don’t you know, had him over for dinner just last week as a matter of fact, blah blah blah blah BLAH.

  When Dr. Deadhead commented that “appearances seem very important” to Mom, she got all tense and defensive, saying there’s nothing fake or phony about her life, and is it a crime to be a stellar citizen and have the mayor over for dinner, and she certainly didn’t mean to come across as BOASTFUL, she just thought Dr. Deadhead wanted to understand our lives, and really she’s the most unpretentious, down-to-earth gal you’ll ever want to meet, and oh by the way, is Shannon cured of her little rebellious phase yet?

  Dr. Deadhead was Mister Diplomacy, saying OF COURSE we’re a stellar little family, and kudos on the whole mayor deal, but maybe, just maybe, a little too much energy goes into trying to make things look great to the outside world without addressing problems under our own roof.

  Ouch.

  He didn’t mention specifics, just danced around “ways that family members might try to get their needs met if they think their feelings are unacceptable,” and Mom assured him that she accepts ALL our feelings, our family is like a feeling factory, she’s all about feelings, and oh by the way, is Shannon cured of her little rebellious phase yet?

  When Dr. Deadhead asked Mom about her own childhood, she got on a soapbox about how, no offense, but psychobabble gets on her nerves, and what possible relevance could her childhood have on my “issues” anyway, and oh by the way, is Shannon cured of her little rebellious phase yet?

  Dr. Deadhead said he understood how Mom felt, but that if we were willing to shine a little light on issues that make us uncomfortable, those issues will be more manageable, and isn’t that a good thing?

  But Mom never budged from her defense post, and Dad never said much of anything. But when Dr. Deadhead said he just wanted to help me feel happier, it’s Dad who got teary-eyed.

  So that’s how it went in Dr. Deadhead’s office today. At dinner tonight, Mom said in a snotty tone, “Well, he certainly has US pegged.”

  She thought she was being sarcastic.

  I close the journal and hug it against my chest. It’s Dad who got teary-eyed. I wonder if I’ve been selling him short. Maybe he can go deeper than I’ve given him credit for. I mean, he was willing to sit in a shrink’s office, for Christ’s sake. Who could have imagined that?

  Then I get it: anything for Shannon. He was willing to do anything for Shannon, including breaking up with Church Slut and moving back into Mom’s igloo. I feel a little stab in my heart. God, he loved Shannon so much. Why do I feel jealous? It’s ridiculous. I mean, he’s here for me, after all, just like he was for her. But he’s just going through the motions now. Sure, he loves me, blah, blah, blah, but Shannon was the one who could bring him to tears.

  On the other hand, maybe if I could loosen up a little, could let myself be a little vulnerable, could crack the door open just a tad, then maybe …

  Maybe Dad would be willing to do anything for me, too.

  Twenty-Nine

  What’s it like to have a functional family?”

  The merry-go-round squeaks lazily as a hot summer breeze nudges us into the slightest of motion.

  The day after we got back from the beach, Gibs left for a second Habitat for Humanity project and suggested a picnic at the park for today, his first day back. God, I’ve missed him. We’re sitting on a rusty merry-go-round eating grapes and PB&Js from paper sacks on my lunch hour. Kids are flitting around us on swings and slides as their moms watch from benches and slap mosquitoes off their arms.

  “Functional?” Gibs asks.

  “Yeah. As opposed to dysfunctional. It’s just so clear, in Shannon’s journal, how hopelessly screwed up my fami
ly is. All this denial, all this pretense … just a mess, you know?”

  Gibs shrugs. “Every family’s got their stuff to deal with.”

  I shake my head. “Not yours. Your parents are great. They’re so smart and funny. And real.”

  “As opposed to your imaginary parents.”

  Some smart-aleck skinny kid runs up and pushes one of our merry-go-round bars, darting away before we can object.

  Actually, he did us a favor. The breeze feels nice.

  “You know what I mean,” I say. “You can talk to your parents. They really listen to you. They accept you for who you are. What the hell must that be like?”

  Gibs pops a grape in his mouth. “We have our issues.”

  “Name one,” I challenge him. “Name a Brown Family issue.”

  He peers thoughtfully into the slate-blue sky. “My mom’s depression-prone.”

  I swallow hard. I didn’t expect a real issue.

  “Really?” I ask.

  He nods, still looking past me. “She deals with it, but it can be a bitch.”

  I bounce a few words around in my head before I ask my next question. “Is she on medication or anything?”

  “She’s tried a few things, but she only takes drugs as a last resort. Mostly she’s into exercise and diet, staying busy, writing in her journal …”

  “She keeps a journal, too?”

  Gibs nods. “She’s a really good writer. I think the flip side to her gifts is that all that creativity and empathy make her hyper-attuned to everything. She can never just chill. She just feels things really deeply. I’m sad that things weigh so heavily on her, but at the same time, it’s such a basic part of who she is.”

  I wrap my fingers loosely around a rusty bar. “I didn’t know. She doesn’t seem depressed.”

  Gibs eats another grape. “She’s usually fine. Even when she isn’t so fine, she copes. I think that’s what most people do, at least the ones who manage to hang on—they deal with their crap and find ways to keep going.”

  He sticks the heel of his shoe in the sandy dirt, grinding our merry-go-round to a halt.

  “This thing makes me dizzy,” he says.

  I laugh at him, a little relieved that he’s changed the subject. “You’re the one who talked me into parasailing at the beach, but you can’t handle a merry-go-round?”

  He grins with his lips squeezed shut, which is when his dimple becomes most prominent.

  “You’re kinda adorable,” I tell him, leaning closer.

  He leans in, too, and we kiss underneath the rusty bar as our fingers intertwine around it.

  “Summer? Gibson?”

  Gibs and I glance up, alarmed. We squint into the sunlight and see Leah Rollins and Kendall Popwell.

  “Hi,” I say, offering a little wave with one hand while I shield my eyes with the other. “What are you two doing here?”

  “Cheerleading practice,” Leah says, tilting her head in the direction of the recreation center a few hundred feet away. She looks at us quizzically. “So you two are a couple?”

  “This is, like, breaking news?” I ask playfully.

  “Uh, duh,” Leah says, but her smile is friendly. “If you two Facebooked like normal people, we could keep up with these things.”

  I smile back. “Well, consider yourself informed.”

  Leah turns to Gibs. “Have you dug all the splinters out of your hands yet?”

  I glance at him quizzically.

  “I’m getting there,” he says congenially.

  “And blisters!” Leah says, holding up her hands for inspection. “I must have a dozen blisters!”

  Gibs smiles, still shielding his eyes against the sun.

  “Blisters from what?” Kendall asks.

  Yeah. That’s what I’d like to know.

  “Habitat,” Leah responds. “Gibs and I did a Habitat for Humanity project over the weekend. Part of our IB volunteer work.”

  My eyebrows furrow as I search Gibs’ face for a reaction. There is none.

  “Gloves,” he tells Leah simply. “You gotta wear work gloves when you’re hammering.”

  “Now you tell me.”

  They keep chatting for a couple more minutes, but the thud in my stomach has churned its way up my neck. I can feel blood pounding against my ears.

  “Summer?”

  I blink hard. “What?”

  “I just asked if you’re still working at your aunt’s flower shop,” Leah says.

  “What? Oh, yeah.”

  “Mmmmm. Well, hey, it was great to see you two. Better get to practice,” Leah says.

  “Gloves,” Gibs calls after her as she and Kendall start to walk away. “Don’t forget your work gloves next time.”

  They laugh lightly.

  My gaze bores into Gibs after the girls are out of earshot.

  He doesn’t notice at first, but then his eyes flicker toward mine, look away, turn back. “What?” he asks.

  “Leah was with you on the Habitat for Humanity project?”

  He looks confused. “With me?”

  “Yes,” I say in a steely voice.

  “She was there,” he clarifies. “She wasn’t with me.”

  “Why?” I demand, feeling incredibly petty even as I say it but not being able to stop myself. A new knot is churning in my stomach. “Why was she there?”

  “Why?” Gibs repeats, looking truly baffled. “Like I have any control over who volunteers for Habitat?”

  “You have control over whether you tell me,” I say, my chin quivering.

  He squeezes his eyes shut and then pops them open. “Why would I tell you that? Why would you care? Do you want to know the other forty volunteers who were there, too? A roster of names, maybe?”

  “Not a word,” I mutter bitterly. “You didn’t say one word to me about it.”

  His hands fly in the air. “Okay. A—this is the first time I’ve seen you since I got back, and B—since when have you asked me one word about my volunteer work?”

  “I’ve asked!” I protest.

  Gibs rolls his eyes. “I barely got a word in edgewise after my first Habitat trip. Since when have you cared? Let’s face it, my activities haven’t exactly been our main topic of conversation lately. It’s not so easy competing with Shannon.”

  I hide my face in my hands, jump off the merry-go-round, and start running, peering through splayed fingers.

  “Summer!”

  I hear Gibs sprinting behind me, so I run faster.

  “Summer!”

  I reach my car in the parking lot, jump in, and slam the door. Gibs is running toward me, his arms pumping and his sneakers pounding the pavement.

  My tires squeal as I back out of the parking space and tear out of the parking lot.

  Gibs stands in a cloud of fumes, getting smaller and smaller in my rearview mirror as I drive away.

  I can barely see through a blur of tears as I screech away from the park.

  Slow down, you idiot. You want Mom and Dad to lose two kids in car wrecks? And quit taking out your frustration on poor Gibs. You know who you need to deal with. Just grow up and do it.

  I brush a tear off my cheek and ease off the accelerator. Is that you, Shannon? God, this is so ridiculous. I’ve never been spiritual before, but she feels kinda … here. What’s more, it’s a good feeling. Shannon makes me feel like someone’s in my corner. Even if she’s slapping me silly trying to cram some sense into my thick head.

  I glance at the clock on my dashboard. I’d planned to spend my whole lunch hour with Gibs, but my little diva moment took care of that. I’m not due to be back at Aunt Nic’s shop for another thirty-five minutes. I have time …

  You know who you need to deal with. Just grow up and do it.

  I take a deep breath, make a quick left, and head to Dad’s office.

  “Honey … hi.”

  Dad was so engrossed in his computer that it’s taken him a couple seconds to realize I’m standing in his office. He gets up when he sees me and str
aightens his tie.

  I wave self-consciously. I’ve been in Dad’s office plenty of times, but I can’t remember ever showing up unannounced.

  “Sorry to just drop by …”

  “Is anything wrong?” he asks, a touch of urgency in his voice.

  “No, no …”

  His face relaxes and he extends an arm toward a chair.

  I sit down and breathe in the familiar leather scent. This is where I used to sit drinking vanilla Cokes when I was little, watching Dad type on his computer or issue calm, precise directions on the phone, surrounded by framed school photos of Shannon and me.

  Tension weaves back into Dad’s face. “You’ve been crying,” he says.

  I blush a little, but I’m touched he noticed.

  “What is it?” Dad asks, leaning into his desk.

  I glance toward the door to make sure I remembered to close it. I can hear voices outside Dad’s office, but just barely. We have plenty of privacy.

  I tap my fingertips together. “Dad, I’m sorry to just show up and spring this on you, but I was afraid if I waited until later, I’d lose my nerve …”

  His face stays totally calm, but whatever he’s holding in his hands snaps in two. I look closer: a pencil. The sound made me jump.

  “Honey, are you okay?” he asks evenly, his jaw firm.

  “Yes, yes. I’m fine. I just … found something out.” My eyes sneak a glance at his, but I quickly look away. Just say it, Summer. “I found out about your affair.”

  The next few seconds hang in the air like kudzu, thick and suffocating.

  His brown eyes flood with regret. “I’m so sorry, honey,” he says, in barely a whisper. “It was years ago, and it didn’t mean anything …”

  I shake my head. “It’s okay, it’s okay. I’m not telling you to make you feel bad.” I hate seeing him look so sad.

  “Aunt Nic?” Dad asks softly, and I shrug noncommittally. I guess technically, yeah, I did find out from Aunt Nic, and I don’t think Dad could handle pulling Shannon into this conversation.

  I don’t know what I expect Dad to do. Shrivel into a fetal position? Start pounding his fists against his chest? But he sits up straighter. “Ask me anything,” he says.