She's the Worst

by Lauren Spieller

  “Are you done?” I ask.

  “Yes, sorry. You were in the middle of a precious childhood memory?”

  “Right. I was going into seventh grade—which was apparently super formative for you, thanks to Genevieve—and Jenn was starting high school. She was nervous about it, though, so I took her on this fun, all-day adventure around our neighborhood. It was like we were the Boxcar Children, except instead of collecting teacups and trying to be civilized despite living in a train or whatever, we were eating ice cream and hanging out under the slide at that park down the street. But after a while we got tired, so we went back home and snuck onto the roof of our building.”

  “You rebels,” Nate says. “Then what happened?”

  “Jenn started talking about how she wanted to go away to college even though she’d only just graduated from middle school. Back then she wanted to go to Michigan or Illinois or something, which I remember thinking was really far. Like, why not go to Antarctica while you’re at it? But then she got really serious all of a sudden, and said we should promise each other that in four years, when she was leaving for college, we’d spend the entire day together. Just us. To, you know, say goodbye. So we did a pinkie swear . . . and that was it.” I wrinkle my nose. “Her fingers were still covered in dry strawberry ice cream, so it was kind of sticky.”

  “Gross,” Nate says. “But also perfect! You can hang out with her tomorrow and fulfill your weird urban adventure pact. I don’t know if you’ll still fit under the slide, but—”

  “No.”

  “You’re right, the slide is really low—”

  “No, I mean no. We can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because there’s no way Jenn’s going to want to hang out with me all day.”

  Nate’s eyes narrow in that particular way they always do right before he tells me not to neg myself. But I know I’m right—I might think my sister is a little boring, but that’s nothing compared to the way my sister feels about me. I’m pretty sure every time she hears my name, the words “irresponsible,” “immature,” and “lazy” flash before her eyes. Regardless of how she felt about me back then, Jenn hasn’t wanted to hang out, just the two of us, in years. “Besides,” I continue, “she’s not going away to college anymore. She’s staying here. In this city. In this house.” I jump back up on the counter next to him. “So there’s no point.”

  “Sure there is,” Nate says. “The point is to take her mind off Thomas leaving, and cheer her up about staying in LA. The pact is just an excuse. A cover story, if you will.”

  “But a full day is so long. And we’re older now. We can’t just hang out on the playground all day doing nothing.”

  “Stoner Larry does.”

  I laugh. “Touché.”

  “You’ve just got to come up with a list of her favorite LA things and do all of them. Go to places she likes.”

  “That would be great if I knew any of that stuff. But I don’t.” I flick a stray Cheerio across the counter and into the sink. “Okay, what if I put together a bunch of famous LA landmarks instead? Like the Magic Castle and Grauman’s Chinese Theatre, or the Hollywood sign? That would be super fun!”

  Nate looks unimpressed. “That sounds kinda touristy.”

  “Yeah,” I say, my excitement deflating. “You’re right.”

  “You need to choose places that matter to both of you. That remind you of each other.”

  “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but Jenn and I aren’t exactly close anymore. The last time we did anything just the two of us was months ago, when we had to pick up that set of dining chairs for Mom and Dad. Not exactly the kind of thing you want to re-create to cheer someone up.”

  We settle back into silence, both of us thinking, but then Nate slides off the counter. “I’m heading out.”

  “Wait, you’re leaving? I thought you were helping me brainstorm!”

  He opens the back door and squints into the midmorning sunlight. “This is about you and Jenn. You’re not gonna figure it out if I’m here distracting you.” He grabs a banana out of the fruit basket. “Besides, I’ve only got a few more hours until work. I’m not about to spend them cooped up in here with you.”

  I grab the towel Jenn carefully folded and throw it at him. He catches it and tosses it back on the counter. “See you later?”

  “Obviously,” I say. “Bye.”

  Nate leaves, and I pick up my phone. I’m halfway finished typing “Things to Do in LA” into the search engine when I sigh and put the phone back down. Nate’s right. If I’m going to make Jenn feel better, I’m going to have to come up with stuff that really matters to her. Stuff besides school.

  I head into the living room, where we keep all our old family photos.

  Time to take a trip down memory lane.

  CHAPTER 2

  JENN

  Promise me you’ll tell them.

  I linger on the sidewalk outside O’Farrell Antiques, Tom’s words echoing in my head. I know he’s right—he’s always right. It’s the worst thing about him. But just because he’s right doesn’t mean I’m eager to take his advice. An ambulance flies by, the loud sirens making me flinch. I take one last look at the sunny sky, breathe in the traffic and the pizza shop next door, then push the door open. Or, I try to, because of course—of course—it’s locked. I groan and pull out my keys. Did I really think Mom and Dad were going to be on time?

  I unlock the door and go inside. “Hello, Silvester,” I say, patting the small brass statue of a horse that sits on a marble-topped incised walnut side table from 1880 next to the front door. “Did you keep the place safe for me?”

  I wander deeper into the store, through the dark rows of furniture and tchotchkes. Dust floats in the light filtering in from the front window, and for a moment I’m suspended in it, like a figure in an old snow globe.

  Then I sneeze.

  “Oops,” I say as I bump into a nearby armchair, knocking over the smiling porcelain clown seated on top in the process. I pick up the doll and turn it over. $700? That must be a mistake. I carry it to the register and lay it gently on the counter. The porcelain monstrosity grins up at me. I turn it facedown. “Creep.”

  While I wait for my mom’s laptop to power up, I turn on lights. Chandeliers, Tiffany lamps, and wall sconces flare to life, filling the room with their warm, inviting glow. Or that’s the idea. I think it’s a bit much, personally. I also take a moment to organize a shelf of old toys and relocate an antique teddy bear to the steamer trunk that once sat in April’s bedroom. Until she complained that our WWII family heirloom was haunted and had to go, that is.

  When I return to the counter, the laptop is on. I log in, and a few clicks later the inventory list appears. I scroll down to the toy section, then search alphabetically for “clown.” As I suspected, the price is wrong. The doll should be $70, not $700. I take out a pen, prepared to cover one of the zeroes, but then I catch sight of the doll again. The clown has been here for over a year. It’s never going to move at that price. And, more important, I hate it. I put the pen down and pull out the price stickers instead.

  “How about $60?” I ask the clown’s back. “Do you think that’s low enough to make someone take you home?”

  I turn him over, and he leers up at me.

  “You’re right. Better make it forty.” I write the price on the sticker, then place it on the bottom of his porcelain foot, obscuring most of the previous price—but not all of it. People love markdowns. It makes them feel clever, like they’re getting away with something.

  That done, I move the clown to the front of the store, where kids will be more likely to find it. Whether they break it or buy it, that thing is going home in the next two days if I have anything to say about it.

  I’m on my way back to the counter when the front door opens behind me.

  “Don’t talk to me like that,” Mom is saying. “You always use that tone whenever I—”

  She catches sight of me and smiles. “Oh good
, you’re here.”

  I breathe through my nose and resist pointing out that without me, the store wouldn’t have opened on time.

  Dad closes the door behind them. “Jenn, settle something for us. I was just telling your mother—”

  “Did you go to the bank?” I ask, interrupting him. I learned years ago that the best way to get them to stop arguing is to shut the fight down good and early.

  “Err . . . no,” Dad says. “We stopped by the flea market and got distracted.”

  Of course they did.

  Every Friday morning they deposit the cash from the week. Or at least, that’s the plan. Usually, there’s not much—most customers pay with credit cards—but occasionally we’ll get a big purchase, paid all in cash. Last week someone bought a nineteenth-century armoire for two thousand dollars, and he paid in hundred-dollar bills. It was cool to count it all, but I’m nervous about keeping that much money around for long, especially now that the store’s alarm system is broken.

  “Maybe you could make the deposit after your shift ends?” Dad asks.

  “Stop pushing her,” Mom says, coming to stand by me. She rests her hand on my shoulder. “She’s got her own life, and you can’t expect her to do everything for you.”

  “I don’t expect that,” Dad says. “I’m just saying that she could stop on the way home!”

  I rub my temples. I can already feel a headache coming on.

  Dad crosses his arms—a sure sign that things are about to get worse. If I don’t cut this argument off now, it’ll go on for at least another ten minutes. “Mom, it’s fine. I’ll go.”

  But she’s not listening to me. Neither of them are.

  “It’s not her job,” Mom says, her hand tightening on my shoulder. “You’re always trying to push people—”

  “I am not.”

  I curl my fingers into fists, taking a small amount of relief from the way my fingernails bite into my palms.

  The front door opens, and a woman steps inside.

  Thank god.

  “Welcome to O’Farrell Antiques,” I say, my voice loud and cheerful. “How can I help you?”

  The woman eyes my parents, who, despite her arrival, are still arguing. As if on cue, Mom stomps her foot and says, “That’s not what I said and you know it!”

  “Um,” the woman says, slowly backing toward the door, “maybe I should come back later.”

  I look to my parents, hoping they’ll step in and act like adults for once, but they’re oblivious to the fact that they’re driving their own customers away. As usual, it’s up to me to keep this place functioning.

  “If you leave now,” I say loudly, “you’ll miss our flash sale.”

  My parents finally go silent.

  “For the next hour,” I continue, “everything in the store is . . .”

  I glance at my dad. His eyes are wide with horror. I turn back to the customer and smile. “Fifty percent off.”

  Serves them right.

  “Oh!” The woman says. “In that case, do you have any Tiffany lamps?”

  “Absolutely,” I say, careful not to make eye contact with either of my parents. “Follow me.”

  • • •

  The woman leaves twenty minutes later, the proud owner of two blue Tiffany lamps and one terrifying clown doll. The moment the door closes, I pick up the dog-eared copy of Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire that April and I share, and turn to the place I left off last night. When summer first started, I vowed to read one book per week so my brain wouldn’t turn to mush. My plan was to prioritize the kinds of books you see on those “100 Books to Read Before You Die” lists. That way, I’d be ahead of the curve when classes started in the fall. But after two months of working my way through the collected works of Shakespeare, James Joyce’s Dubliners, A Room of One’s Own, and a collection of poems by Langston Hughes, I decided to reward myself with a reread of Harry Potter.

  I’ve barely started to read, however, when my dad storms up to the counter, followed closely by my mom.

  “Jennifer, we never take off more than thirty percent!” he says. “You know that.”

  “Those lamps were worth twice what she paid,” Mom agrees.

  I put the book down—careful to mark my place—and turn to my parents. “We weren’t going to make any money if I didn’t do something drastic. You would have noticed that if you weren’t so busy arguing.”

  Dad waves this off and wanders into the back room, leaving Mom and me alone. She slips on a dust glove and begins to gently wipe down the various baubles and breakables on the shelf behind the counter. Sometimes I forget she was an art history professor when I was little, back before we moved to Culver City. But when I watch her handle our antiques like they’re pieces of priceless art instead of random junk she rescued from estate sales and hotels selling off their old decor in favor of more modern furnishings, it all comes back to me. The endless museum visits, during which Mom would quiz us on Brunelleschi’s use of perspective and the properties of illuminated manuscripts as we took yet another lap around the Getty Museum. The late nights she spent poring over academic journals while I read Babysitter’s Club books to April at her feet. She and Dad had been busy—it turns out being a professor requires a lot of late-night grading, and Dad’s midlevel management job at a downtown investment bank required him to be at the office at least sixty hours a week—but our parents always made time for April and me. And for each other.

  Then when I was in seventh grade, everything changed. Mom and Dad quit their jobs and moved our family to Culver City, where they opened the store. Suddenly, work came first, and instead of spending dinner talking about English tests and the goofy things Dad’s boss said at their morning meeting, April and I ate in silence as they flipped through spreadsheets and discussed how to price the mahogany sarcophagus they were having imported from Egypt. By the end of seventh grade, they’d stopped talking entirely—to us and to each other—and started fighting instead. I guess that’s what happens when you spend every hour of the day together. You forget you ever liked the other person in the first place.

  I try not to compare our lives now to how different things used to be, though. What’s the point?

  “What are you and Thomas up to tonight?” Mom asks, turning away from the shelves. “Doing anything fun?”

  “Just dinner.”

  “That sounds nice. The two of you are so cute together.”

  I smile, but then remember the conversation we had this morning in the living room, and the warm feeling that usually accompanies any mention of Tom disappears. I promised him I’d talk to my parents today, and I meant it. But right now, no one is glaring at anybody else, or arguing about who-knows-what. It’s just Mom, silently dusting crystal elephants and hand-blown paperweights, and me. It seems a shame to ruin the peace and quiet. But Tom is right. Now’s the time.

  I glance at the door my dad just disappeared through, and make up my mind. I’ll tell Mom first, and Dad after. That way they can’t gang up on me. And then tonight . . . tonight, I’ll tell April.

  “I’d like to talk to you about something,” I say carefully.

  Mom puts down the Waterford vase she’s holding. “What’s up, Jelly Belly?”

  I narrow my eyes at the nickname, but say nothing. I gave up trying to get them to stop calling me that a long time ago. I know a lost cause when I see one.

  “Hey,” she says, cupping her hands around my face. “Is everything okay? You look nervous.”

  I take a deep breath, readying myself for the confession I’ve been rehearsing for months—and catch sight of Dad, standing in the doorway, his normally pale face flushed.

  “Emma, did you really think I wouldn’t find out?”

  Mom sighs. “Find out what, John? Be specific.”

  Dad holds up a long, handwritten receipt. “That you sold the Steinway?”

  I gasp—I can’t help it. For months Mom has been threatening to get rid of the grand piano Dad won at auction. At first it seemed
like it was going to be a great acquisition, but it turned out to be incurably out of tune, and one of the legs is wobbly. None of this would have been the end of the world—sometimes that’s how auctions go—but Dad promised he was going to resell it right away so they could get at least a little bit of their investment back.

  That was a year ago.

  Mom puts her hands on her hips. “I wasn’t hiding it. That receipt has been on your desk for weeks. If you’d ever bother to organize your side of the office, you’d have seen it.”

  Dad’s face goes even redder. “You sold it weeks ago?”

  “You’re lucky I waited that long!” Mom says. “It’s been taking up space in the storage unit for almost a year, and you never got it appraised like you said you would, so I did it myself.”

  “Unbelievable,” Dad says, shaking his head. “I bet you used that idiot Paul Vega to do the valuation, didn’t you?” He crumples the receipt in his hand and throws it on the register. “That man doesn’t know a Steinway from a Stairmaster!”

  “You’re overreacting,” Mom says.

  “Or maybe I’m just sick of you constantly undermining me,” Dad shoots back. “You ever think of that?”

  “It’s the only way to get anything done!”

  “Stop,” I say loudly, before they can continue. They’ve had this argument a million times, and it never goes anywhere good from here. “Mom, you should have talked to Dad before you sold the piano. Dad, you should have sold the piano when you said you were going to, or at least talked to Mom about why you didn’t do it.”

  I step between them and lower my voice. I’ve got their attention. Now I’ve just got to shut this thing down before they start up again.

  “But it’s done,” I continue. “And the good news is that now you can go back out and buy a new used piano. A better one. And once you do, there’s plenty of room in the storage unit for it.” I look between the two of them and force a smile. “Right?”