She's the Worst

by Lauren Spieller

  Jenn snorts. “That sounds inappropriate.”

  I swat at her, almost dropping my drink in the process, then pull out my phone. Jenn leans toward me, and we smile for the camera.

  “Say ‘cheesy,’ ” she says.

  Click.

  One stop down. Nine to go.

  • • •

  The Santa Monica Pier is usually packed with kids during summer, but the day camps must not be here yet because the place is practically empty when we arrive. Jenn and I walk down the pier, past the arcade and the woman selling cotton candy (does anyone actually eat cotton candy this early in the morning?), almost all the way to the end. When our destination is directly in front of us, I throw out my arms. “Surprise!”

  Jenn looks confused. “The Ferris wheel?”

  I try not to let her lack of excitement get to me. “Yes!”

  I buy two tickets from a guy in a red-and-white polo, then we get on. Jenn takes a seat on the far side of the car. It’s big enough for at least six people, but it feels weird to sit on the other side, so I take a seat right next to her.

  “So? What do you think?” I ask.

  She folds her hands in her lap and looks over the far side, out at the ocean. “It’s a beautiful day.”

  “Yeah,” I say impatiently, “but I mean about the Ferris wheel! Do you remember coming here?”

  “Sure do,” she answers stiffly.

  Why is she being like this? Everything was totally fine, and now she’s sulking. What did I do wrong?

  The Ferris wheel shudders, and we start to move. A kid in the car above us cheers. I scoot to the other side and look down. We’re not moving very fast, but we’re already at least five feet in the air above the ride operator’s hut. The Ferris wheel continues to climb, and I look farther out, past the roller coaster, past the end of the pier, where a few people are fishing, to the ocean beyond. The morning sun glints off the small, white-capped waves. I breathe in the smell of seawater and sunshine and popcorn, then pull the second photo out of my bag. “Remember this?”

  Jenn takes the picture from me. “I was still having fun when this was taken.”

  “What do you mean?” I ask. “The whole day was fun.”

  Jenn gives me her patented Are you serious? look and holds up the photo. She’s almost eight, and I’m six. We’re seated on this very Ferris wheel—I can even see the roller coaster in the background. Her hair is short and uneven (this was the year she decided to cut it herself), and I’m missing one of my front teeth. Jenn is holding a half-eaten ice-cream cone, and if the chocolate smeared around my mouth is any indication, I’ve just finished eating mine. But instead of smiling for the camera, we’re whispering to one another, our heads so close together that you can’t tell where her brown hair ends and mine begins.

  “We rode the Ferris wheel ten times,” Jenn says. “Do you remember?”

  I think back, and yes, that sounds right. “Dad used up all our tickets on it,” I say. “We kept getting back in line.”

  “Right. But do you remember what happened the last time we rode?”

  “Um . . . no?”

  Jenn crosses her arms. “You threw up.”

  I laugh. “Really?”

  “Yes, really!”

  “Huh. I forgot that.” I shrug. “I don’t get what the big deal is, though.”

  “What the big—April, you threw up on me!”

  It all comes back. The hot dog. The double scoop of chocolate ice cream. The Ferris wheel. Going up, up, up, and then lurching to a stop. The sudden, unstoppable nausea. And finally, Jenn’s face, red and streaming with tears as she stood up, her shirt covered in—

  “Oh, no,” I whisper.

  Jenn sits back, a look of grim satisfaction on her face. “Oh, yes.”

  I look at the photo again. Our parents must have taken it before our last ride. Before I puked all over my sister.

  “You threw up before we were even halfway,” Jenn says. “I had to ride the Ferris wheel all the way around three times before it was finally our turn to get off.” She shudders. “I can still smell the hot dog.”

  “Okay, I’m sorry I threw up on you, and I’m sorry I don’t remember it. But can we just pretend that didn’t happen? For, like, twenty minutes?”

  Her phone chimes in her lap. She reads the text, and her shoulders tense.

  “Everything okay?” I ask.

  She nods.

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah, I’m just . . . nervous.”

  “About Thomas leaving?” I ask, nodding at her phone. “I know it’s gonna be weird, but you guys will be okay, right? You’ve been dating for almost two years, and he’s super into you. And it’s only an hour flight if you want to visit.”

  Jenn looks unconvinced, so I pull out the envelope of photos and try another approach. “I know I screwed up with this whole Ferris wheel thing, but we’re going to a ton of places you’ll like today. Places you’ll be able to visit any time you want now that you’re staying in LA. Maybe you and I can even do some of them again after school starts. It’s not like we need a pact to hang out.”

  Jenn’s face contorts, and for a horrible second I think she’s going to cry. Is hanging out with me really that painful? But the expression disappears just as quickly as it came, and when it’s gone, she no longer looks sad. She looks determined.

  “April, there’s something I have to tell you.” She takes a deep breath, like she’s gathering all her strength. “You know how I got into Stanford, but decided not to go?”

  “Yeah?”

  “That’s not exactly what happened.”

  I frown. “I don’t understand. Did you not actually get in? Why would you lie about that?”

  She looks down at her hands. “No, I did get in. But I didn’t turn them down.”

  “Oh,” I say, the truth slowly sinking in. “So that means—”

  “That I said yes. I’m going.”

  I stare at her, incredulous. I’ve wondered for months why someone with straight As and amazing SAT scores would turn down one of the best schools in the country to go to community college instead. The only reason I could come up with—the only reason Jenn ever gave—was that she didn’t want to be too far from our parents and the antique store. It never even occurred to me that she might be lying.

  “Wait,” I say, “do Mom and Dad know?”

  Jenn rubs her palms against her knees, pulling the fabric of her romper taut. “Not exactly.”

  My mouth drops open.

  “I’m going to tell them,” she says quickly. “I was actually about to tell them yesterday at the store, but then Dad found out Mom sold this piano he bought, and it turned into a whole thing. So I was going to tell them last night instead, but I didn’t get the chance.”

  “Didn’t get the chance? Jenn, you’ve known for months!”

  “I know. I meant to tell you guys a long time ago, but I was afraid that . . .” She exhales. “I just didn’t have a choice, you know?”

  “No, I don’t know. Why did you lie in the first place? Why didn’t you just tell them from the beginning? It’s not like Mom and Dad told you not to go—”

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about!” she snaps. “I did what I had to do, okay?”

  The Ferris wheel comes to a sudden stop. We both look over the edge and watch a small girl climb off at the bottom.

  “Please stop pushing,” Jenn says when we start moving again. “It’s my life, and I’ve made my decision. I’m going to Stanford.”

  I lean back in my seat, frustration and confusion warring inside me. None of this makes any sense. Jenn is the responsible one. She would never do something like this. Never. And yet, here we are.

  “How did you even do it?” I ask. “Don’t you have to, like, pay up front or something to hold your place? You don’t have that much money, do you?”

  “Grandma made the down payment,” Jenn says, “and I did all the federal loan paperwork myself. It wasn’t as hard as it soun
ds, to be honest. The tricky part was intercepting all the mail before Mom and Dad saw it. Luckily, they almost never remember to check the mailbox anyway.”

  She laughs, and I realize with a jolt that she’s actually proud of herself. Is this who Jenn is now? And if so, when did it happen and how the hell didn’t I notice?

  The Ferris wheel stops again for another kid to climb off. I grip the seat beneath me. I wish this thing would hurry up already. “When do you leave?”

  Jenn reaches around for her ponytail and tugs on the end. “That’s the tricky thing. . . . I leave tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow?” I shake my head. “I cannot believe you haven’t told them already. I can’t believe you didn’t tell me.”

  Except I can. Jenn never tells me anything, and I never tell her anything either. It’s just how things are.

  She scoots closer, so our knees are touching. “April, I know you’re mad. But this is my last day in LA, and I’m spending it with you. Doing this pact thing. I should have told you the truth sooner, but at least we have today to hang out. Right?”

  I look away from her, out at the ocean. I thought today was going to be about cheering up my sad, selfless sister, but instead it turns out she’s a jerk who lied to her family for months and let me put together this whole entire day under false pretenses. If I thought I felt invisible in my family before, it’s nothing compared to how I feel now.

  “Mom and Dad are going to freak out when you tell them,” I say.

  “They’ll get over it,” Jenn says. “They’ll have to.” Then she gives me a look, as if to say, And so will you.

  We settle into silence, and I realize we’re already on our third rotation of the Ferris wheel. I wish I’d noticed before we started it—I would have pretended there was an emergency so I could get off early.

  Jenn must notice me looking down at the ride operator, because she asks, “Do you want to go home?”

  “Maybe,” I say. “I don’t know.”

  The Ferris wheel continues to climb. I scoot all the way to the end of the seat and look down at the carnival below. Kids have started to show up, all of them dressed in their day camp colors. I watch one little boy throw a baseball into a stack of milk bottles. He misses.

  I pick up the envelope in my lap. We have eight more locations to visit. Eight more chances to connect with my sister and make things between us like they used to be.

  Suddenly, that feels like way too many.

  CHAPTER 6

  JENN

  That went about as well as could be expected.

  The metal gate clangs open, and April is off the ride and striding into the crowd, cell phone in hand, before I’ve even realized it’s time to get off. I’m debating running after her when my phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out and see she’s sent me a text.

  Bathroom. brb.

  I look around for somewhere to sit, but every bench is either occupied or covered in sticky ice-cream stains, so instead I wander away from the rides to a quieter part of the pier. I lean over the railing and watch the waves roll in below, crashing against the wooden support beams, filling the air with the smell of briny water and rotting wood. April’s always loved the pier—the loud games and bright lights, the smell and taste of salty-sweet carnival food—but I prefer the sound of the ocean.

  Our parents took us to the beach all the time when we were kids, but it was me who introduced April to the water. I had to convince her to wade into the cold Pacific, promising her she’d get used to the temperature. When our goose bumps finally subsided, we’d splash each other and dig our toes into the loose sand, squealing when seaweed wrapped around our ankles. April was always happiest where the water was only waist-deep and our parents could spot us easily from their places farther up the beach. But I was never content to stay where it was safe. I’d swim out, past the couples kissing in the shallows; past the boogie boarders, their eyes trained on the horizon, waiting for the next swell to carry them back to shore. Past even the breaking point, where the waves would force you to either jump above them or dive below.

  I’d swim so far out the waves would calm again, and I was alone. Sometimes I’d float on my back, watching the sun-made shapes chase one another around the insides of my eyelids. Other times I’d watch the people on the other side of the breaking waves and pretend that I was a lonely mermaid watching a play put on by the funny humans on the beach. There goes the little boy in blue-and-green trunks, chasing a red ball down the beach. There’s the girl in the one-piece, fanning herself with an open paperback book while her boyfriend buys her a soda. And there’s April. Playing in the shallows, making castles from the wet sand, lost in a world of her own making while our parents nap together on their bright green beach blanket, big enough for two.

  I loved being on the other side of the waves. But I’d never stay out there for long. I’d eventually remember that April wasn’t just a kid playing on the beach. She was my sister. And she wasn’t building that castle by herself because she wanted to. She was doing it because I wasn’t there to help. So I’d swim back in, and together we’d haul wet sand up the beach, each bucketful a precious commodity in our construction. April always wanted to build up, to have the tallest castle on the beach. But the thing about castles is that they’re only as strong as their defenses. So while she added turret after turret, each one strung with dark green seaweed banners, I’d dig moats and build walls, everything I could to keep the castle safe from the water rushing up the beach.

  I know April’s mad, but even though she doesn’t understand why I did what I did, surely she can see how important this is to me. How badly I need to get away. How sick I am of being in charge of everything, how much I hate constantly taking care of Mom and Dad, how sometimes my life here makes me want to scream—

  I grip the wooden railing, matching my inhales and exhales to the movement of the waves below.

  Last night, April said she wanted to be close again, like we were as kids. I didn’t believe her, but after seeing how disappointed she was about me moving away, it seems like maybe she was telling the truth. I know this isn’t how she pictured today going, but assuming she doesn’t decide to go home, we’ve got eight hours left together—plenty of time to get this day back on track.

  And when it’s over . . . I’ll finally tell Mom and Dad about Stanford. They’re going to be upset. Really upset. But that’s nothing compared to how they’re going to react to the second part—the part I didn’t tell April, and the real reason I’ve been putting this off for so long: I can’t afford to go to college unless they help me pay for it. Because it turns out, financial aid covers my tuition, but it’s not enough to pay for my housing or the mandatory Stanford health-care fee, not to mention whatever I need for books and dorm essentials. All in all, that’s at least fifteen thousand dollars. And that’s just for freshman year.

  But I have to believe they’re going to do it. Grandma thinks so, or at least she did, back when she made me promise to tell them the truth in exchange for covering the down payment. But then again, she thought I was going to say something months ago, not the day before I leave. Lucky for me, she believes we all have to make our own choices and live our own lives, so she’s letting me do this my own way . . . but her patience is running out. I either tell them today, or she’s going to tell them for me. Which would not be good.

  So I’m going to tell them today. Or . . . maybe tonight. Definitely before midnight, no matter what. And then they’ll know, and after some convincing, they’ll agree to pay for the rest of my expenses. Everything will be all right, and tomorrow I’ll get on a plane with Tom, and we’ll start our new lives.

  And if they don’t say yes . . . then I’ll just keep trying. Because staying in Los Angeles?

  It’s not an option.

  CHAPTER 7

  APRIL

  Why couldn’t she just have been honest?” I say into the phone, my voice so loud and full of anger that it scares away a flock of seagulls. “Or applied to some schools c
loser to home? This is total bullshit.”

  A lady with a baby strapped to her chest glares at me for my language, and I glare right back. “Oh, relax,” I tell her. “He doesn’t even talk yet.”

  On the other end of the phone, Nate sighs. “It’s going to be weird working in the store without her.”

  “Forget the store,” I say. “Do you know what it’s going to be like living in my house? My parents fight all the time—”

  “I know,” he says. “I can hear them from next door sometimes.”

  The thought of Nate lying in bed, listening to my parents yell, makes me flush with embarrassment. “Exactly,” I say, shaking it off. “And Jenn’s the only one who can ever get them to stop. If she’s gone, I don’t know what’ll happen.”

  “Do you think they might . . . divorce?” Nate asks.

  “I don’t know,” I say. “I try not to think about it.”

  I look across the pier. Jenn is leaning against a railing, gazing out at the water. I know I should be happy for her. I want to be. But it makes me furious to see her there, looking like she doesn’t have a care in the world, oblivious as usual to how I’m feeling. She doesn’t understand that going to college doesn’t just affect her—it affects me, too. Because without her, who’s going to keep them from falling apart?

  “They won’t make it, Nate. I know they won’t. And so does Jenn. That’s why I don’t understand how she can do this to them.”

  “Have you considered telling her that?”

  “There’s no point. It’s not like my feelings about any of this matter to her. She’s totally selfish.”

  “I guess . . .”

  “What do you mean ‘I guess’?”

  Nate sighs. “You knew she was going to leave eventually, right? I know it sucks that you’re not getting much warning—”

  “I’m not getting any warning,” I say, my voice loud again. “And neither are our parents!” I tug on one of my curls. “I still don’t understand why she didn’t just tell us she wanted to go to Stanford in the first place. It’s not like anyone would have cared, and at least then we’d have some time to, I don’t know, plan!”