“No effin’ way!”
A speck of food flies from Delaney’s mouth and lands on the side of the bread tray.
Now, that’s gross. I rouse myself, tuning into the conversation.
“There’s no way she’s going to be in my class! She’s fourteen, remember? I’m fifteen. That makes her a freshman, not a sophomore. Do the math.”
Delaney turns to Melissa, her eyes flashing. My father’s hand holds a slice of bread lifted halfway to his mouth. I can tell by the set of his jaw that he’s fuming. I half-expect to see smoke curling from his ears, like a character from one of Nessa’s cartoons.
We watch him dip the bread in the sauce and chew methodically. Then: “You watch your language, Delaney. I won’t tell you again.”
“Mom!”
“He’s right, honey. No need to speak to us that way. Not unless you want to be grounded.”
“But Mom.”
“Delly honey, Carey’s and Jenessa’s homeschooling pushed them both up a grade. It’s not the end of the world. Your dad and I discussed it, and we agree that advancing them at least one grade is best.”
My cheeks burn when Delaney scoffs at Melissa’s use of the word homeschooling! The veins twitch in my father’s forehead, his eyes trained on Melissa. He keeps still, even when Delaney scrapes her chair across the floor, leaving scuffmarks behind.
I wait. Will he hit her? I’m ready to grab Jenessa and run.
Delaney throws her napkin onto her plate, and to my surprise, her eyes pool with tears.
“I don’t count around here anymore, do I? Not since his real daughter arrived.”
“Delaney!”
Melissa looks aghast, and my father looks like he’s been punched.
Jenessa’s mouth hangs slack, full of half-chewed food. The kitchen is silent as we listen to Delaney stomp through the living room and up the stairs.
“Oh boy. Teenage girls.” Melissa attempts a shaky smile, glancing at us and then away, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “Well, that went over well.”
“Mel, I swear to God—”
Melissa’s face turns fierce, like a mama bear protecting her young.
“It’s a lot to get used to, Charlie. For all of our girls.”
I’m taken by the effort Melissa makes to bite her tongue—her decision not to say more in front of Nessa and me. She was brought up right, unlike our mama. The rest of the words flow between their eyes, until my father visibily softens.
No switch. No black eyes or bruises.
Looking down, I follow the slight movement of legs as my father’s foot finds Melissa’s under the table.
“I’ll go talk to her after dinner,” he says.
I can see it in her eyes, how much she loves my father.
“Thank you, Charlie.”
I guess it would be a big adjustment, to have sisters all of a sudden, but I’m not the best judge. I’ve always had Jenessa. I can’t imagine life without her.
I had a captive audience, so I’d recite poetry or stories, and Jenessa would dance in her car seat after I’d moved it into the camper and propped it in the corner. With her bundled up in her baby snowsuit during camper winters, I’d play my own souped-up version of “Pop Goes the Weasel,” like Pa Ingalls played for Laura and Mary, Carrie and Grace in their own woods. Nessa would swat at the air with her chubby hands as she cooed to the music.
I still see echoes of that baby in her eyes, those eyes that could swallow a person whole and spit you out gooey with love.
As my father reads the paper after dinner and Melissa loads the dishwasher, I sneak to my room, shut the door tight, and pull out my violin. I learned to play by watching Mama, by mimicking her notes and finger placements, sometimes right, sometimes corrected. She was more patient back then.
“That’s right, Carey. Hold the string there, and keep your bow level.”
“Like this?” Even I’m surprised by the perfect notes I carve out of wood and air.
“That’s it! Right fine playin’. You’re a natural, child. All you have to do is develop your calluses, and you’ll be playing every song there is to play.”
Sometimes we’d played together, her rendition perfect, mine full of clunkers. But eventually, I got better, and our music rose up smooth and seamless.
When she went into town one time with her violin and returned without it, she hadn’t explained, but I figured she’d sold it for food, and she had, but that wasn’t all.
“These are for you.”
“For me?”
Mama hands me a slew of books, thin, full of parallel lines and strange markings.
“Them there are music books. Them things are notes. If you learn to play from sheets, you’ll be able to play anythin’ in the world.”
“Just like you, Mama.”