By Friday morning, London was barely a thought drifting through my mind. Instead, Ruby had filled my head with pancakes at Sweet Sue’s, as we’d decided that for the rest of the summer we’d eat only breakfast foods, then skip the two courses in between and go straight for dessert. We went all out and ordered the “red monkey” special, pancakes made with strawberries and bananas, since Ruby said twice the fruit was healthier.
On the way back from Sweet Sue’s, we drove past the public high school—where she said I’d go for my junior year, once she convinced my dad to give me up for good—and we made sure to take the familiar detour down the old highway alongside the real highway, windows down so the wind could dread our hair.
And everything was the same—except Ruby hadn’t cut my bangs yet, so my hair got in my mouth and I had to spit it out to keep from chewing on it and puking it up like cats do. And I noticed, too, how the car was running on empty the whole way there and back, and either her gas gauge was stuck on E for good, or she really had been lifted to another plane of existence where she could drive a car with the power of her mind, in the way she could direct a man to build a house for her, staying up all night to hammer and buzz.
In town, Ruby sailed through red lights like they meant go. The other cars let her pass, and no one even honked when she took the wrong way down the road and almost caused a collision. As we drove alongside the Green, we saw kids hanging out on the benches like any summer afternoon, and all eyes went to our car, like we were part of a caravan carrying a celebrity or the president; in Ruby they had that person combined into one. But when anyone saw for sure she was in the car, they looked away fast, like they didn’t want to be caught staring. It was a wave of snapped necks, eyes averted to street signs and lampposts. If Ruby noticed, she didn’t say.
Ruby cut the brakes near the candy shop where she used to buy me the swirled cherry-mint sticks to suck on. This was our routine: candy first, then shopping for sunglasses. Then we’d lounge on the hard stone bench dead center of the Green, where Ruby would flirt with locals and tourists and curious squirrels. We always made sure to avoid the Village Tavern, a bar across the street that our mother was known to favor, which meant holding our breath when we passed, like the superstitious would beside a graveyard. Then, if we got hot enough, we’d do a few laps in the pool. Well, I would do the laps, and Ruby would stretch out her legs in the shallow end and watch. After that we’d go home.
But now she said we should skip the candy—we weren’t ready for “lunch” yet—and, this time, she’d buy me my own pair of sunglasses to keep me from borrowing hers.
We left the Buick with the windows down, as no one would ever dare touch it, and crossed Tinker Street for the boutique that had the best selection of sunglasses in all of town. The store had appeared to be open when we’d driven past, but once we got up close we found the glass door locked, the lights down, and a misspelled hand-scrawled sign that read: Closed for Inventry Sorry!
Ruby was not pleased.
She pounded on the glass and in seconds two salesgirls appeared, all apologies, one glaring at the other as if she was the one responsible for the sign, and the bell on the door was tinkling as it opened for us. We went in and minutes later emerged with our purchases: a dark-tinted pair à la Breakfast at Tiffany’s for me and a pair of flashy gold aviators that Ruby wore perched on top of her head. The sunglasses cost fifteen each, but Ruby suggested two for five, and so that was what she paid.
Ruby was silent as we returned to the car. She didn’t want to lounge on the Green, and she didn’t want me to try on her aviators. “Everything is supposed to be perfect,” she said. “I don’t understand it. What’s up with today?”
“It is perfect,” I assured her. “Everything is.”
“Do you think I’m trying too hard?” she asked, dropping the aviators down over her eyes. “With these?”
They were gold-rimmed, polished up to searing in the sun—and too big for her head. But she was everything and more, even with those glasses marring her face. That was the magic of my sister.
“You can tell me,” she said.