As I get dressed I tell Amanda about all the interesting customers who came in today—the skim milk guy, the lady with the obviously fake British accent, the guy with the parrot on his shoulder, the girl who ordered while her boyfriend was nibbling on her ear. Amanda laughs at all the funny parts and rolls her eyes at all the eye-rolly parts. I don’t mention anything about the sisters, though. Amanda’s my best friend, but even with her there are limits to what I feel like I can say.
A few minutes later I’m standing barefoot in front of the mirror wearing a tiny boy’s white button-up shirt (the sleeves reach just past my elbows), a wide gold belt, and a floaty white skirt with gold threads running through it that reaches just below my butt.
I stare at myself in the mirror.
Amanda is behind me. “Stop frowning,” she says to my reflection. “As usual you look hot spelled with about five extra t’s.”
“Ha-ha,” I say, and roll my eyes.
Truth is, no matter how much time I spend staring into the mirror, I don’t really have any idea what I actually look like. Does anyone?
I’m not tall and I’m not short, and I’m on the thin side but I’m definitely not skinny. I have curly hair that reaches to the middle of my back, it’s light brown but gets blonder in the summer. The guy who cuts it is always telling me that it’s “gorgeous and luxurious” but then he tries to sell me a whole bunch of products to “tame and define,” none of which I ever end up getting, which is okay since I usually just wear a ponytail most days, anyway. My face gets blotchy when I get nervous or embarrassed, but other than that, my skin is okay, I think. My eyes are big and green. My nose is kind of round. I have one dimple. Whenever I see pictures of myself, my smile looks crooked.
Amanda tosses me a pair of gold lace-up sandals that look like they could be part of a costume in a play about ancient Greece.
“Try these,” she says.
I sit down and slip off my shoes. There’s a cardboard box next to me on the floor with Sunny Grove Citrus printed on it in orange and green.
“What’s in here?” I poke the box.
“Crap Day,” Amanda says. “The third Friday of every month Morgette buys anything anyone wants to get rid of for twenty-five cents a pound.”
“Anything?” I ask. “Like old bananas and expired vitamins?”
“I guess enough people accidentally sell her first editions of old books or pieces of antique silverware that it makes it worth it.” Amanda shrugs.
I sit down on the floor and start digging through it—a bag of plastic spiders, three unopened jars of cloves, a glob of dried-up neon Play-Doh, and at the bottom of the box a copy of a book with the cover ripped off—Encyclopedia of Abnormal Psychology.
“Hey, Amanda,” I say. I pick up the book and stand, “Do you think we’ll find Eric’s picture in here under…” but then I stop.
A rectangular piece of cardboard with slightly rounded edges, a little smaller than an index card, has fallen out of the book and f luttered to the floor. I reach out and grab it. As soon as my skin touches it, my heart starts pounding, and I feel dizzy, like I’ve been spinning and just stopped. The room tilts. Everything around me looks wrong all of a sudden, and I think maybe I’m going to pass out. I sink to the floor; I’m vaguely aware of Amanda’s voice calling my name, but I can’t answer. She sounds far away and unfamiliar. Everything is unfamiliar, except for one thing. The piece of paper in my hand, covered in blue vines. I stare at them so hard they begin to swirl, like delicate navy thread snakes on a field of white. And in the center of these vines is a drawing of a girl: big round eyes, round face, round nose, crazy hair curling out in all directions, one dimple, a crooked smile. I know this drawing.
I’ve seen it since I was a little kid, on the backs of notebooks, on napkins, paper tablecloths, in an entire comic given to me once by someone whom I haven’t seen in two years, whom I try not to think about because I have no idea where she is or what she’s doing or if she’s even still alive, whom I’ve tried to convince myself to forget about, whom I’ve almost completely given up on ever hearing from again, whom a teeny, tiny part of me still believes will reappear, will send me a sign at some time when I am least expecting it.
And this is the sign, and that time is now.
Because this drawing is of me.
I blink and turn toward Amanda, who is still standing there in her ridiculous outfit.
“Amanda,” I whisper, “look…” And I hold the paper high up over my head so the light shines through and the drawing glows. “My sister.”
Three