She nods and heads for the stove. With one careless motion, she dumps the rest of the spaghetti onto a plate. Quiet hangs between us as she slumps into a chair, spinning a fork between her fingers.
I ease myself into the chair opposite her. She gives me a look, her blue eyes narrowed. Those blue eyes—Mom’s blue eyes—are the only quality we share. Otherwise, we’re anti-identical twins. Kat barely stands five foot two, and she’s so pale, I used to make jokes about her trailing ectoplasm, back in eighth grade when we did things like make jokes with each other.
“Rehearsal go okay?” I ask.
She shrugs and keeps eating. A long minute passes.
I clear my throat, eyeing Kat warily. “So. About going to things.”
“Yeah, relax. I took care of the class skips. Got Dad to sign notes saying I was sick.”
“I—but you weren’t.”
“But he signed them.” She shrugs. “Problem solved.”
I lean an elbow on the table. I need to talk to Dad, apparently. I understand wanting to give us some leeway when his work schedule is this crazy, but he can’t let the reins go completely like this.
Dad’s the assistant store manager at the McDonald’s on Franklin Road. I would’ve thought having the word manager in your title would mean fewer hours, but Dad always does obscene amounts of overtime. Would he really rather deal with drive-through assholes than us? Or are we having money problems he’s keeping quiet?
My phone buzzes. I’ll wait if I have to ;)
“Who is that?” Kat says.
“Just this one dude.”
“The guy you fucked last weekend?”
“Hey,” I say sharply. “Watch it.”
“We have a winner.” She barks out a laugh. “You and the rando from my algebra class. Match made in heaven.”
My cheeks burn. Great. I’m even a walking punch line to my sister now.
Maybe I should go upstairs. Why do I try with her anymore? Why do I do this to myself, sit here and take this?
Because she used to be different, says the voice in my head. But looking at Kat, I can hardly remember her before. The Kat in middle school had long, wispy hair down to the middle of her back. She was always quiet but never a recluse. She used to sit with Juniper, Claire, and me at lunch, occasionally trying to convince us to game with her. The only game we ever played was tennis, though, during the summers, the four of us splitting up for two-on-two. Whichever team had Claire on it always won.
Then we left middle school, and Mom left Paloma, disappearing into the depths of the West Coast. It’s been two and a half years since Kat went quiet.
But when did she start being mean? There’s no neat dividing line. Would she have said something like that this past summer? Last year? How did we get to this point?
“So, what number boy are you on now?” Kat says. “An even dozen?”
“Dude.” I set my phone down hard on the table. “What is your problem?”
“I don’t have a problem. You’re the one with the problem, obviously.”
“Okay, stop. Why are you being like this? I’m not doing anything to you.”
“You’re still sitting there, aren’t you?”
It hits like a kick to the shin. I stand up. “Okay,” I manage, keeping my voice as unaffected as possible. “Grow up, Kat.”
Nothing would give me greater satisfaction than to slam my chair back into place, but I resist. I turn stiffly on my heel and force myself not to stomp up the stairs. The second I’m at the top, out of sight, I lean against the wall, staring at the dark wallpaper. Family photos hang along the hallway, a nostalgic trail.
Mom, what would you say to her? What would you do?
Mom was scatterbrained, nervous, and kind to a fault. She gave herself away in handfuls to everybody she met. I bet she would hug Kat until she melted, refusing to let go until Kat confessed whatever the hell was wrong.
My fingernails dig into my palms. No matter what Mom would do, Kat will hate it on me. “Helicopter sister,” she said—the most infuriating thing I’ve been called in a while, which is saying something. I’m not trying to suffocate her, but what am I supposed to do? Dad’s not going to pull her out of this spiral, and somebody has to. It’s not as if I enjoy chasing her down, trying to get her to go to classes and shit. It shouldn’t be my job.
I trudge down the hall into my room and collapse on my bed, tugging out my phone. Cmon sexy, please? says Dan’s latest.
After a second, I realize that I’m actually considering it. Why? There’s no guarantee it wouldn’t get leaked, and my reputation sure as hell doesn’t need helping along.
As I reread his texts, a weird yearning builds behind my sternum. It’s sort of sad, but beside Andrea’s glare, Claire’s judgment, and my sister’s scorn, this invitation seems welcoming. The persistence is obnoxious, but it at least reminds me that my presence doesn’t repulse everyone the way it apparently does my sister.
I don’t send pictures, I text back, after a long minute. Please don’t send me that sort of thing.
I turn over, exhausted.