‘Hey, Colin,’ I say with a wave. ‘Whatcha doing home?’
Colin shoves a steaming pakora into his mouth. ‘Ran out of food,’ he says around crunches. ‘Share-housing sucks, man. Gonna invest in a lock box for the kitchen, army-style.’ He flops onto the floor beside Raj and hands him the plate. Colin has adopted another new hairstyle this week, shorn at the sides and swept up on top in a buoyant, swooping curve. His broad shoulders and giant gym-arms make Rajesh look like a strange deflated twin beside him, but Raj and Colin are actually a lot more alike than their stoic eldest brother, Ryan.
Elsie throws a Pringle at him. ‘You have to actually buy food for someone to steal it, dumbarse. Why don’t you just hoard mee goreng under your bed like a normal student?’
Colin collects the Pringle from the floor and shoves it into his mouth. He stretches out his long legs. ‘Aw, but then I’d never get to see your sundar face, Elsie-bean. I’m using it as inspiration for my next short film. I’m gonna call it The Attack of the Crabby Five-Foot Brown Woman.’
‘Shut your face-hole, Colin,’ Elsie says, reaching over and grabbing a pakora. She doesn’t give me one. I can handle my dad’s milky curries just fine, but Doctor Nayer’s volcanic creations are way out of my league. ‘Be nice,’ Elsie says through a mouthful of food. ‘One day when you’re serving fries and wondering what happened to your life, I’ll be the sibling who lets you sleep in my pool house.’
Raj laughs, and Colin clips him across the head. He peers over his shoulder at me. ‘See what I have to deal with, Pinky? Can you believe I emerged from the same uterus as these losers? I don’t even know why I bother coming home.’
Elsie grins. ‘It’s the open fridge and stellar company.’
To the boys of the Nayer clan, I have always been known as Pinky. It’s a legacy from the time Ryan referred to me as ‘The Brain’, and Elsie immediately took offence. I don’t understand why it’s so amusing – I’ve seen the cartoon, and it seemed kind of silly. Elsie has told me that they mean it with nothing but affection, but still, Pinky is as much as she will tolerate. I’ve never understood the Nayers’ dynamic, all the teasing that never slips into actual fights. But part of me has always been just a little bit grateful to be included.
Eventually, the boys wander off. Colin heads home laden with Tupperware, and Raj heads upstairs to do whatever it is Raj does for hours on his computer.
Elsie scrolls through the Netflix menu. ‘Want to watch a movie? Rajesh’ll drive you whenever you want to go. I’m guessing you’re not in any rush, though?’
I shrug. ‘Toby should be in bed by now, so maybe it’s safe.’
Elsie sighs. ‘Yeah, god forbid he gets less than the regulation eight hours,’ she mutters. ‘I’d say sleep deprivation couldn’t make his personality any crapper, but I think we both know that’d be a lie.’
I watch as Elsie selects The Real Housewives of Atlanta. ‘I don’t think Toby’s personality is the problem. He just doesn’t like me, Elsie.’ This is hardly news, so it shouldn’t be cause for the ripple of hurt in my chest.
Elsie sighs. ‘You know your brother is a giant a-hole, right? A giant, jealous, self-involved a-hole?’
‘Toby isn’t jealous,’ I say incredulously, as a gaggle of women on TV shriek about something. ‘Not everyone is going to like everyone. It’s statistically impossible. Even if we did emerge from the same uterus.’
Elsie’s eyes remain on the screen. Her jaw twitches. ‘Your brother is a pest, Rey,’ she says eventually. ‘I’m the last person in the world who’d defend him, but maybe … you shouldn’t just write him off like that. You don’t know everything that’s going on with him. Not everyone has it as easy as you do.’
I keep my face averted. ‘You think I have it easy,’ I say flatly. I grimace at the irritation in my voice, but I can’t seem to wind it back. ‘What exactly about your life is hard, Elsie?’
Elsie turns with a sharp bark of laughter-that-doesn’t-sound-like-laughter. ‘Oh yeah. You’re right. Everything’s just cruisy, Sophia. Well, it’s not like you’re even interested. Are you.’
I give Chuck a rough scratch. On the TV, a lady with a tiny backpack throws a stiletto at a waiter’s head. ‘Interested in what? I know what your plans are. You’ve spent years talking about them. Eidetic memory, remember? What else do you want me to say?’
Elsie grabs a fistful of Pringles. ‘Nothing. Never mind,’ she says, shoving the chips into her mouth. ‘Let’s just watch TV.’
‘Elsie –’
Elsie waves a hand. ‘No problem, Sophia. When I have everything all sorted, I’ll be sure to let you know.’
I hug one of the Nayers’ couch cushions to my chest. Chuck’s drool pools on my kneecap, and he whines, possibly also burnt by the heat of Elsie’s annoyance.
‘Well, okay,’ I say, deflating. I know immediately that I’ve said all the wrong things, because Elsie’s entire body is stiff, and she’s chewing salt-and-vinegar chips like she’s offended by Pringles themselves. I want to say the right things, but I have no idea where to find the words she seems to want from me. I feel like I’ve been stuck on this track for months, and I can’t seem to change course.
So I sink into the couch, feeling every uncomfortable lump and knot. On the screen, a woman in a dress hurls a vase at another woman in a bikini, and then both of them burst into tears. In the darkest corner of my mind, mismatched thoughts crawl, restless and conflicting. I glance at Elsie’s mum’s collection of Royal Doulton animal figurines on the side table. I wonder if it would help if I just gave up on my fractious mind and hurled something instead. Ms Heller would probably be thrilled.
I sneak a glimpse of my best friend. Her body is stiff, but her face betrays nothing that I can read. Elsie’s silences are pointed, but rarely aimed in my direction – not since the legendary ‘why-can’t-we-go-to-the-formal?’ fight of year eight. And it goes without saying that I am useless at conflict.
No vase-hurling for us, then. But I wish I knew how to bridge this divide that seems to be widening between us with each day that passes.
CHAPTER NINE
Caught in the difficulty of mystifying, magicians often forget that the first role of the artist is to communicate a beautiful idea.
– TELLER
I pry open an eye as a fuzzy tail thumps against my face. Ginormous blue eyes, ringed with goopy black stuff, are hovering above me, squinting with a familiar combo of edginess and angst.