“We’re just going to enroll. You don’t have to go to any classes today, school’s already been in session for hours.”
“No . . . just no! Saina, please. Look, I’m a traumatized youth! I’ve just spent a week in an old car with my father and stepmother! My father got us in a car accident and then he deserted us! I have to sleep in a room with a weird ceiling!” Grace threw herself back against the car door, one arm sweeping dramatically across her forehead.
Saina always enjoyed her sister so much more in the particular than in the abstract. Grace in person was funny and self-aware. Grace on the phone was unrelenting and concerned with the smallest of slights—in between visits, that became the only Grace that she remembered.
Peeking out from under her arm, Grace tried again. “I know what we could do instead.”
“What?”
“I haven’t posted on my blog in forever. And you have so much cute stuff. Let me style you! And then we can take pictures!”
“Isn’t your blog just pictures of you?”
“Yeah, but you can make a guest appearance!”
“You just want an excuse to get into my closet.”
“Okay, maybe . . .” Grace batted her eyes. “I bet there’s lots of stuff that you don’t want anymore. Things that you’ve outgrown. Things that would be perfect on someone just a leetle bit younger.”
Saina laughed. “That line of argument really shouldn’t work, but okay, fine. No pictures of me, though. After that article, I don’t need to be on any fashion blog, not even yours. But I’ll take pictures of you.”
“Really?”
“Yeah.” She gunned the engine and made an extravagant U-turn. “You’re free! But just until tomorrow.”
It only took Grace one quick spin around the closet to pull out a vintage Ossie Clark dress, a pair of old motorcycle boots still caked with dirt, and a burgundy felt hat that she instantly made ten times as appealing by attaching a silver and turquoise petit point necklace around the brim. Saina was impressed with her sister. It was the kind of mishmash that a civilian could never have assembled and worn with any kind of ease, but somehow Gracie layered it on like a crazy bag lady and came out looking like a fantasy of the 1970s—more substantial than an Olsen twin, and more accessible.
Draping her camera around Saina’s neck, Grace led them over the neighbor’s collapsed wood-post fence to the horse paddock where a sweet old chestnut mare drank from a hay-flecked trough even as it pissed out a powerful stream of urine. Grace waited for the horse to finish and then led it to the west end of the enclosure, where she positioned the horse so that its nose nudged into the frame and placed herself where the setting sun could glint through the crook of her elbow as she reached for her hat, a motion she repeated effortlessly, each time making the gesture look fresh.
“Do you want some more poses?” asked Saina.
“No, that’s my thing. One perfect shot each time. No one needs to see me pretending to look delighted with the world in twenty different ways. Also, I already know the quote I’m going to pair it with.”
“What?”
“‘I am rooted, but I flow.’ It’s Virginia Woolf.”
Was Gracie some kind of stylist savant? And why couldn’t that be as worthwhile, in the end, as dragging a brush over canvas or putting a pen to paper?
They got her one perfect shot and then, still feeling indulgent, Saina let Grace dress her for dinner. As soon as they walked into Graham’s restaurant, the three of them—Saina, Grace, and Barbra, the Wangs without their center—spotted Leo, who was waiting for them at the bar. Saina felt self-conscious in the tiny skirt that her sister demanded she wear. Sensing her hesitation, Leo held up one smooth palm to give her a high five, but as they connected, a quick sting of skin on skin, he reached out and pinched her earlobe, deftly avoiding her gold ear cuff, then he wrapped his fingers around her palm and pulled her close, kissing her. Their lips were springy against each other, happy to meet.
From that joining on, everything about the evening was fun. Leo was warm and inquisitive; Barbra, wry and observant in a way Saina couldn’t remember witnessing; Grace lit up under Leo’s attention, describing the potential horrors of the local high school. Graham tucked them in a corner of the restaurant and kept their votives afire and their wineglasses full, bringing them treats from the kitchen that he insisted were mistakes on the part of his incompetent chef and, at the end of the night, dancing Grace across the empty dining room floor as Cat Stevens played.
When they finally left, every star in the sky was out, shining as hard as it could on them, and Grace and Barbra were actually leaning towards each other, giggling about something.
Her sister turned around. “So,” she said sweetly, “when are you guys gonna get maaawied?”