But I appreciate the way my sister can rock the designer stuff with vintage items and apparently so does everyone else. Just by posting a picture of herself every day and writing a blurb about what she was wearing, she gets tons of hits to her blog, enough so that she started making money from advertising.
It’s funny, my sister and I kind of grew apart when I went off to college. I guess the age difference was really apparent, and to be honest, I had no idea how to relate to her. She was a preteen when I left and when I came back, I still wanted to treat her like my cute little sister.
Now, because we’ve had a year bunked in the same house again, I do feel closer to her. She is starting to become more like a friend, which is great in some ways, but sometimes I wonder when I should play the role of the big sister. When I see her posing flamboyantly in a skimpy outfit on display for the entire world to see, I can’t understand what she’s after. I wouldn’t feel comfortable putting myself out there like that. But the last time I mentioned she could become a prime target for stalkers (or even worse), she just brushed it off and made the point that mom approved.
I’ll admit that I am a little jealous, which is kind of ridiculous because I’m her older sister. But she’s got her path; she’s following it and making progress.
The exact opposite of me.
My cell rang, leaving that depressing thought in my head as I answered.
“Hi, pumpkin,” my mother said in her lilting voice. She still had a faint Swedish accent but for the life of me I couldn’t really hear it.
“Hi, Mom,” I answered with a sigh, knowing she was just checking up on me to make sure I was all in one piece.
“How are you feeling? Any troubles?”
“No. I’m fine.”
“How is work? You still have a job, right?”
I let out a puff of air again and muttered “yes.” This was her daily question. The daily reminder to not even think about quitting my job. It’s like she knew.
“Listen,” she continued, “what are you and Ada doing this weekend? Uncle Albert was hoping we could all get together.”
My dad’s brother Albert lived on a huge plot of beach-side land on the foggy Oregon coast and thanks to the proximity to us we often drove out there to see him. He was divorced and lived alone with his twin boys, Matthew and Tony, two nineteen-year-old troublemakers.
I had nothing planned for the weekend. If I didn’t go to the coast, I would just end up sitting at home and having a Lost marathon by myself.
After I told her I’d be there and hung up, I stretched back on my bench, the sun heating up my maroon leggings, and half-heartedly nibbled on some cut-up veggies. I eyed a nearby Subway and almost succumbed to the call of a melted bacon sub but resisted.
I finished up and plodded back to the office, defeated by the drudgery of the nine-to-five life. The sun teased the freckles across my nose and the lightest breeze tossed my hair so I could see the shades of violet dye in the black strands. I wanted to stay outside, surrounded by the quaint buildings, the golden green trees, the people bustling to-and-fro in lives more exciting than mine, and most of all I wanted these last rays of summer to last forever. But duty called, as it always did.
I walked into the lobby and waited for the elevator. As I stood there on the cold, hard tiles, I felt the presence of someone behind me. Strange, I didn’t see anyone when I came in, nor did I hear the door open or close behind me.
A creepy feeling swept over me. I remembered the dream I had. Suddenly, I felt inexplicably afraid.
I hesitated at turning around. In my “overactive imagination” I thought I would see something horrible, but I did it anyway.
There actually was someone there sitting on the white lobby couch. It was an old lady who looked like she was trying disastrously hard to be a young lady. She must have been about eighty, wearing a red taffeta dress adorned with tiny pom poms and outlandish makeup smeared across her face. She had exaggerated purple eyeliner, Tammy Faye Bakker eyelashes, a swipe of orange across her sagging cheekbones, and most disturbing of all, red lipstick that was half on her lips and half on her teeth. She sat there smiling broadly at me. Frozen, it seemed, or locked in time.
I tried to hide my shock—I don’t know how I didn’t see this piece of work when I came in—and gave her a quick smile before promptly turning around. I felt relieved when the elevator doors finally opened.
I walked quickly inside and hit the close button before anything else. I looked up at her as the doors closed. She was as still as ever, the wide, maniacal-looking grin still stretched across her face. Her eyes, white and unblinking, did not match her smile.
The doors shut and I let out a large sigh of relief. I had actually been shaking a little bit. That horrible feeling lasted for another five minutes until I slipped on my headset and the daily barrage of rude callers and impatient visitors wiped the scene out of my head.