FROM WHERE I'M SITTING IN THE LIVING ROOM, I CAN hear the rattle of keys. Finally. That's got to be Kat.
I flip my textbook shut and walk into the kitchen, hitting the light switch. A chipped lamp sitting on the counter flickers to life, illuminating our wooden table. Our bare fridge is framed by a square gray rug. This house sort of looks as if it took interior-design tips from the little-known "prisons" section of Better Homes and Gardens. I ache for drooping pumpkins and trios of pinecones, the decorations our Novembers used to wear when Mom was around. Not even three years ago, but it feels like a different lifetime.
"Hey, where were you?" I ask as Kat shuts the door. "I called you, like, three times."
"I know." She kicks off her shoes beside the fridge.
"Dude, you've been out of rehearsal for nearly an hour."
"I know," she repeats. "Thanks for the update, helicopter sister."
The unwanted nickname hits me right in the pet peeve. I try to muster patience. "Dad's working until eleven, so he said not to be loud when he comes home. He needs a good night's sleep, so … I don't know. Use headphones, if you're gonna game."
Kat trudges toward the staircase. I talk faster, calling after her. "And I made dinner. And also, there were two new messages about you skipping class, so can we talk abo—"
She starts up the stairs.
"Jesus Christ, Kat," I say. "Could you—"
She turns. "What?"
When I get a good look at her face, my angry thoughts stop swirling. My sister looks exhausted. Her neck-length blond hair is bedraggled and tangled. It's brittle from too many home-brewed bleach treatments, but her roots have started to grow out dark. The circles under her eyes glare like wine stains on white cloth. Her lips are thin and bitten.
"Are you okay?" is all I say. It comes out timid.
She half smiles. It looks an awful lot like a sneer. "Yeah, sure," she says. "And how was your day, honey?"
Hurt bursts in me like a bitter grape. She strides upstairs.
What is her problem? Doesn't she see how hard I'm trying?
Nothing works with her anymore. For hours, Kat locks herself in her room with her best friends: BioShock, Mass Effect, and Half-Life 2. I hear shooting through the walls. Amazing, how loud her laptop gets.
It's not my job to drag her out kicking and screaming, but some days, I wish I had the guts to. Our house has started to feel like solitary confinement.
My phone buzzes with a text. I yank it out—it's Dan Silverstein. Hey you, how are things?
I sigh. This Dan thing has been so well publicized, I don't want to reply. But it's not fair to take it out on him because other people are giving me shit.
Things are solidly average, I reply. How about you?
As I wait for his response, I take the pasta off the stove and spoon myself a bowl, then put the rest back to stay warm for Kat. I always hope she'll join me for dinner, but she never does; this might be for the best. Last time we ate together was maybe a month ago. We spoke six sentences to each other. Two of them were "Hey" and "Hey."
I can't help remembering dinners from eighth grade. Better-cooked, for one thing, because my mother—unlike me—was an expert at putting food items into heating implements without causing fires. More than that, though, dinners tasted better with the family around the table. Mom's absence is always glaring, and tonight, Dad's chair is empty, too. He's been working later and later these days. This is the third day in a row he's out until eleven.
I wolf down my pasta so fast, it burns. I flinch, rolling bits of skin off the roof of my mouth with my tongue.
My phone buzzes. I'm doing pretty good, Dan says. I had a nice time Saturday
Me too, I reply. Not too much of a lie. The guy's no Han to my Leia, but he was cute and nice and seemed pretty harmless. A surprisingly rare combination.
So what's up? he asks.
Just having dinner. Pasta yay!
Oh sorry didn't mean to interrupt
No, I mean, I just finished, it's okay, I reply, standing to wash my plate. What's up with you?
Not much, is all he says. I wait for a follow-up, but nothing comes. I can't help but laugh. Why did he text me if he's going to say that "not much" is up? How do male brains work?
Then a picture of his dick pops up on my phone screen.
I let out a splutter and drop my phone. "What? Why?" I say loudly at the phone, sort of hoping Siri will shed light on the situation. There must be a mistake. Did I say something that made him think I wanted a picture of that?
I snatch my phone up and scroll back through my texts. I definitely didn't say anything inviting, unless he has a weird attraction to pasta that I don't want to know about.
It's not even the appropriate time for a dick pic! It's 6:10 PM! Although there really isn't an appropriate time for dick pics you didn't ask for.
I text back, Dude.
His reply: Dude what
I tap in what I think is a well-measured response. Though it's a little tough to get past the panicked mental loop of Penis! Penis! Penis!
What do you expect me to do with that?? I say.
Idk? Enjoy? he replies.
"Enjoy," I say to the phone. "Enjoy?" I can't help picturing an ad for Italian food. Enjoy!
A laugh spills out, a high, nervous giggle that hardly sounds like my voice. I set down the phone and hunch over the kitchen table. God, if Kat is hearing this, she must think I've had a psychotic break.
An ellipsis bubble pops up as he types again. The next gem of a text: So I don't get anything back? ;)
I sigh. Should have seen that coming. "Nope," I say to my phone.
A sound comes from behind me. I whip around. Kat stands in the threshold.
"Hey," I say, shoving my phone into my pocket.
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.
