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“I’ve been calling,” she says. I feel her eyes land judgily on the glass in my
hand. I take a long sip, holding her gaze.
“I left, like, three voicemails,” she continues.
“I didn’t see them,” I lie. All of the messages were “Call me.”
“You’re so unreliable.”
“So, you stalked me?”
“I wouldn’t call it stalking,” she says. I need to stop geotagging everything. I
forget that my sister’s even on IG. The last thing I saw on her grid was from
Halloween, where she’s dressed as a Yu-Gi-Oh! character. It stressed me out so
much, I muted her.
She crosses her arms archly. “You know, you could have just gone to San
Antonio Community College if you’re hell-bent on being some lush,” she
nishes.
I’m tempted to smack her, but we’re mushed against the wall by a party of
four inching past us.
“Seriously, what the fuck?” I whisper angrily. “What are you doing here?” For
a second we’re back in high school. My adrenaline’s spiked. I slide my left foot
back for stability.
But instead of pushing or shoving, she takes a deep breath and refuses my eye.
My heart judders.
“Fuck, is it Mom?” I ask. She’s dead. I’m totally convinced of it. It’s the only
thing that would make my sister come see me like this.
“No,” she says. “But we have to talk.”
“So, talk, fuck.” My indignation sounds performative even to me. I realize
I’m drunk. The glass in my hand is suddenly empty.
“How are you?” she asks conversationally, doing this little brow-knitting
concerned thing.
“You can’t be serious.” Truth is, she’s really beginning to frighten me. This
isn’t who we are to each other.
“Fine,” she says quickly. “But I don’t want to tell you here.” She reaches for
me. I recoil so fast, her nails scrape my bare forearm. I raise it between us, glaring
accusingly even though it doesn’t hurt. We stand there, the radiant resentment
between us throbbing.
“My friends are waiting for me,” I counter, practically in singsong. It’s old hat
that I goad my sister this way. Flaunting my comparative popularity. I dislike
myself as I do it.