Then I Met My Sister

Woodbury, Minnesota

Then I Met My Sister
© 2011 by Christine Hurley Deriso.

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To Anne and Cecilia, who have always smoothed my path. I love my sisters so.

One

“Your mom.”

Gibs nods toward the audience and I follow his gaze.

Mom is sitting next to Leah Rollins’ mother in the middle of the packed auditorium. They chat discreetly, leaning toward each other and holding Chapel Heights High School Honors Day programs over their mouths. Mom clings to the fantasy that Leah Rollins and I are still best friends (Leah cut me loose in ninth grade), and is no doubt telling Leah’s mother that we girls just
have
to get together soon.

As she inspects our eleventh-grade class, seated on the stage for this portion of the program, Mom’s eye catches mine. She waves, her cupped hand held close to her chest as her manicured fingertips flutter.

Gibs has met Mom only a couple of times, but she’s easy to spot in a crowd: trim figure, tailored suit, sleek blond hair, bright blue eyes, fake bronzed tan. At age fifty-seven, she’s older than most of my classmates’ parents, but her high-maintenance grooming habits have served her well. The only thing that makes her look old is her expression. Her eyes are anxious, her smile tight.

“Why is she here?” Gibs whispers, then catches himself. “I mean …”

But there’s no way to recover, so he repeats the question. “Why
is
she here?”

“Because she’s a lunatic.”

The principal’s voice drones on, and pretty soon, he’s calling Gibs’ name for the zillionth time.

“Highest grade point average in history—Gibson Brown.”

Gibs tosses me an apologetic glance and heads toward the center of the stage to accept his certificate, his brown ponytail bobbing with every lanky step. Then he heads back to his seat, loosens his tie, and adds the certificate to the pile accumulating under his seat.

“Highest grade point average in
history
, Gibs?” I whisper, pushing a lock of long blond hair behind my ear. “You mean no one in history has ever made a higher grade point average than you? Pretty impressive.”

He tosses me a smirk. “The subject, Summer,” he tells me. “History the
subject
.”

The principal is droning on again. “Highest grade point average in honors English—Gibson Brown.”

The audience chuckles when Gibs has to head right back to the center of the stage. “Perhaps Gibson and I should trade places,” the principal wisecracks. More laughter.

Gibs finally gets to catch his breath when the principal moves on to Best Effort Awards. It seems logical that Gibs’ top marks attest to excellent effort, but no, Best Effort Awards go to the losers who squeak by with C’s and make their teachers happy by keeping their mouths shut in class.

I squeak by with C’s but don’t keep my mouth shut in class, so no Best Effort Awards for me.

Which brings us back to Gibs’ question: why
is
my mother here?

It was the source of a heated argument at breakfast:

“So the Honors Day ceremony starts at nine, right, Summer?”

I eyed my mother suspiciously while she washed dishes at the sink.

“Why do you ask?”

“Because I’m going, of course!”

The fork clanged as it dropped from my fingers onto my plate. “And why might that be?”

“Oh, Summer. Pipe down and finish your breakfast.”

“Hate to disappoint you, Mom, but I’m coming up dry.”

Mom avoided eye contact, just kept scrubbing china until it whistled as she told me she’d be there to support
all
the students, including me, for effort if nothing else.

So my shutout in the Best Effort categories must hit her particularly hard.

I should feel guilty. God knows
Mom
deserves a Best Effort Award for all the nagging, cajoling, bribing, and pleading she does to try to nudge me into honor student status.

Gibs thinks my underachievement is passive-aggressive, and I’m cool with that theory since it’s more flattering than the truth, which is that I’m lazy.

Plus awful at math. I’m energetically bad at math. I try, if for no other reason than to avoid my mom’s pinched looks as I struggle through homework, to solve the damn problems. I just can’t, which makes Gibs’ passive-aggressive theory even more appealing.

The ceremony finally concludes with the principal’s observation about how great we
all
are, award or no award, but greatness notwithstanding, we award-deficient types should aspire to collect our own little stack of papers at next year’s ceremony. Motivational speeches always have the opposite effect on me.

Priscilla Pratt strikes up a hearty version of Beethoven’s
Ode to Joy
for a piano recessional, and Mom vigorously seeks out eye contact with me, pointing emphatically to Priscilla.

She’s mouthing words I can’t make out but nevertheless understand perfectly. Priscilla and I used to carpool to piano lessons. But alas, I was a piano lesson dropout, and here’s Priscilla, entertaining the throngs with her hard-earned virtuosity.
She
practiced her scales. Mom is mouthing something along those lines.

I nod.
Yes, Mom. Priscilla’s a keeper
.

But does she have to bang the keys so hard? It’s jangling, what with those tinny, vibrating chords bouncing off the auditorium walls like shrapnel.

“Good thing Beethoven was deaf, or he’d be rolling over in his grave,” I mutter to Gibs as we take baby steps in the recessional line off the stage.

“The major religions would argue that God restores all the senses after death,” Gibs says over his shoulder.

“Then Beethoven is suffering right now, which is very unheaven-like.”

“SSSHHH!”

Mrs. Treat’s shushes are always louder than whatever conversation she’s shushing, making all eyes fall on her. She gratuitously nudges our elbows onward, as if we’d be roaming aimlessly without her cool plump arm guiding us off the stage. When she scowls (and she’s scowling now at me), she looks like Mao Tse-tung. Mom will manage to seek her out during the reception and gush about what a great job she’s done putting together this wonderful assembly.

We filter into the auditorium lobby (joylessly, I might add, Priscilla’s and Beethoven’s best efforts notwithstanding), where I see Mom’s head bobbing about in search of me. She’s standing next to Leah Rollins’ mother, who starts flapping her Honors Day program in the air when she spots me. I groan as the two moms weave their way through the crowd in my direction.

“Summer … !” Leah’s mom says. It sounds like the first word of a sentence, but what else is she going to say, what with Leah and me being history and my dismal showing in Honors Day. So that’s all she says.

“Hi, Mrs. Rollins.”

“Wasn’t Leah
wonderful
?” Mom coos, as if we just saw her on Broadway.

Mrs. Rollins waves away the compliment, then says, “She didn’t get nearly as many awards as I’d hoped.” Then she spots Gibs, who is hovering nervously by my side. “Who stands a chance when
this
fellow is in the class?”

Truly, Gibs totally blew the curve when he transferred to Chapel Heights earlier in the year. His nudging Leah Rollins from the top of the class ranking must piss off Mrs. Rollins mightily.

“Yes, young man, you certainly were impressive,” Mom says to Gibs. The only thing distracting her from his ponytail is his fist full of awards.

“Thanks,” he says shyly.

“Summer, aren’t you going to introduce us to your friend?” Mom asks.

“It’s Gibs,” I say. “Gibson Brown. You’ve met.”

“Oh? When?”

“A couple of times,” I say testily. “The PTA breakfast
five days ago
, for one.”

That was in the ponytail-distracting days, before Mom knew he was brilliant.

“You
know, Susanne,” Mrs. Rollins prods. “His family moved here from Cleveland in the middle of the school year. His father is a Very Prestigious Surgeon.”

Ponytail or no ponytail, Gibs’ cachet has just shot through the friggin’ roof.

“Mmmmm,” Mom says, raising a single and perfectly groomed eyebrow.

“Well, Gibson, keep up the good work,” Mrs. Rollins says, by which she means go to hell.

“Barbara, we just
have
to get our girls together soon,” Mom tells her.

“Oh, speaking of Leah,” Mrs. Rollins replies, teetering on her tiptoes as she peers deeper into the crowd, “there she is with all her friends.” She sucks in her breath after the last word, but it’s too late, so she flashes me a guilty look. I smile gamely.

“Better run,” she says, blushing, then heads in Leah’s direction. Mom’s gaze follows her wistfully, then turns back to Gibs and me.

“Well,” she says. “I’m very proud of you both.”

I guess she’s claimed Gibs now as her own.

Thank God she has something to be happy about.