Then I Met My Sister (8 page)

Thirteen

W
hoosh.

Chugga, chugga, chugga.

Whoosh.

Chooga, chooga, chooga
.

I pry my eyes open, squinting to adjust to the sunlight streaming through my blinds on this bright Sunday morning.

Mom’s running the dishwasher. I groan. I’m used to it at night, but not in the morning. For some reason, it sounds as loud as a freight train at this hour. What better way to start off one of the few mornings I can actually sleep in?

I spend a couple of minutes trying to get back to sleep, but it’s impossible. I roll my eyes and prop my pillow against my headboard. Gibs and I are meeting for burgers later, but I’ve got time to kill for now, so …

I reach under my mattress for Shannon’s journal. I press my lips together as my stomach muscles tighten, then open it to her next entry.

Monday, June 7, 1993

Confession: The shrink isn’t nearly as hideous as I expected.

I thought he’d start our “session” by asking, “How does that make you feel?” any time I told him anything. But instead he told me he was a Deadhead, then talked about all the concerts he’s been to. He showed me a picture on his desk of him with Jerry Garcia. He’s been to lots of Stones concerts, too, and Bob Dylan. I told him he was living in the sixties and he laughed.

Then Dr. Deadhead asked me what kind of music I like, and I said, “I don’t know.”

He said, “How can you not know?”

Touché.

If he’d asked me a year earlier what kind of music I like, I would’ve told him the Grateful Dead, the Rolling Stones, and Bob Dylan. Because that’s what HE likes, and that’s how desperate I always was to please. I have no personality. I’m not a real person. I’m just a blank slate. Write on me however you see fit, and I’ll find a way to be that person. All I ask in return is that you like me.

How pathetic.

So I’ve stopped trying to be a blank slate. I just don’t know what to be instead. I spent so long guessing how other people want me to be, then playing that part, that I don’t know how to BE. I just know how to ACT.

So the simplest question in the world—“what kind of music do you like?”—made me cry.

Because the answer scares the hell out of me: I have no idea.

“She was seeing a psychologist.”

Gibs raises an eyebrow as he drinks from a straw.

I dab a French fry into the catsup I’ve squirted onto my burger wrapper.

“A shrink,” I clarify. Gibs has this habit of not responding right away, and it always makes me feel like I have more explaining to do.

“I know what a psychologist is,” he says, setting his soft drink back on the table.

Little kids with catsup-smeared T-shirts run past us squealing, headed for the adjoining play area and leaving a harried-looking mom in their wake.

“She talks about the shrink in her journal?” Gibs asks, taking a bite of his burger.

I nod, my eyes still fixed on the kids as they dive head-first into a vat of brightly colored balls. “She says Mom threatened to take her car away if she didn’t go.”

She says
. Present tense. I’m referring to Shannon in the present tense.

“Does she say why your mom wanted her to see a shrink?” Gibs asks.

My eyes finally pull away from the kids and settle back onto Gibs’ face. “She’s acting weird all of a sudden,” I tell him. “Shannon’s been a goody-goody all her life, and now she’s feeling phony and suffocated. She can’t even tell the shrink what kind of music she likes. She says that now that she’s stopped playing the goody-goody role, she doesn’t know who she is.”

Gibs shrugs. “Everybody plays a role,” he says quietly. “My cousin’s in medical school because when she was in kindergarten, some relative asked her what she wanted to be when she grew up. She said a doctor. You know, like some kids say they want to be a pirate. Anyway, from that point on, her parents bragged to anybody who would listen that she was going to medical school.”

I crinkle my brow. “So you’re saying she doesn’t really want to be in medical school?”

“Who knows? But that’s a lot of pressure, you know?”

“So nobody does what they really want to do? They’re all just trying to please somebody?”

“Or
displease
somebody. Like you. By being a screw-up in school.”

My eyes narrow mischievously. “Has it ever occurred to you that I’m just not very bright?”

He considers my question for a moment, then says, “Leah Rollins is a straight-A student. She takes notes when a teacher mentions he got his tires rotated over the weekend. Asks if it’s going to be on the test.” Gibs sips his drink. “But she’s learned how to play the game. She might even end up valedictorian. Not that I’m bitter. My point is that grades have a minimal correlation to intelligence.”

“You’re a straight-A student, too,” I remind him.

He nods. “Yet I have much more in common with you than I do with Leah Rollins.”

He glances past me and his eyes widen slightly. “Speak of the devil …”

I turn around and see Leah and Kendall Popwell coming through the door, their sleek, straight hair flowing. I roll my eyes and slink lower in my seat.

Gibs waves in their direction. Damn. They’ve spotted us. They walk over to our table.

“Hi, Gibson. Hi, Summer,” Leah says.

I toss a noncommittal wave.

“What’s up?” Gibs asks.

“Just grabbing lunch,” Kendall responds.

“Are you doing extra IB work this summer?” Leah asks Gibs.

“Uh, yeah. My advisor recommended it,” Gibs says.

I roll my eyes. IB, or the International Baccalaureate Program, is our school’s most elite honors program, intended for either the freakishly brilliant (think Gibs) or the most freakishly slavish to school conformity (think Leah).

“Just be sure to come up for air every once in a while,” Leah tells Gibs with a smile. “You’re edging me out for class valedictorian, you know. My mom is
not
pleased.”

Gibs blushes.

“You’re
both
edging me out,” Kendall says in mock indignation. “Slack up a little, will ya?”

“Check,” Gibs says, smiling shyly.

“Well, better be going,” Leah says. “See ya.” The girls walk toward the counter to order their meals.

I narrow my eyes. “
See ya
,” I repeat, in a breathy Leah imitation.

Gibs laughs. “Leah’s nice enough,” he says.

“Leah’s a snake,” I correct him. Why do guys never get these things?

“Anyway, back to Shannon,” I say impatiently, tapping a French fry against my burger wrapper. “I wonder if Shannon’s psychologist is still around. She hasn’t called him by name, at least not so far. She calls him Dr. Deadhead.”

“Even if he
is
still around, he wouldn’t be able to talk about Shannon,” Gibs says. “Doctors can’t discuss their patients.”

“Shannon’s dead,” I remind him.

“Doesn’t matter. My parents are doctors. Patient confidentiality is sacrosanct.”

“Ooooh,” I tease, tossing another fry into my mouth. “I bow to your superior intellect. After all, your parents are
doctors
.”

He smiles, blushes, and stares at the table. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“You totally did. You are such a show-off.”

Gibs squeezes his eyes shut and shakes his head, his cheeks still rosy.

“I’m kidding, moron,” I tell him. “You’re the
anti
-show-off.”

He sips from his drink, still too embarrassed to look at me.

“I thought we were talking about Shannon,” he finally says after taking a swallow.

I giggle. “Can you handle even the slightest amount of attention?”

He drums his fingers on the table. “Feeling a little self-conscious here, Summer.”

“Yeah, duh.” I study him carefully, resting my chin on the palm of my hand. “You’re quite the dichotomy, Gibson Brown. You manage to stand out in a million different ways, what with your freakish intelligence and all, yet you can’t handle the most casual conversation about yourself.”

“Oh, I can handle it,” he says playfully, finally sneaking a glance at me.

“Can you really? Let’s see about that. Okay, Gibs, tell me what you consider to be your best quality.”

He grins sheepishly. God, he’s got the cutest dimple. “I’m unbelievably patient with inane questions,” he says.

“And your worst?”

He thinks for a second. “Even though I humor my friends when they’re asking me inane questions, I’m secretly plotting revenge.”

I lean closer. “Intriguing. And what shape might this revenge take?”

He waves an arm nonchalantly through the air. “Something like this.” He squeezes a half-empty catsup packet in my direction and it spews in my face.

I sputter with laughter. “Oh,
no you didn’t
!”
I shake pepper into my hand and blow it toward his face.

He fans his face as I dab the catsup off my cheek. People start looking at us as we laugh.

“You’re making a spectacle of yourself,” I say, feigning indignation.

“Yeah, you tend to bring that out in me.” He grins, relaxing into his booth.

God, that
dimple
.

Fourteen

Friday, June 11, 1993

Jamie Williams, meet Journal.

The handwriting changes from Shannon’s fat, bouncy letters to a messy, slanted scrawl:

Hi, Journal.

Back to Shannon:

Jamie’s spending the night with me. Grandma and Grandpa ate dinner with us tonight, so she got the whole Twenty Questions routine while she was trying to pick the onions out of her meatloaf. In keeping with the question/answer theme, I’ll quiz Jamie now.

Q. How did you like my mother’s meatloaf?

A. The onions grossed me out. I think your mom noticed. Just one more reason for her to hate me, I guess.

Q. Haven’t you learned yet how to suck up to my mom?

A. I’m trying. She shot me a dirty look when I walked into the dining room wearing a tube top, and the new piercing on the top of my earlobe didn’t win me any brownie points. Also, I got seriously bad vibes when your grandparents asked me what I was doing after graduation and I said chilling. Can’t your mother take a joke?

Q. Except that you weren’t joking.

A. Whatever.

Q. Speaking of bad vibes, do you still hate Chris?

A. For the zillionth time: I DO NOT HATE CHRIS!!! I just don’t think he’s good enough for you. Gawd. I wish I’d never told you about Tiffany.

Q. He already told me about Tiffany. He wasn’t flirting with her at the party. He was helping her find her contact lens. For the zillionth time: GET YOUR MIND OUT OF THE GUTTER!!!!

A. That’s not a question.

Q. Okay, here’s the question: Do you finally accept that Chris was only helping Tiffany find her contact lens at the party?

A. Assuming her contact lens fell into her shirt and that they had to turn off the lights to look for it. New subject pleeze!

Q. Are you sure you’re not just jealous that for the first time ever, I’ve got a boyfriend and you don’t?

A. You’ve always loved awards, so tonight I’m pleased to present you with the trophy for Most Conseated.

Q. “Conceited.” And no, I’m not. I just want my best friend to be happy for me that I finally know what it’s like to be in love. Oh, sorry. That’s not a question. How’s this: Can you be happy for me that I finally know what it’s like to be in love?

A. As soon as I finish barfing, I’ll start being happy for you.

Q. Will you be the maid of honor at my wedding?

A. As long as you don’t ask Tiffany to be a bridesmaid. Or at least insist she wear her glasses at the wedding. We wouldn’t want any contact lens snafus during the ceremony, now would we? And speaking of weddings, does your mom know yet that you’re thinking of trading Harvard for buy-one-get-one-free tuition at Moron Community College?

Q. I’m asking the questions here. And Morton is a perfectly good college.

A. Perfectly good if you want to file nails for a living. And by the way, you’re totally not getting the whole Q-and-A concept.

Q. Here’s a question: Ready to ditch the journal?

A. Gawd yes. I haven’t done this much writing since my second year of freshman English. And I’m dying to smoke some weed, so get the air freshener ready. Bye, journal.

I listen to crickets chirp outside my window and squeeze the cover of the journal. I have to get up early tomorrow morning for work, but even though my eyes are heavy, I can’t put the journal aside.

Eighteen years earlier, Shannon’s friend Jamie was sleeping in
my
house, just down the hall. They’d had dinner earlier that evening in
my
dining room, with
my
parents and grandparents, and then they’d gone upstairs and started writing in the journal I’m holding now. And smoking weed! All this time, I’d thought
I
was the rebel in the family. I can’t help feeling exasperated.
I’m rebellious, Shannon, but not stupid. Why are you such a follower? Could your little phase possibly be any more clichéd?

But I take a deep breath as I remember the entry that has haunted me since I first opened the journal:
I want to kill myself
. Beneath all her breezy bravado, Shannon was really hurting.

I keep reading:

Saturday, June 12, 1993

Okay, so I kinda admit the whole Chris-helping-Tiffany-find-her-contact-lens deal was bugging me more than I wanted to admit, so I told him to meet me at the park tonight. I told my probation officer (AKA Mom) that I needed to make a drugstore run to buy tampons, so that bought me a little time away from the Big House.

I got to the park, took one look at Chris sitting on a tire swing in the moonlight, and burst into tears. Corny, I know. What can I say? He has that effect on me.

I bawled my eyes out while I told him that I totally trust him but keep hearing rumors about him and Tiffany and just don’t know what to think. He held me for the longest time … just the two of us sitting on the swing in an empty park.

What he told me makes perfect sense. First, consider the source. Yes, I’ve heard the rumors from several people, but most of those people heard the rumors from Jamie, and Chris is right: Jamie is totally jealous of me. She’s a great friend, but I don’t think she can accept my relationship with Chris, especially since she’s boyfriendless at the moment. It’s a total role reversal for us, and I just don’t think she can handle it. So I don’t (entirely) blame her for stirring up gossip, but I can’t let her jealousy mess up the best thing that’s ever happened to me.

So what have I learned?

• Trust Chris. He would never hurt me. We’re going to spend the rest of our lives together, proving our love. Repeat after me: CHRIS IS NOT MY DAD.
  
• Don’t trust Jamie. Not entirely, anyway.
  
• Necking on a squeaky, rusty tire swing under the stars is the most romantic thing in the world.
  

Note to self: If your excuse for getting out of the house is that you’re making an emergency tampon run, don’t come home empty-handed.

You guessed it: My hall monitor (AKA Mom) was waiting for me at the front door when I came home from the park. She had that George Washington expression on her face, the cold eyes and the lips stretched into a tight straight line. I played it cool and told her I realized I was low on gas when I got in the car, so I spent my last ten bucks on petro instead of tampons.

So what was I going to do without tampons, she asked.

Well, it just so happens I ran into Eve at the gas station and she lent me a few spares she had in her purse.

Would I care to produce them, Mom asked.

Thank God I had a couple of tampons in the bottom of my bag.

Except that then, Mom produced the two full boxes of tampons she’d found under the bathroom sink.

Must have overlooked them, I said.

Except that we always keep them in the same place, so how could I have overlooked them, Mom asked.

Because OMIGOD, MOM, YOU’RE ALWAYS ON MY CASE! CAN’T I HAVE ONE SECOND OF PEACE WITHOUT BEING TREATED LIKE A SERIAL KILLER ON DEATH ROW?

Or something to that effect. I expected Mom to keep arguing, or keep lecturing, or start wailing about how my life was going to hell in a handbasket, but she didn’t do any of those things. She just looked sad and went back to bed.

Which means I got off easy, right?

So why am I crying?

God, Mom can still push all my guilt buttons. Why? Wasn’t 17.5 years of perfection enough for her? Aren’t I entitled to tell an occasional lie? Okay, so they aren’t so occasional these days, but maybe I’m making up for lost time. It seems the more right I did everything, the more Mom criticized me and kept upping the ante: “An A on your report card? But you made an A-plus last semester! What in God’s name is wrong with you?!?” Or: “First runner-up in Miss Corncob USA? Oh, the horrors! We’ll start training IMMEDIATELY for the next pageant! Snap to it, Shannon! Nothing but absolute perfection will ever be good enough for me!”

But I’M feeling guilty now? Mom never once said to me, “Gosh, honey, I’ve been awfully hard on you, and I just want you to know: trophies or no trophies, honors or no honors, I think you’re great just the way you are.”

Truly, I’d give my right arm to hear that.

But I’ll never hear it. Maybe Mom’s the one who should feel guilty.

I close the journal, squeeze it under my mattress, lie on my side and stare into space. My head is spinning from all the information Shannon has thrown at me. I wish she’d learned what I learned early on—there’s no pleasing Mom, so just take yourself out of the game. No beauty pageant equals no disappointment.

But then I wince a little. God knows I was never cut out to be a beauty queen, but maybe
some
of the games I took myself out of were things I might actually have enjoyed … might actually have been good at. Who had the right idea? Shannon, for tap-dancing for Mom as long and as hard as she could, or me, for refusing to put on the tap shoes in the first place?

As jolting as these thoughts are, my brain keeps going back to something else she wrote:

Repeat after me: CHRIS IS NOT MY DAD.

I pull the covers tighter under my chin. I can’t quite wrap my head around it, but I can’t wish it away, either.

So who was she, Dad? Who was the other woman?

Although I don’t think I want to know, I’m starting to realize I don’t have any choice. Shannon wants to tell me.