Dear Journal:
Friday night, we gathered in the kitchen before leaving for sissy’s final soccer game of the season. I should add the caveat that it was her final regular-season game. I got all excited for the “final game” last year, only to be dragged to another dozen or so playoff games after that. Sissy’s team made it all the way to the state finals, so we were attending games into June! I thought the heat was going to kill me!
As we waited for Dad to change out of his work clothes, sissy kept opening and shutting cabinet doors like she was looking for her keys. When she added the refrigerator door to the rotation, Mom asked her, “Do you want a snack before your game, hon?”
“No,” she sighed, plopping down at the dinette beside me. At least it put a stop to her inane pre-game ritual.
Sissy looked nervous. She was usually excited before games, jabbering at mom about this and that and incessantly clacking across the tile floor in her cleats. I suppose that’s a form of nervousness, too, but instead of bounding around like a nervy animal ready to strike, sissy seemed like a condemned prisoner.
And she didn’t just look nervous. She looked…bad. Her face was puffy, as if she were suffering an allergic reaction, and she was breaking out. Without the benefit of makeup, which she painstakingly applied every morning before school (often while I banged on the bathroom door), angry welts were visible on her cheeks and chin. Apparently, she’d spent some of her nervous pre-game energy picking at her face.
“Everyone ready?” Dad asked, entering the kitchen with a clap of his hands. His eyes found sissy’s. “Think you’ll be playing tonight?”
If looks could kill, Dad would be dead from the daggers Mom and sissy stared into him. I thought it was a fair question. It was an away game and a long drive. He probably didn’t want to go all the way there just to watch Michelle mope on the bench. I know I didn’t.
Following my father’s insensitive query, the drive to the field was mostly quiet. Sissy bounced her right leg the entire way. It was driving me crazy. I wanted to scream “Stop it!” but then I noticed how jiggly her thigh was. Occasionally, it slapped against the vinyl, sounding like a fat man doing a bellyflop, but sissy was too zoned out to notice. She just stared out the window, paying no attention to her shaking flesh or my hypotonization by it.
When we arrived, the minivan door slid open, but instead of bounding out with a wave and “see ya,” as per usual, sissy hesitated, staring at the floorboard as if in silent prayer.
I felt a little sorry for her. Remembering what Dr. Chen had said, I offered a supportive, “Good luck, sissy.”
That seemed to break Michelle out of her trance. “Thanks,” she said, shooting me a fragile smile. Then she exited the vehicle and walked slowly toward the field.
Shit. I didn’t realize how late it was. I’ll write more tomorrow…
--Jessie