Dear Journal:
I keep waiting for the shoe to drop with sissy. For her to storm into my room and call me out for all the dirty laundry I’ve aired in therapy. “How could you!?!” she’ll cry.
Then she’ll murder me in my sleep.
On second thought, she probably won’t wait. I’m more the “murder someone in their sleep” type, but sissy is far too overt and dramatic for that. She’d want to stare into my eyes as she plunged her knife into me. She’s been doing it, at least metaphorically, for years.
But she hasn’t killed me yet! Maybe she won’t. Sissy’s first therapy session with Dr. Chen is supposed to be tonight, and, while her social calendar isn’t as full as it was during her High School heyday, I doubt Mom would wait until the last minute to spring it on her.
Which confuses me. I can’t imagine sissy willingly going to therapy. She’s already perfect. If you don’t believe me, ask her.
Maybe she’s turned over a new leaf. That’s how mom and dad used to phrase it with me. That I should turn over a new leaf. Getting fat? Turn over a new leaf. Failing school? Turn over a new leaf. Busted for shoplifting? Turn over a new leaf. At this point, I’ve turned over more leaves than a leaf blower.
There’s evidence sissy finally has, too. She’s certainly been nicer lately, and there’s a spring in her step I haven’t seen in months. She even ate salad for dinner last night. One unaccompanied by hamburgers or pizza.
Then again, who wouldn’t be nice when they’re being showered with adoration and graduation gifts? I went a year without smiling, but I’d have been as giddy as a schoolgirl had I been given thousands of dollars and a two-week cruise. And am I the only one who noticed her façade falter when she found out we’d be cruising as a family?
She won’t fool me. To borrow another one of dad’s idioms, a leopard can’t change their spots.
Even if a therapist tells them they’re a pussycat.
--Jessie