Dear Journal:
“I come bearing gifts,” I said through sissy’s door. This was after my knock was met with a groggy, “go away.”
After a series of sighs, grunts, and shuffling sounds, sissy finally opened the door. She was wearing a fluffy, oversized bathrobe. “What?”
Michelle’s hair was matted, her face was puffy, and her eyes were red. It was clear she’d been in a repeating cycle of sleeping and crying.
“I thought you could use a treat.” I held up two Banana Split Blizzards. It's our favorite flavor. One of the few things we have in common.
“Thanks,” sissy said, taking one of the cups. She said it with all the enthusiasm of a sick child being given cough medicine, but at least she widened the door for me before returning to bed.
It was as close to an invitation as I was going to get.
I followed her inside and sat on the edge of the mattress. For a while, we ate our creamy concoctions in silence.
Sissy’s room was a mess. That was no surprise. Sissy lived like a pig long before she started looking the part. (Her room went to hell after mom and dad instituted their “No Boys Upstairs” policy.) But now I wondered if the clothes littering the floor and dangling off the back of her desk chair were merely dirty or outgrown. While the musty smell suggested the former, it was just as likely that the odor came from the various food containers, soda cans, and candy wrappers filling virtually every space.
My attention returned to my sister. Her eating was mechanical and perfunctory, as if it had to be done but brought her no joy. There used to be purpose in everything she did, but now she seemed uncertain. Scared even. Like a rudderless ship.
“So, what’s the next step?” I asked, filling the uncomfortable silence. “Is there some sort of appeal process? Can you join the team as a walk-on?”
Sissy shot me a sad, irritated look that told me she didn’t want to talk about it. I’m sure she had already gone over every possible scenario with mom and dad a dozen times, and probably a few dozen more in her head. So I decided to just be her friend.
“Well, I say, fuck ‘em,” I said, suckling my red plastic spoon.
Sissy gaped at me. I don’t swear much, so when I do, it tends to get attention.
“What? Don’t tell me you haven’t thought that.”
A grateful smile spread across sissy’s face. Finally, someone who wasn’t trying to reason or rationalize or troubleshoot. She held out her Blizzard cup and tapped it against mine. “Fuck ‘em.” She swallowed hard, and her gaze fell to the floor. “Especially, Mr. Harrell.”
It took me a second to remember that Mr. Harrell was her soccer coach.
“Oh, definitely. Especially him.” My tongue was getting numb. “Y’know, he made a terrible tactical error.”
Sissy looked at me expectantly. “What?”
“I’ll still be around next year.” I smiled evilly. “Maybe I’ll pee in his coffee or something.”
“You’d really do that?”
“Why not?” I shrugged. “I’ve already been expelled once.”
Sissy set her Blizzard on the nightstand and rose to her feet, extending her arms—
Oh, shit. She wanted to hug me.
I scrambled to my feet and, after setting my Blizzard on the dresser, walked into her embrace. Despite her recent gains and my recent losses, the size discrepancy between us was still great. She clutched me like a weeping willow taking shelter from a storm in the branches of a sturdy elm.
“I love you, sis,” she said, half-laughing, half-sobbing.
“I love you, too.” I found the words difficult to say…and not just because my tongue was frozen. Just a few months ago, she was poking fun and calling me “piggy.” Now, we were hugging and bonding over Blizzards.
This was strange, uncharted territory.
It was only after I left sissy’s room and closed the door behind me that I realized I had left the remainder of my Blizzard on her dresser.
Oh, well. She needed it more than I did.
--Jessie