by Julie Brown
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\nMy sister has always had ridiculous good luck. It\u2019s become an inside joke in my family, though, to me, it\u2019s not really a joke so much as a long-running sitcom past its prime.<\/p>\n
There is nothing creative about harboring jealousy in relation to one\u2019s sister. Believe me, I know. The lack of originality is, quite frankly, embarrassing. But you\u2019d be jealous, too, if your only sister were beautiful, charming, witty and has led such a blessed existence that, when she eventually drops dead at the ripe old age of 97 (she won\u2019t look a day over 62), her heart will simply stop beating while she slumbers in the muscled arms of her middle-aged trophy husband. She\u2019ll have on a full face of makeup and she will most certainly not have drooled on herself. I\u2019ve thought about my own death more than is generally accepted as healthy, and, while there have been wild variations in the cause, three details remain constant: humiliation, bodily fluids, and a crowd of horrified onlookers.<\/p>\n
Naturally, I suppress these thoughts whenever we\u2019re together. Some days, it\u2019s a mindless exercise. Others, it\u2019s a game of Whack-a-Mole\u2122 that I have no chance of winning, a rigged exercise in frustration. Today, I\u2019ve only been in her presence for eight minutes: thus, the level of difficulty has yet to be determined.<\/p>\n
We\u2019re sitting across from each other, waiting for the barista to call out our orders. It\u2019s 8:28 on a Saturday morning. I\u2019ve got sand under my eyelids, bumper cars in my skull and a stubborn coating of bottom-shelf gin on my tongue. Meanwhile, my sister\u2019s freshly-shampooed hair gives off a faint whiff of coconuts every time she shakes it out of her eyes, which is approximately every fourteen seconds because her side-swept bangs are always sliding down over her brow in a cute \u2018n\u2019 sexy way that mine do not.<\/p>\n
\u201cSo.\u201d She\u2019s got one of those sad, leftover smiles on her face, the kind you see on people after they drop someone off at the airport. The kind on Elaine Robinson\u2019s face in that last scene on the bus in The Graduate<\/em>. \u201cThanks for meeting me. I didn\u2019t mean to wake you.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cNo problem,\u201d I rasp, fingernails tapping out a nervous rhythm on the laminate tabletop, every cell in my body desperate for caffeine. \u201cWhat\u2019s up?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWell,\u201d she begins, \u201cyou know that Dave and I have been having problems recently.\u201d I don\u2019t know, actually, but I nod anyway. Dave is the kind of guy who plays ultimate Frisbee and bakes zucchini bread and who seems to have wandered straight out of an REI window display. \u201cWe agreed to go to couples therapy a few months ago, and, initially, it was going well\u2026 Dave said it was probably just a rough patch and that everything would be fine\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cDouble espresso and mocha latte!\u201d<\/p>\n Her face brightens. \u201cThat\u2019s us! I\u2019ll get it,\u201d she says, touching my arm before gliding over to the counter.<\/p>\n What kind of problems could they possibly have been having? Did Dave forget to make the bed in the mornings? Had he been working too much? Were they arguing over the Netflix queue? I try to remember if my mother mentioned anything to me about it, but nothing surfaces.<\/p>\n \u201cThanks,\u201d I mumble as she slides the espresso toward me. Slightly vivified after the first sip, I say, \u201cSo, Dave said it was probably a rough patch\u2026\u201d as if willing her to continue.<\/p>\n \u201cRight.\u201d She dabs at her foamy upper lip with her napkin with the same care she uses to apply lip gloss. \u201cThat\u2019s what we both thought at first. Unfortunately, things didn\u2019t work out.\u201d<\/p>\n Things didn\u2019t work out.<\/em> Had they actually broken up? I suppose it isn\u2019t a terribly upsetting notion; I mean, it\u2019s not like she won\u2019t find someone else just as handsome and solid in a few months if she feels like it. She\u2019s got symmetrical breasts and a laugh that isn\u2019t accompanied by a persistent snort. She\u2019s got options. <\/p>\n I swallow my unbecoming jealousy with a mouthful of burning caffeine, a punishment of sorts. \u201cWhat do you mean?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cIt wasn\u2019t a rough patch. I realized I just wasn\u2019t happy. I was bored.\u201d She shrugs as if to say, \u201cThese things happen.\u201d<\/p>\n Twenty seconds ago I hadn\u2019t felt especially invested in the outcome of my sister\u2019s love life; I already knew she was going to live happily ever after, the question was only with whom and when. But that shrug\u2014it stung. Sure, Dave wasn\u2019t my cup of tea, but her blas\u00e9 attitude about the end of the relationship seemed inappropriate at best. Didn\u2019t she know that some people weren\u2019t as lucky as she was?<\/p>\n Of course she didn\u2019t. This point had been illustrated many times, in many ways, over the years, as she had attempted to help me with my regrettable lack of a steady boyfriend, as though I could saunter up and hit on that scruffily handsome guy who I\u2019ve spotted at the newsstand the past twenty-six mornings, always wearing the same green hoodie, buying a copy of the paper and, weirdly, a pack of Juicy Fruit. He must really love gum. <\/p>\n My sister has always suggested, in complete earnestness, that I orchestrate ridiculous \u201cmeet-cute\u201d scenarios in order to meet someone, like waiting around the corner until he\u2019s approaching the newsstand, then reaching for the Juicy Fruit at the same time he does. Then we\u2019ll catch each other\u2019s eye, laugh, and apologize, holding our gaze just a bit longer than is polite. He\u2019ll say, \u201cYou live around here?\u201d I\u2019ll say, \u201cYeah, just up the street\u2026You?\u201d One of us will suggest getting a cup of fair-trade coffee, and then, a few mornings later, we\u2019ll end up in a tangle of sweat-drenched sheets in his loft with its exposed brick, hardwoods and framed cult movie posters. He\u2019ll trace his finger over my lips and murmur, \u201cYou were amazing.\u201d<\/p>\n This is the kind of thing that happens to her. She can\u2019t imagine that it isn\u2019t so easy for anyone else, particularly her older sister. I mean, we\u2019re related. How could we be so far removed from one another\u2019s realities? It\u2019s like I\u2019m a foreign exchange student who was raised by a completely different family on another continent and, despite her best efforts to assimilate me into her culture, I never quite fit. I\u2019ve got unfinished edges, weird shoes, an uncomfortable way with an idiom.<\/p>\n Things didn\u2019t work out.<\/em><\/p>\n It used to flatter me that she assumed that I could exist in the world as she does, like it meant that, at least in her eyes, we were on the same level. It gave me a comfortable nest of false hope to settle into, a belief that, one day, I\u2019d blossom into the sister she should have logically gotten. Now it just felt like being poked by a splinter that, no matter how I tried, I couldn\u2019t remove.<\/p>\n \u201cYou woke me up at 7:45 on a Saturday morning to tell me that?\u201d I finally retort.<\/p>\n She looks down into her cup, as though she\u2019s been caught ogling a stranger on the street. Guilt prods me back into my role as supportive sister\u2014whether out of habit or a genuine impulse, I\u2019m not sure. I mutter an apology.<\/p>\n \u201cI slept with someone else,\u201d she blurts out. \u201cI don\u2019t know why I did it. Maybe I needed to give Dave a reason to move on. He didn\u2019t want to accept the fact that I could just fall out of love with him, you know?\u201d<\/p>\n As the meaning of her words register, a whirlwind of ugly, cruel, angry thoughts gather in my head, compete for space: I know that, despite my best efforts, one of them is going to make a break for it. I clench my jaw, set my tongue against the roof of my mouth, creating a physical barrier to hold it in.<\/p>\n What the hell were you thinking Dave is such a great guy that\u2019s a disgusting thing to do to someone you should be ashamed of yourself you always get what you want anyway so don\u2019t lose any sleep over it I hope you\u2019re happy with what you\u2019ve done don\u2019t expect me to feel sorry for you I\u2019m embarrassed to call you my sister slut tramp bitch whore don\u2019t you know how lucky you are.<\/em><\/p>\n I catch a glimpse of my reflection in a mirror across the room, and, though nothing is uttered or hissed or screamed, realize it doesn\u2019t matter because every word of it is scrawled across my face in the frantic hand of the self-righteous. She knows what I\u2019m thinking, partly because I\u2019m a terrible liar and partly because she\u2019s my sister.<\/p>\n Her usual expression of mild beatification has been replaced by creases of worry, regret, around her eyes and forehead. She is heartbreakingly human, ordinary and fallible, as she sits across the table from me. I notice that she\u2019s even missed the tiniest bit of foam at the left corner of her mouth. There\u2019s one gray hair, wiry and incongruous, peeking out from her temple. She\u2019s thinner, tired. A flash of recognition tugs at my features like an impatient child, coaxing a smile.<\/p>\n It doesn\u2019t matter. She\u2019s still beautiful. She\u2019s still my sister.<\/p>\n I reach across and rest my hand on hers. \u201cIt\u2019s going to be okay,\u201d I say with the certainty that applies to laws of physics, biology. \u201cSometimes things don\u2019t work out.\u201d by Julie Brown My sister has always had ridiculous good luck. It\u2019s become an inside joke in my family, though, to me, it\u2019s not really a joke so much as a long-running sitcom past its prime. There is nothing creative … Continue reading
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\nJULIE BROWN<\/strong> lives and writes in Austin, Texas. Her writing has appeared in Cherry Bleeds, the now-defunct website weddingchickie.com and a pathetic high school lit journal. She treasures irony, cynicism and Aaron Spelling productions. More on all three of these delightful things, along with The Best Timewasters on the Internet Completely Unrelated to Pornography, can be found on her website, www.julieabrown.com<\/a>.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"