Christine Deriso - Then I Met My Sister

Gibs and I slip into seats on the back row. “He’s been reading chapters of his novel at the last few meetings,” Gibs whispers to me, nodding toward the guy at the podium.

About a dozen people are scattered in the other seats looking … oh, let’s just face it: grim. Who other than a person without a life would spend a Sunday listening to a guy talking in a monotone about climate-related metaphors?

I shoot eye signals to Gibs to convey my concern about their loser status, but he knows me well enough not to take the bait. He stares straight ahead intently.

Someone raises a hand and asks if the shoes in the novel are also metaphors, and Grocery Store Manager responds in endless droning. My shoulders slump. I try again, unsuccessfully, to make eye contact with Gibs. I start counting polka dots on the blouse of a plump lady in front of me. Thank heaven we came toward the end of the meeting.

“You voluntarily come and listen to this stuff?” I whisper to Gibs, who shushes me with a stern expression.

“The metaphor that runs throughout my short story is fire,” says Polka Dot Lady.

People nod earnestly.

“Maybe you can read your story at the next meeting,” Grocery Store Manager offers congenially, and Polka Dot Lady seems excited at the prospect, though she blushes and explains that it’s not quite finished yet.

“This place is death,” I whisper to Gibs.

He looks stern again, but thankfully, Grocery Store Manager seems to be wrapping things up.

“As you know, we always like to adjourn with a tip of the day,” he says, and I’m so excited by the word adjourn that I almost burst into spontaneous applause. “Today’s tip concerns writers’ block. If you’re stuck—and who among us hasn’t been—stop what you’re doing, go turn the television on, watch it for fifteen minutes, then incorporate something from what you’ve seen into your story. Even if you edit or delete it later, the challenge should get the creative juices flowing.”

“Why not hurl your TV set through your neighbor’s window, watch his reaction, then incorporate that into your story?” I murmur to Gibs. He closes his eyes and shakes his head slowly.

People rise from their seats, make small talk, and start filing out of the room.

“That’s him,” Gibs says, nodding toward a trim guy in jeans who looks youthful despite his close-cropped gray hair.

As Mr. Kibbits makes his way toward the door, he spots Gibs and smiles.

“Ah, Gibson! Glad you could join us today.”

He extends a hand and Gibs shakes it. “Thanks. Um … this is my friend, Summer.”

Mr. Kibbits pivots toward me and shakes my hand.

“Hi,” he says. “I’ve seen you around school. You’re a rising senior, like Gibson, right?”

“Right.”

“Are you taking AP English Comp next year?” he asks me.

I glance away. “Honors courses aren’t really my thing.”

His blue-gray eyes twinkle. “And what might your thing be?”

“That’s what my mom wants to know,” I say gamely, tucking a lock of blond hair behind my ear. “Can I check back with the two of you after I’ve figured it out?”

Mr. Kibbits chuckles as Gibs leans closer. “Can Summer have a minute of your time?” Gibs asks him.

Mr. Kibbits spreads out his hands. “Does this qualify?” he asks cheerfully.

“She wants to discuss something with you privately,” Gibs explains in a lowered voice.

Mr. Kibbits smiles at me. “Care to have a seat?”

He motions toward a chair. I sit down and he sits next to me. Gibs offers a quick wave. “I’ll be … checking out some books,” he says, then walks out of the room with his dark ponytail bouncing lightly behind him.

I get right to the point. “I think you knew my sister. Shannon Stetson.”

He smiles. “Correct.”

I peer closer at him. “So you remember her?”

He nods. “Very vividly. She was a memorable person.”

“And you know she was my sister?”

Mr. Kibbits nods again. “Chapel Heights is a pretty small town. Lots of people remember Shannon. Word circulated quickly when you started high school. The teachers who were there when Shannon was in school … we kind of compare and contrast.”

“Right … ” I say. Damn. Shannon’s shadow follows me everywhere I go. At least the teachers are subtle about it. Most of them, anyway.

“I don’t mean to make you self-conscious,” Mr. Kibbits says gently. “Everything I’ve ever said, or ever heard said, was highly complimentary of both of you.”

I swallow hard. “My aunt just gave me a journal Shannon kept the summer before she died,” I say quickly. My eyes look away, then dart back to catch Mr. Kibbits’ reaction. He still has the same pleasant, placid expression pasted on his face.

“I just started reading it,” I continue. “She mentions you in the second entry.”

He touches an index finger against his chin. “Really.”

“She mentions a couple of other people, too. Chris—that was her boyfriend, I think—and Jamie. Did you know them?”

Mr. Kibbits nods. “Chris Ferguson. He still lives in town … works on cars at Phipps’ Auto Shop, I think. I’ve lost track of Jamie.”

“Why didn’t my mom like them?”

He isn’t surprised by the question. “They had nothing in common with Shannon,” he says, then thinks for a couple of seconds before clarifying. “As an AP teacher, I see lots of high achievers.”

“And … ?”

“Most of them have been high achievers all their lives,” he continues. “The kind of kid who runs for Student Council year after year and breaks records selling Girl Scout cookies. That sorta thing.”

“Mmmmmm,” I say knowingly. That’s the Shannon who’s been rubbed in my face all my life.

“Some of them are just naturally high-achieving,” Mr. Kibbits says, “and some are pushed by their parents to excel, excel, excel. Sometimes both.”

Check and check , I say to myself.

“By the time they get to my class—their junior or senior year—a lot of them are pretty burned out,” Mr. Kibbits says.

I finger a lock of hair. “Burned out?”

He nods. “Perfection is exhausting.”

I never considered that. “So, Shannon was burned out?” I persist.

He weighs his words carefully. “I think so. But just temporarily, in my opinion. She was so naturally driven that she was destined to do big things in a big way. But by the time I got to know her, she was starting to question whether all her hard work was worth the effort. She was starting to question lots of things. I think that’s why she started hanging with a different crowd—people like Chris and Jamie.”

My eyes narrow. “Did she hate my mom?” I say it so fast I don’t have time to censor myself.

He looks amused. “Don’t all teenage girls hate their mothers?”

Not good enough. “Why did she hate her?” I suddenly feel fearless, like a reporter barking out questions at a press conference.

He holds up the palm of his hand. “Whoa. I think I’m out of my depth here.”

“She confided in you, right?”

“Can I plead the fifth, Madame Prosecutor?” he jokes, but then turns serious. “Summer, I don’t think I’m in a position to …”

“What about my dad?” I say, my words tumbling over each other. “She said she was going to tell you some secret about my dad.”

Mr. Kibbits’ expression darkens.

I lean closer. “Tell me.”

His jaw hardens. “Summer,” he says firmly, “I don’t share information my students tell me in confidence. Keep that in mind, if you ever need someone to confide in.”

My eyes stay locked with his. “Shannon’s dead,” I remind him. “You can tell me.”