Christine Deriso - Then I Met My Sister

But does she have to bang the keys so hard? It’s jangling, what with those tinny, vibrating chords bouncing off the auditorium walls like shrapnel.

“Good thing Beethoven was deaf, or he’d be rolling over in his grave,” I mutter to Gibs as we take baby steps in the recessional line off the stage.

“The major religions would argue that God restores all the senses after death,” Gibs says over his shoulder.

“Then Beethoven is suffering right now, which is very unheaven-like.”

“SSSHHH!”

Mrs. Treat’s shushes are always louder than whatever conversation she’s shushing, making all eyes fall on her. She gratuitously nudges our elbows onward, as if we’d be roaming aimlessly without her cool plump arm guiding us off the stage. When she scowls (and she’s scowling now at me), she looks like Mao Tse-tung. Mom will manage to seek her out during the reception and gush about what a great job she’s done putting together this wonderful assembly.

We filter into the auditorium lobby (joylessly, I might add, Priscilla’s and Beethoven’s best efforts notwithstanding), where I see Mom’s head bobbing about in search of me. She’s standing next to Leah Rollins’ mother, who starts flapping her Honors Day program in the air when she spots me. I groan as the two moms weave their way through the crowd in my direction.

“Summer … !” Leah’s mom says. It sounds like the first word of a sentence, but what else is she going to say, what with Leah and me being history and my dismal showing in Honors Day. So that’s all she says.

“Hi, Mrs. Rollins.”

“Wasn’t Leah wonderful ?” Mom coos, as if we just saw her on Broadway.

Mrs. Rollins waves away the compliment, then says, “She didn’t get nearly as many awards as I’d hoped.” Then she spots Gibs, who is hovering nervously by my side. “Who stands a chance when this fellow is in the class?”

Truly, Gibs totally blew the curve when he transferred to Chapel Heights earlier in the year. His nudging Leah Rollins from the top of the class ranking must piss off Mrs. Rollins mightily.

“Yes, young man, you certainly were impressive,” Mom says to Gibs. The only thing distracting her from his ponytail is his fist full of awards.

“Thanks,” he says shyly.

“Summer, aren’t you going to introduce us to your friend?” Mom asks.

“It’s Gibs,” I say. “Gibson Brown. You’ve met.”

“Oh? When?”

“A couple of times,” I say testily. “The PTA breakfast five days ago , for one.”

That was in the ponytail-distracting days, before Mom knew he was brilliant.

“You know, Susanne,” Mrs. Rollins prods. “His family moved here from Cleveland in the middle of the school year. His father is a Very Prestigious Surgeon.”

Ponytail or no ponytail, Gibs’ cachet has just shot through the friggin’ roof.

“Mmmmm,” Mom says, raising a single and perfectly groomed eyebrow.

“Well, Gibson, keep up the good work,” Mrs. Rollins says, by which she means go to hell.

“Barbara, we just have to get our girls together soon,” Mom tells her.

“Oh, speaking of Leah,” Mrs. Rollins replies, teetering on her tiptoes as she peers deeper into the crowd, “there she is with all her friends.” She sucks in her breath after the last word, but it’s too late, so she flashes me a guilty look. I smile gamely.

“Better run,” she says, blushing, then heads in Leah’s direction. Mom’s gaze follows her wistfully, then turns back to Gibs and me.

“Well,” she says. “I’m very proud of you both.”

I guess she’s claimed Gibs now as her own.

Thank God she has something to be happy about.

Two

“Whatcha doin’?”

Catch the cadence: Whatcha doin’ . It’s Mom trying to sound casual. I guess she figures it’s less off-putting than Why in God’s name are you frittering your life away on that computer?

What I’m doin’ is what I always do when Mom walks in when I’m on the computer: X-ing out the screen. I usually don’t have any particularly compelling reason to do this; it’s just a habit. The fact that it drives Mom crazy is a bonus. She insists that we keep the computer in “a central location” (our den), so I have no privacy when I’m IM-ing or playing solitaire or doing other computer-related things that constitute frittering my life away. Dad went to bat for me once, a few years ago, saying I should have my own laptop or we should at least put the computer in a more private place, but Mom stopped him cold by saying, “Hello? Child molesters ?!?” Which, let’s face it, tends to have a chilling effect on any conversation.

“Hmmm?” Mom persists when I don’t answer her whatcha doin’ question, which I naively assumed was rhetorical. She bends down to gaze at a blank computer screen.

“Nothing.” I mindlessly tap a key, waiting for her to walk away so I can finish my conversation with Gibs.

She clucks her tongue, which usually means she’s about to walk out, only to jerk her head back in my direction after a few steps to let me know I’m putting nothing past her, she’s always watching, she’s ever vigilant about the centrally located computer, she’s on to those child molesters, she’s a good parent. But instead, she sits down in the recliner by the computer. The chair faces the television set, not the computer, but she swivels to face the back of my head and the blank computer screen.

I tilt my head slightly in her direction, giving her a sideways glance.

“Ya need something, Mom?”

“I need your attention,” she snaps. The whole watcha doin’ folksiness is apparently history.

I roll my eyes while I have the chance, then turn around to face her.

“Yep,” I volunteer tersely.

“Your friend, Gibson, certainly distinguished himself in the Honors Day ceremony,” Mom says.

I nod. “Yeah. He’s great. Actually, he’s coming over after dinner to help me study for my history final. Hope that’s okay.”

Mom’s face brightens. “Well, of course. That’s a wonderful idea. Summer, that’s the kind of thing you should be doing more of. Maybe if you’d started that earlier in the school year … I mean, here it is, the middle of May, with the school year almost over, and …”

“But better late than never, right?” A tight smile is glued to my face.

“Summer, I won’t lie,” Mom says archly. “I know school has never been your strong suit, but it was a little difficult sitting through another Honors Day ceremony with such … disappointing results.”

My smile fades. “I told you not to come. You knew I wasn’t winning anything.”

Anger flashes in Mom’s steel-blue eyes. “You’ll be a senior next year,” she says in a frosty tone. “Everything you’re doing now is paving the way for your future. You should be making A’s, and logging volunteer hours, and doing extra-credit projects in school, and …” She sighs aggrievedly. “You know, by the time Shannon was your age, she …”

My withering stare stops her cold. Mom’s not the only one who can pull off frosty.

“Oh, stop being so sensitive,” Mom snaps. “It’s not like I’m comparing the two of you, I’m just …”

I give her a minute to squirm. She’s got nothing.

“I’m just pointing out,” she soldiers on, “that your sister was … she was very …”

She can’t come up with the next word, which is apt. The superlative says it all. Shannon was Very. I am Not.

“I don’t know what you want me to do, Mom,” I say. “Like you said, the school year is almost over.”

Mom folds her arms and nods briskly. “I want you to turn over a new leaf,” she replies. “I want you to ask your teachers for some extra-credit assignments this summer. I want you to buckle down next year and be the straight-A student we both know you can be. I want you to do some volunteer work. I want you to think about your future , Summer.”