Christine Deriso - Then I Met My Sister

“I know, but you forgive me. Right?”

He sneaks a look at me, then stares at his hands. “I should have brought you a present.”

I shrug. “Maybe next time. I’d love a poem. Or a sketch. Or maybe you can whip together a sculpture out of twigs …”

He blushes again.

“You did give me a present, goofball,” I say. “I was serious about the advice. And I plan to follow it, by the way.” I absently twirl a piece of hair in my fingers. “I’m going to read Shannon’s journal.”

Six

My birthdays have always had weird undercurrents, but this year’s are the weirdest. The Japanese dinner is full of pinched smiles and sad eyes. Yeah, it’s my birthday, blah blah blah, but all that the relatives can think about is Shannon. This is the year I turn her age. Her last age. The age that’s frozen in time. Nobody says her name out loud, but you can see it in their faces. Grandma keeps leaning in to whisper to Grandpa on her right and Aunt Nicole on her left. She finally stops after Aunt Nic shoots her a patient but firm glance. By the time the chef is making a volcano out of onion rings, I feel like I’m at a wake.

“How’s school going, Summer?” Grandma asks me primly. She’s that desperate for conversation.

“It’s going well,” Mom responds, intertwining her fingers.

“So you’ll be on the honor roll this term?” Grandma asks hopefully.

Term. Such a Grandma thing to say.

“She’s doing very well,” Mom says, the slightest bit of crankiness seeping through the false cheer.

Dad catches the waiter’s eye and points toward his empty beer bottle. Mom notices and raises an eyebrow.

“Uh, another for me, too?” Uncle Matt tells the waiter, sotto voce.

“I’d love to see your name in the paper for the honor roll,” Grandma says, stubbornly perpetuating the charade that I’m playing any role in this conversation whatsoever.

“She may not have quite made the honor roll,” Mom says, now undeniably testy, “but her teachers rave about how bright she is. Next year. That’s when Summer will hit her stride academically.”

Gibs is trying to catch my eye, but I resist, knowing I’ll giggle uncontrollably if I look at him.

“She’ll be a senior next year,” Grandpa observes dryly, pointing out that Mom is always banking on an honor roll daughter “next year” and that the buzzer’s about to sound.

The waiter comes back and hands Dad and Uncle Matt their beers. Dad takes a long swallow and looks blankly at the chef dicing vegetables in a pound of lard, which will look much more harmless when it melts.

“Shannon was always on the honor roll,” Grandma says.

Aunt Nic sucks in a breath. “Mother!” she whispers.

“What?” Grandma asks defensively. “Weren’t we talking about the honor roll? Is it a crime to even mention her name?”

“I’m sure the last thing Summer and Gibson want to talk about on a Saturday night is school,” Mom says. The edge in her voice is now downright unmistakable. Grandma’s on notice.

“Gibson,” Grandpa says. “What kind of name is that?”

He’s not asking Gibs, who might actually know what kind of name he has. Grandpa’s addressing all of us, as if we’re a committee tasked to reach a consensus on what kind of name Gibson is.

“It’s a family name,” Mom says decisively, then looks to Gibs for verification. “Right, Gibson?”

“Uh … ” Gibs says.

“It may be a family name, but it’s a last name,” Grandpa says grumpily. Why Grandpa would feel grumpy—indignant, really—about the name of someone he barely knows is beyond me.

“Fred!” Grandma scolds him.

“It’s a lovely name!” Mom chirps. “I admire family names. They have such presence.”

Aunt Nic and I share a quick conspiratorial smile. She’s only three years younger than Mom, but her easy-going personality makes her seem eons younger.

“Well, I never understood why you wanted to name Summer after a season,” Grandma is saying to Mom. “Of course, it’s grown on me.” She looks at me and says loudly, “It’s a lovely name, dear.”

I smile sweetly, biting the inside of my lip to avoid exploding in laughter, particularly since Gibs keeps nudging my knee.

The chef begins tossing oversized spatulas of food onto our plates.

The food orgy has begun. The piles on our plates soon resemble earthquake debris. There’s no longer any trace of that pound of lard, but it didn’t exactly evaporate into thin air. I look at my food suspiciously.

“Another beer, sir?” the waiter asks Dad.

“Uh, sure,” he responds, as if it would be bad manners to turn him down.

“Your last one,” Mom tells him under her breath.

“So, Gibson,” Grandma says, “are you and Summer an item?”

Okay, that one pushes me over the edge. I drop my head and giggle uncontrollably into my chest.

“Summer!” Mom scolds, which makes me laugh harder.

“Mother, Summer and Gibson are friends ,” Mom says, enunciating carefully.

This, too, strikes me as hilarious.

Mom pokes me in the side with her elbow. “People are staring,” she says through gritted teeth.

I take a deep breath, look up and glance at Gibs, who looks like he’s being prepped for brain surgery.

“Sorry,” I say, then erupt into another round of giggles.

Dad takes another swig of beer, Grandma looks confused, Grandpa looks bored, and Mom shoots me daggers with her eyes.

Gibs still looks petrified, but now he looks like he’s on the verge of laughter, too.

“Sorry, sorry!” I repeat. “Can you guys excuse me a minute?”

I grab Gibs’ arm, and he has no choice but to follow me as I get out of my chair and head toward the front door of the restaurant.

Dusk is settling as I stagger outside, Gibs in my wake, and sit on the restaurant steps. Gibs sits beside me. We look at each other and dissolve into more laughter. After we both calm down, I impulsively kiss him on the cheek.

“I’m so glad you’re here.”

He smiles and waves a stray strand of hair out of his face.

“Your family is …” He struggles for an adjective.

“Exhausting? Insane? Dysfunctional?” I volunteer.

He laughs. “I was going for ‘nice.’ ”

I peer into the setting sun and shake my head. “Nah. That one definitely doesn’t make the cut.”

We press our legs together to make room for a couple squeezing past us on the steps.

“They are nice,” Gibs insists as a breeze brushes against our cheeks. “And scintillating conversationalists, I might add. I totally enjoy lengthy discourses about my name.”

I wrinkle my nose at him and we laugh some more. “Can we just call you Joe from now on?” I say.

Gibs shakes his head. “Let’s go with Fred. That’s your grandfather’s name, right? Might win me some points.”

I peer into his eyes. “You’re blushing,” I say in a light tone. “Why are you blushing?”

Which makes him blush even more. I’m still studying his face, but he’s staring at his fingers.

Might win me some points. Does Gibs think that I thought he was coming on to me? Was he coming on to me?

Nah. Like I said, he’s just not there yet. Which is cool. I mean, the last thing I want to do is ruin a great friendship with lust. Besides, lust doesn’t work out so well for me under the best of circumstances. I haven’t crushed on a guy since Leah Rollins unceremoniously stole Josh DuBois from me in ninth grade.

I shudder at the thought, not because I’m still crushing on Josh DuBois (I’m not), or because I still detest Leah Rollins for her betrayal (I do, but whatever), but because that whole puerile scenario makes me want to puke.