Christine Deriso - Then I Met My Sister

So if I figure Gibs has another five years to go before he realizes he’s totally hot, I’ve got at least that long to go before I have the stomach for Josh DuBois, the Remix.

Yep. Friendship suits me just fine.

Another couple squeezes past us, and Gibs and I huddle closer, glancing at them apologetically.

“We really should go back inside,” he observes.

I take a deep breath and blow out through my mouth. “Ready for round two?” I nod toward the door.

He stands up and extends his hand. I take it and he pulls me to my feet.

“Bring it on,” Gibs says.

Seven

I’m settling into bed, still stuffed from Japanese food, but I’m not turning off my light just yet.

I glance at the journal on my bedside table, pause a second, then pick it up. I take a deep breath, open it, and start thumbing through the pages.

Shannon’s plump, bouncy handwriting scrolls from top to bottom, from margin to margin, page after page after page. Jesus. What exactly did she have to write about? Was she attempting a cure for cancer in between volleyball practices?

No … the random words my eyes settle on eliminate the possibility of intellectual heft, her perfect grades notwithstanding. Cheerleading … mall … boyfriend … Jeez. Did my sister have anything in common with me at all?

But I keep thumbing through the pages, smiling in spite of myself. I feel … connected. I mean, Shannon wrote these very words right down the hall from where I’m lying right now. Granted, she was in a puffy pink bedroom while I’m surrounded by Death Cab posters, but still, there she was … just a few feet away. Did she hear Mom gossiping on the phone with Aunt Nic while she was writing? Was she lulled by the same hum of the dishwasher that I listen to every night? By the ancestors of the same crickets, chirping in the back yard?

A chill works its way up my spine, but a gentle chill, a cozy chill, like a familiar finger lazily grazing my back. None of Shannon’s pictures or certificates have ever had this effect on me. In fact, they’ve had the opposite effect, making her soulless and one-dimensional. Her handwriting, in all its juvenile glory, is adding shades and dimensions.

A lump suddenly settles in my throat. I wish I could run down the hall and shake her awake.

Stupid. You can’t miss somebody you never knew.

I swallow the lump, shake my head impatiently, and keep thumbing through the journal.

Like I said, most of the pages are packed with words, so when I reach a page toward the end, it’s noticeable for its sparseness. Just a few words, written in heavy black ink, all capped, centered on an otherwise blank page.

I press my thumb against that page to hold it open and narrow my eyes for a closer look. At first, the words don’t quite register in my brain. I still even have that same silly half-smile on my face. But then I read the words again, and the smile fades. My lips mouth the words as my eyes widen:

I want to kill myself.

I want to kill myself.

I want to kill myself.

Breathe, I remind myself as my mind keeps processing the same five words in an endless loop. I inhale, then hold my breath. Exhale .

I close the journal, then grab the cell phone from my bedside table and fumble over the keypad. But just as I’m about to press Gibs’ number, I snap my phone shut.

What would I say? Gibs, remember the car accident I mentioned that killed my sister? Accident being the operative word? Yeah, well, maybe not …

Tears sting my eyes.

“Did you kill yourself, Shannon?” I whisper to nobody. “Did you drive into that tree on purpose?”

A tear rolls down my cheek. What do I really know about this sister of mine? Was her life not so perfect after all?

My head is spinning, but there’s one thing I know for sure—the only way to find out is to keep reading. And the beginning, I decide, is the best place to start.

Eight

I turn to the first page of Shannon’s journal, fluff a pillow, sit up a little straighter in my bed, and settle in for my first real introduction to my sister. Thursday, June 3, 1993 Mom gave me this book so I could “journal” this summer. I swear to God, that’s what she said. I wonder if her book club verbed the word journal. Gotta love Mom’s book club. Gotta love Mom for giving me a summer assignment to remind me that I’m never quite good enough. Apparently, straight A’s in honors courses don’t earn you the summer off. Oops! Here I am, busting Mom’s chops knowing full well that five minutes after I put down my journal, she’ll be reading every word of it. Right, Mom? You’ve snooped around long enough to find it, right? Keep up the good work. Your PTA friends don’t call you Sue the Sleuth for nothing.

I peer closer at the words and squeeze the journal’s faded cloth cover. I have to remind myself that Sue the Sleuth is my mom, too. A book club? The PTA? Since when was Mom such a joiner? And since when did Shannon hate her? None of the certificates on the Wall of Fame tipped me off about this. Well, Mom, the joke’s on you, because you’re never getting your hands on this. Kills you, doesn’t it? You buy me this journal specifically so you can sniff around in my business, and what do I do? I hide it in my … well, now, that’s my little secret, isn’t it? But if you DID find it, Mom (which you won’t), here’s a heads-up about how I plan to spend my summer:

I’m not breaking up with Chris.

I’m not ditching Jamie.

I’m done with church. I spend enough time with hypocrites in this house. (Good luck explaining the whole “daughter as heathen” development to the choir, Mom.)

I’m done with Eve. I’ll love her til the day I die, but I can’t handle her lectures anymore. I’m sorry she’s envious of my relationship with Chris, but that doesn’t excuse the awful things she says about him. Maybe if she ever gets a boyfriend of her own, she’ll finally understand (get a life, Evie!). And here’s a newsflash—it’s possible to be a good friend and a FUN friend at the same time (quit judging Jamie, Evie!). And while I’m at it: real friends don’t pump people for information only so they can earn suck-up points by blabbing the news to parents (quit ratting me out, Evie!). I may even dye my hair purple this summer, or get a tattoo of a water buffalo. Sorry to cramp your style, Mom, but I’m living dangerously this summer. Get used to it.

I close the journal and suck in my breath. Who is this person? Up until five minutes ago, Shannon had as much depth as a picture on a cereal box … a smiling, overachieving cardboard cutout. But the person who wrote this journal … this sarcastic Mom-basher … this person is a stranger. Geez, and I thought I was hard on Mom. Sure, she’s a pain in the ass, but you gotta cut some slack for anybody who’s lost a kid. Oh, right. Shannon’s mother hadn’t lost a kid. Yet.

Still, Mom thought Shannon hung the moon, and here’s her daughter ripping her to shreds. Where are those odes to kittens I was expecting to find?

I gingerly reopen the journal and turn a page. Friday, June 4, 1993 Okay, I’ve stopped crying now. Granted, I jumped to conclusions, but what was I supposed to think when Chris stood me up last night? I’d gone to all the trouble of arranging a perfect alibi. Jamie, AKA “Mrs. Collins,” even left a message on our answering machine reminding me of my “Youth Recycling Committee” meeting. Master stroke, if I do say so myself. But after all that trouble, Chris was a no-show at the park. I waited there for over an hour. I spent the rest of the night trying to call him, but he didn’t answer, so I cried myself to sleep. Every time Mom knocked on my door asking what was wrong, I told her I was watching a sad movie. (I went seventeen years without telling her a single lie; now it seems like I tell her seventeen lies a day.) Anyhow, happy ending. It was a total misunderstanding. Chris called this morning and said he thought we were supposed to meet TONIGHT, not last night. He was at his grandparents’ barbecue last night. I tried to be mad at him (he’s such a space cadet!) but he was so sweet when he realized how upset I was. When I told him how worried I’d been—that he could have been dead for all I knew—he said he’d rather be dead than make me worry. Awwww.