Christine Deriso - Then I Met My Sister

Woodbury, Minnesota

Then I Met My Sister © 2011 by Christine Hurley Deriso.

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First e-book edition ©2011

E-book ISBN: 9780738728070

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To Anne and Cecilia, who have always smoothed my path. I love my sisters so.

One

“Your mom.”

Gibs nods toward the audience and I follow his gaze.

Mom is sitting next to Leah Rollins’ mother in the middle of the packed auditorium. They chat discreetly, leaning toward each other and holding Chapel Heights High School Honors Day programs over their mouths. Mom clings to the fantasy that Leah Rollins and I are still best friends (Leah cut me loose in ninth grade), and is no doubt telling Leah’s mother that we girls just have to get together soon.

As she inspects our eleventh-grade class, seated on the stage for this portion of the program, Mom’s eye catches mine. She waves, her cupped hand held close to her chest as her manicured fingertips flutter.

Gibs has met Mom only a couple of times, but she’s easy to spot in a crowd: trim figure, tailored suit, sleek blond hair, bright blue eyes, fake bronzed tan. At age fifty-seven, she’s older than most of my classmates’ parents, but her high-maintenance grooming habits have served her well. The only thing that makes her look old is her expression. Her eyes are anxious, her smile tight.

“Why is she here?” Gibs whispers, then catches himself. “I mean …”

But there’s no way to recover, so he repeats the question. “Why is she here?”

“Because she’s a lunatic.”

The principal’s voice drones on, and pretty soon, he’s calling Gibs’ name for the zillionth time.

“Highest grade point average in history—Gibson Brown.”

Gibs tosses me an apologetic glance and heads toward the center of the stage to accept his certificate, his brown ponytail bobbing with every lanky step. Then he heads back to his seat, loosens his tie, and adds the certificate to the pile accumulating under his seat.

“Highest grade point average in history , Gibs?” I whisper, pushing a lock of long blond hair behind my ear. “You mean no one in history has ever made a higher grade point average than you? Pretty impressive.”

He tosses me a smirk. “The subject, Summer,” he tells me. “History the subject .”

The principal is droning on again. “Highest grade point average in honors English—Gibson Brown.”

The audience chuckles when Gibs has to head right back to the center of the stage. “Perhaps Gibson and I should trade places,” the principal wisecracks. More laughter.

Gibs finally gets to catch his breath when the principal moves on to Best Effort Awards. It seems logical that Gibs’ top marks attest to excellent effort, but no, Best Effort Awards go to the losers who squeak by with C’s and make their teachers happy by keeping their mouths shut in class.

I squeak by with C’s but don’t keep my mouth shut in class, so no Best Effort Awards for me.

Which brings us back to Gibs’ question: why is my mother here?

It was the source of a heated argument at breakfast:

“So the Honors Day ceremony starts at nine, right, Summer?”

I eyed my mother suspiciously while she washed dishes at the sink.

“Why do you ask?”

“Because I’m going, of course!”

The fork clanged as it dropped from my fingers onto my plate. “And why might that be?”

“Oh, Summer. Pipe down and finish your breakfast.”

“Hate to disappoint you, Mom, but I’m coming up dry.”

Mom avoided eye contact, just kept scrubbing china until it whistled as she told me she’d be there to support all the students, including me, for effort if nothing else.

So my shutout in the Best Effort categories must hit her particularly hard.

I should feel guilty. God knows Mom deserves a Best Effort Award for all the nagging, cajoling, bribing, and pleading she does to try to nudge me into honor student status.

Gibs thinks my underachievement is passive-aggressive, and I’m cool with that theory since it’s more flattering than the truth, which is that I’m lazy.

Plus awful at math. I’m energetically bad at math. I try, if for no other reason than to avoid my mom’s pinched looks as I struggle through homework, to solve the damn problems. I just can’t, which makes Gibs’ passive-aggressive theory even more appealing.

The ceremony finally concludes with the principal’s observation about how great we all are, award or no award, but greatness notwithstanding, we award-deficient types should aspire to collect our own little stack of papers at next year’s ceremony. Motivational speeches always have the opposite effect on me.

Priscilla Pratt strikes up a hearty version of Beethoven’s Ode to Joy for a piano recessional, and Mom vigorously seeks out eye contact with me, pointing emphatically to Priscilla.

She’s mouthing words I can’t make out but nevertheless understand perfectly. Priscilla and I used to carpool to piano lessons. But alas, I was a piano lesson dropout, and here’s Priscilla, entertaining the throngs with her hard-earned virtuosity. She practiced her scales. Mom is mouthing something along those lines.

I nod. Yes, Mom. Priscilla’s a keeper .