Never Said (9 page)
After our mother's stupid comments
and Sarah's announcement of feeling unloved
I decide I am done with all this.
The being overweight.
The clutching of secrets.
The listening to my parents, who sound like idiots.
But I am done on my own terms.
My.
Own.
T
his is what they said: “Sarah, try smiling. Do it like Annie.”
Walk like her. Laugh like her. Succeed like her.
I heard it from her friends: “You two are related? Sisters? Twins?”
And from teachers: “I never would have known the two of you are just minutes apart in age.”
Dad's coworkers: “That Annie is something else. And Sarah. Sarah is a shy little thing, isn't she?”
From everyone except Garret.
Once, when we were at school, Annie came flitting up to Garret and me. She was happy about a date that night. Something secret and exciting, she said. Then she was off with Melanie and the rest of the girls.
“I like your sister,” Garret said as we watched her go. Then he reached over and kissed me. Right there in front of everyone. “But I am so glad you're you.”
A
nd I was glad to be me when I was with Garret. Maybe that's why it hurts so much to be alone. Is it even possible to let people know the Invisible Girl is an okay person?
After lights out
I gather the candy
lay it out on the blanket
and eat
till I want to throw
up.
I
'm sleeping when Annie comes into my room. She's quiet as a shadow. But I wake when I hear the door click shut. It takes a moment for me to realize what's going on. That she isn't sleepwalking or coming to borrow something to wear tomorrow.
She moves like smoke through the room, looks out my window, checks the latch. I don't say anything. Just lie there.
Annie checks the closet, looks under the bed. Quiet as a whisper she says, “I'm watching for you, Sarah. That's what older sisters do. Take care of the babies.”
The baby? I almost say it.
Then her words sink into me.
I'm cold with what she's said. Like when we stood outside tonight. But this fear is in my chest. Who's she looking for? How am I a baby?
Annie stays in my room, waiting on the chair at my desk until I sleep again.
If your mother doesn't protect you
you have to do it yourself.
That's what I have found.
Found you can't always rely on the people
you should be able to rely on.
Like your father.
Your father should know better.
So it's better than nothing that I check
on Sarah and I have been checking
for months now.
No one else does.
No one else will.
I'm scared.
Scared of what I can do.
Of what someone else might do.
Scared for my sister.
For me.
For me.
Up close.
Too close.
I feel his breath.
His hands.
How he wants me.
The pressure.
I awake with a start.
I
n the morning, I catch Annie in the bathroom we share.
I think of her in my room last night. Was it a dream?
My hand is on the doorknob. It's cool under my fingertips. No. She was there.
Annie's sat in my room while I slept before. It's just never felt so odd.
That chilly feeling is back.
My sister leans close to the mirror, peering at herself from all angles. She's showered, wearing her towel tucked around her chest. There's no black eye makeup. Her hair is slicked back. The earrings glitter. Annie purses her lips, pouts, gives herself a sultry stare.
As I back from the room, leaving her to the mirror modeling, she says, “Hey, Sarah” in this voice like pudding.
“Oh!” I'm embarrassed, like I was caught posing.
“You can stay if you want.” Annie turns to me. Adjusts the towel. Her toenails are a shiny pink. Pink? They've been black for months now. “I want you to. We can talk.” She hesitates. “Do you want to talk?”
I step onto the warm tile. The orange-y odor of the soap Mom buys from Milton's Herb Shop scents the room.
“Yes,” I say. “I do.” I turn on the water and wet my face.
This bathroom is all our mom, from the pink-and-white wallpaper to the matching pink towels with satin edging. Everything reflects in the mirrors.
When I've dried my face, I brush my teeth then add a touch of conditioner through my hair, taming the curls.
“Annie?”
“Hmmmm?”
“Last night?” I try to think how to say this. “Who were you watching for?”
My sister pauses. Glances at me, side-eyed. “I've been checking on you since you were little,” she says. “When we shared a bed, I sat up late, watching over you.”
I don't respond.
Does she know about Garret in my room after hours?
She wouldn't look for him. Would she? This was something else. Something scary.
“Since we were little?” I say.
She's taken black liner to her eyes. But she doesn't apply it as thick. In fact, she reminds me of Before. The light touch. The fine line.
“Yes.”
“Okay . . .”
“You've always needed taking care of,” Annie says. “Besides, there are times I can't sleep.” She shrugs. “I peek around the house. Look in on you. Check on Mom and Dad.”
Annie turns. Stares at her image in the mirror. “Did you know,” she says, using a voice that could be in a documentary, “that fat people have fewer wrinkles?”
It's been a long time since we've been in here getting ready at the same time. I hadn't realized until now that I missed this.
“Huh?”
“It's true. Look at us both.” She pulls me to her side. Clutches at my elbow. Makes me look at us. The Twins Who Are So Different. “No wrinkles. For either of us actually.”
“Wrinkles?” I ask. “We turned sixteen a month ago.”
“I know.”
“That makes no sense,” I say. “Neither of us . . .” Then I'm laughing. Hard. Crumpled over. There's still a bit of toothpaste on my mouth. Annie looks at me. She raises her eyebrows. Then she lets out this laugh I haven't heard in forever, a belly laugh. Huge. Loud.
Man, it feels good to laugh with her like this. I've missed my sister.
I rinse my hands, bits of giggles splashing down the drain with the warm water. Annie comes closer. Flattens my hair with her palms. “You have the best hair,” she says. And pat pat pats at me.
“I used to want your hair.” I stop. “I didn't mean that.”
She shakes her hair at me. “Don't want it anymore?”
I feel my eyes widen.
“It's okay. Chopping off one's own hair can have ugly results.”
Then she says, “Sarah? Do you think I'm sexy?”
She's serious, though there's laughter leftover in her voice. Will she dance around singing in her off-key voice that old, old song Mom used to listen to when we were little? But Annie asks again, “Do you?”
“What do you mean?” I wipe my hands free of water and leftover conditioner.
I know what she means because I look at myself that way. To see if I've changed since Garret dumped me, to see if there was a reason for him to listen to his mom. To see if I ever have a chance with anyone else.
Alex maybe?
Annie's hands are on her hips. Her feet spread. She dabs at her eyes so she doesn't mess up her makeup. She's snapped her bra and pulled on an Elton John shirt. Now she tugs on her blue jeans, and before they're fastened she uses a sultry voice. “To a man. Do you think I'm appealing?”
I see in her eyes she really wants to know.
My cheeks flush. I think of Garret and then, for some reason, Alex. “A-peeling?” I say, hoping to end this conversation. “That sounds like something you do to fruit. And anyway, you can't think sexy about a relative, Annie. Ick.”
My sister is so comfortable with herself. She's had so many boyfriends. Was so popular. Best friend to so many girls, so many people.
She laughed about her period, talked openly about staying a virgin, didn't care what people thought when she wore her crown and strutted to high school in heels.
Now I squeeze the face towel I've dried off with. It took me two weeks to hold Garret's hand in public. Three weeks before I let him kiss me.
You are not the same as your sister
, comes into my head.
Garret doesn't care. Alex won't.
Annie's insistent. The sexy voice gone. “Do you think men would find me attractive now?”
I sling the towel over the side of the tub. “Men? Men shouldn't be looking at you,” I say. Though I know they do. Did. Do? Is it still do?
She nods, says, “Yes. Men. My face is almost the same, don't you think, Sarah?” She's quiet a second. There's that hesitation that's so not Annie. That's more me. “Or do you agree with Mom?”
“Like I told you, Annie,” I say, “I think you're beautiful.”
“Do you think I might catch something from these other people? The club people?”
“Mom didn't say that.” My words are breathy.
Annie glances at herself. “She meant it.”
“The club is a good thing.” Annie's voice, soft like her body, floats around me. “Thanks for caring, Sis.”
“Always,” I say.
When Sarah leaves
I look at myself.
No means no.
Even if, at first, you thought you meant yes.
Even if, at first, it was your fault.
Even if, at first, you made yourself available.
I
'm thinking about a test in Chemistry when Annie says, “He's out there again.”
The morning is clear and dark. No clouds. To the east, a thin line of morning shows, skimming the earth like icing.
“Who?” Will the car never warm up?
“Floyd Freeman.”
I stare out my window. Yup, there he is, shoveling. And his driveway is clear. My stomach does this weird falling thing. “Maybe he's crazy.”
“For a while, every time I saw him, I wanted to run,” Annie says. “And Sarah, it's Mom who's crazy. All that crap last night.”
“What do you mean, run?” I asked, but Annie interrupts.
“She hurt my feelings. Again. Telling me I look bad.”
“I know.”
Maybe it's worse watching what has happened to me all these years happen to Annie now. I'm used to it. I was trained that way. But this is new-ish to her.
Half a block from school, we pull into the line of cars waiting to turn into the parking lot. The sides of the road are piled with dirty snow. A few trees have limbs snapped by the weather and now hang like broken arms. Mailboxes look like expensive cupcakes with too much whipped cream on top. Annie swears under
her breath. I'm not sure if this is because the hill we coast down is dangerously icy or if she's still mad at Mr. Freeman or if she's frustrated with high school traffic.
Annie clutches at the steering wheel and I'm glad, again, I don't drive.
“Don't give her the power,” I say. “You don't have to wear the black dress. Choose something else.”
Annie might not hear me because she doesn't answer.
When we pull into a spot, people are piling out of their cars. A handful of kids hurry to the seminary building to study religion for an hour. Others run into the main building. Leafless trees clatter bony limbs as the wind blows snow into drifts.
Chemistry is in my head. Chemistry. Why did I take Chemistry? I knew it wouldn't be easy.
Annie turns off the car. She sits there, quiet, and I don't move. I'm not sure why I'm not out of here and headed to class as fast as I can walk so I can get some last-minute studying done.
“Once I packed up all my stuff in the car,” Annie says. ”To go. Loaded the trunk because I knew no one would check it.”
A car alarm goes off. People call to one another.
“Why?”
She takes a deep breath, which is funny because I can't breathe at all. “Have you ever thought of running off for good? You know, never coming back?”
A snowball hits the car and I jump. Someone laughs. The tree we're parked under reaches toward the hood.
I shake my head no.
My skin is plastic.
“Oh,” Annie says. Then she opens the door, slams it behind her, and heads off to class.
L
eaving me alone after saying something like that. The brat.
T
he first bell rings. Then the second. I'm going to flunk Chemistry if I keep going late. That's what I think, but I don't move. I wonder about Floyd Freeman shoveling non-existent snow. Or shoveling in a storm. Wonder about Annie. What's going on between the two of them?
What's made my pacifist sister so mad? Should I talk to Mom?
There's no way Annie'd forgive me for going behind her back.
What's wrong?
The worry is like weights. We were just laughing about wrinkles, about being sexy. And now she says this? Right after she sees Mr. Freeman?
I sit in the car until I'm so cold I can't stay any longer. The lot is cleared of people. Cars are parked skewampus. A cloud moves in from the north. Low. Almost touching the ground, it seems. Another storm. This one with lightning, something that doesn't happen often. Already, thunder rolls closer.
I can't go to class. Can't walk in late where everyone will see me. The thought makes my mouth go dry.
