Sister Mischief (23 page)

“Are you kidding?” I cry. She clamps a hand over my mouth, her eyes widening. I try to kiss her hand. She clenches harder. I give her a conciliatory look with my eyes:
okay, okay.
She releases.

“Rowie, where the fuck did you get the demented idea that I was ready for this?” I hiss. “Are you for fucking real? This is like a fourteen-wheeler careening across the highway of my life. No one could be ready for this.”

“I just really don’t think I’m all-the-way gay.” Rowie rolls over on her away side.

“Call it what you want, honey, but let’s talk about it later,” I breathe, trying to kiss her neck. Faceless talking heads chatter quietly in the background, tallying counts.

She turns away. “I don’t mean it like I’m not into you. I’m really into you. You know that. Maybe if we were in college, or even just not in my
house
. . .” She trails off.

“Maybe what? Maybe you’d be gayer? Yo, do you ever think you might be underestimating your mom just a little bit? Because she’s pretty much the most understanding person I’ve ever met. She disobeyed her parents.”

“Fool, you think that means she’d be psyched I’m taking away from SAT study time to hook up on the sly? With a
girl
? Get real.”

“Still,” I take her hand and put it on the side of my face so she can feel me talking. “Haven’t you ever wondered if she already knows?”

“She can’t.” Rowie shudders. “Look, my dad only has opinions about things every once in a while. But when he does, there’s no moving him. And having a daughter with a girlfriend would definitely be one of those times.” This is the first time Rowie’s ever used the word
girlfriend.

“Ro, I gotta say, I am so fucking sick of you talking about your parents —”

Before I can finish my sentence, we hear a bark from outside. Rowie freezes.

“Did you hear that?” I say. “It sounded like it’s right below us.”

She opens the floor door and peeks down into the yard. We hear the bark again. A puggle bark.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” she moans. “It’s fucking Stinker.”

“Stinker, you little shit!” I whisper-yell down to the dog. “Why are you always spying on my makeout spots?” Stinker’s intrusion brings me back to Charlie Knutsen’s Camry, which suddenly feels like a very long time ago.

“Christ,” she says. Stinker yaps again, wagging his tail in excitement as he notices us noticing him. “What are we supposed to do? We can’t call Tess.”

“What do you mean, we can’t call Tess?” I snap. “Why would she think it was weird that we’re hanging out? Jesus, how fucking paranoid
are
you?”

Just then, we hear a voice in the middle distance. “Stinker! Stinks!”

“Shit,” Rowie cusses under her breath, pulling the floor door partially closed.

“Stinker, where are you?” There’s no mistaking; it’s definitely Tess’s voice.

I throw up my hands. “What do you want to do?”

“I don’t know,” she hisses. “Stay here.” She shoves on her shoes and shimmies down the ladder. I pull the floor door open a crack and lie belly-down by it to listen.

“Ro!” I hear Tess shout as she sees her.

“I’ve got his collar — don’t worry,” Rowie calls weakly.

“Thank goodness.” Tess jogs up to them, out of breath. “I left the door open while I was taking out the trash and he bolted before I could grab him. Stinker, you jerk.”

“Stinker, you jerk,” Rowie echoes.

“What were you doing out here in the cold?” Tess asks. “Oh, cheese and rice, Stinker, I didn’t bring a bag with me — stop pooping.”

“Oh,” Rowie says. “Well. I was — I had to grab something from the treehouse.”

Neither of them says anything for a tick. I suddenly become aware of the audio election coverage still droning from Rowie’s computer. I slam the computer shut.

“What was that?” I hear Tess ask. Fuck.

“What?” The crisis in Rowie’s voice is audible. “What was what?”

“It sounded like there was a radio or something on in your treehouse, and someone shut it off,” Tess says suspiciously. Shit.

“No, it didn’t.”

“Ro, why are you being so weird? Your hair looks like you just woke up.”

“Oh, I mean — I just like to go up there sometimes. To be — by myself.”

Stinker yips. “You go outside to sit in your treehouse alone in November?” Tess isn’t buying it, Rowie’s teetering on the edge of her rails, and I hear it all.

“Rowie, is someone up there?” The edge in Tess’s voice is gentle. “Who is it?”

“No,” Rowie’s voice catches. “There’s nobody up there.” It feels like a bowling ball slamming into my gut, hearing her call me
nobody.
I only hear muffled noises for a minute.

“Ro, why are you crying? I’m so confused,” Tess says. “What did I say?”

This is it; the jig’s up. I can’t sit here and hide while she cries and feel okay about myself in the morning. I take a deep breath and poke my head out through the floor door.

“Hey, Tessie.”

“Ez?” she says in disbelief. “What are
you
doing up there? Why are you guys hanging out in the treehouse at night when it’s so co —” She catches herself, coughing, clearing her throat, pausing. I pull a blanket around my shoulders and work my way down to the ground. The moon is out and shining on the tears streaming down Rowie’s face.

“Are you guys — uh, I mean, were you guys —?” Tess doesn’t finish her sentence again, but doesn’t really need to. All she has to do is look at us to know. She caught us and right now all I can feel, at least when I don’t look at Rowie, is relief.

“I’m sorry —” Tess says. “I didn’t mean to — I mean, I’m sorry I —
fuck.
”

“Wow,” I say as Rowie’s sobs escalate, “I can’t remember the last time you dropped a heavy
F.
”

“I’m sorry,” Rowie heaves.

“What are
you
sorry for?” Tess and I say in unison.

“I don’t know,” Rowie says, her shoulders slumped. She turns and dashes back up into the treehouse. Tess looks at me, shell-shocked.

“Is she okay? Are
you
okay? Are you guys, like, together? What the heck is going on right now?”

“Listen, Tessie, could we talk about this later?” I say. “I’ll explain later. I just want to make sure she’s all right, and I don’t want to wake up Raj.”

“Yeah —” Tess hovers. “Okay. I’ll take Stinker home. We can talk later.” She turns to go, then turns back in continuing disbelief. “Why didn’t you tell us?”

I look desperately at her. “Isn’t that kind of obvious?”

“Yeah,” she says. “Wow. I mean, go take care of her. I’ll talk to you later, I guess. Bye, Ez.” She withdraws bumblingly across the quiet lawns, Stinker in tow.

I climb back up to the treehouse. Rowie’s quivering like a bomb.

“What are we going to do?” she wails. “This is a disaster.”

“You know what, Rowie? This isn’t actually a disaster. You really think us being in love is the biggest problem in the whole world right now?”

There is another detonating pause as Rowie and I both digest the fact that the word
love
has entered the conversation, spoken out loud. She stares at the wall, receding. The silence is gravid.

“Tell you what,” I explode, too tired to hold it back anymore. “I don’t give a fuck anymore. I love you. I am in love with you. I can’t help it, and I don’t want to. And I’m sick and fucking tired of sneaking around and acting like I’m ashamed of something I refuse to be ashamed of. I would — we could tell people together. It couldn’t possibly be as bad as you think. I love you and I
want
people to know.” Everything is spinning.

Rowie looks like she’s about to throw up. “Can you
please
keep your voice down?” Her voice is feeble but trembling with intensity; the moonlight throws a twinkle into the tiny jewel in her nose. She doesn’t say anything else.

“Look, Rowie, we’ve been slinking around for nearly two months pretending this is something we can keep close forever.” Fuck. Please don’t let me cry. “I can’t lie about it anymore. It’s — it’s too much to ask. Please tell me I don’t have to.”
Please
don’t let me cry.

“I’m sorry.” Her voice is the size of a bird’s heart.

“Sorry for what? Sorry you don’t love me?”

“I didn’t — Esme, I didn’t say that. God, it’s so cold out here. I can’t think straight.” She shivers.

“Look, Rowie, every time this comes up, this issue of us being out as a couple, you give me some lame excuse about your parents, and frankly, I’m not sure if I believe it anymore. I don’t believe your mom would freak out. Maybe your dad would, but you know what? At the end of the day, with something like this, you either decide it’s worth the trouble or it isn’t, and it’s your decision. I get that you don’t want to disrespect your parents, and I get that being Bengali is a big part of who you are, and I get that I just don’t get it.”

“Did you ever think that maybe it isn’t my job to help you understand what it means to be Indian, or a person of color, or whatever?” Rowie snaps. “I can’t purge your white guilt for you, snowflake. You’re right. You just don’t get it. You never will. And I’ve started to wish you’d stop trying.”

I recoil, as wounded by that as by anything she’s ever said to me. “Stop
trying
?! But Ro — I love who you are. Maybe I can’t understand, but — why am I here, Rowie? Tell me why you’re so ashamed of this, what it is that happens between us that’s so disgusting you can’t even tell your family or your best friends. Tell me why I let you in on me if you were this full of shit all along.”

She says something I can’t hear. I reach out and lift her chin.

“What did you say?”

“I said
I never asked you to
.” Her eyes are twin shimmering wells of grief.

“Are you fucking serious?” I can’t stop pushing. How can she say this to me?

She throws up her hands.

“I’m not ashamed.” Her voice is still faint but her eyes flash. “I’m
not
ashamed. But I can’t give you the kind of love you need.”

“You mean the kind that other people know about?” I ask bitterly.

She turns to me slowly.

“I don’t want to lose you,” she murmurs. “I’ve never been like this with anyone else. But I just can’t do it — out loud. I just — I’m not sure enough that this is what I want to fuck it all and be with you. You know who you are, Esme. What you are. What you want. I’m not so certain.”

We lay there doing nothing for a minute as the cold sets in. I feel like wishbones are snapping inside me as I feel her abating, one after another coming up short-ended. I break the silence in a final flight of desperation.

“Look, Rowie, or Rohini, whoever you are,” I implore her. “Hear me out for one more minute. Imagine what this could be like if we could go on an actual date. Imagine just going out and eating dinner somewhere and going a movie together, and making out in the back row of the theater like couples do. I don’t want our whole relationship to exist in a treehouse. I want to take you to school dances and have you sleep over at my house sometimes and hold hands in front of our friends and not have you make weird faces every time I try to touch you. I just want to not have to hide this beautiful thing we made together. All I want is for you to be my girlfriend, for real. It’s that simple.” I suck in some air.

Her hair muffles something else I can’t hear.

“Girl, raise up your head!” I sputter, exasperated.

“I SAID I NEVER ASKED YOU TO COME HERE,” she bursts, hissing in fierce red tones that liquefy into tearful blues. “You are so focused on getting what you want that you’re not listening to me. I’m saying I love you and I can’t do this. I
do
love you and it can’t stop me from failing you, or you from failing me. I can’t be your girlfriend. I’m sorry.” She takes a heaving breath. “I think you should leave now.”

You.

I’m sweating.

I’m going to cry.

I’m going to throw up.

I’m going to crap my pants.

I need to bolt now with the three shards of pride I have left.

I will leave this treehouse immediately. Forever.

“Okay —” I say, starting to get up. “Look, I’m gonna—”

She starts to cry again and grabs my arm, pulling me down without saying anything. I bury my face in her hair, toppling back over in the mess of blankets as we sob, quiet sirens crying like the lostest of the lost, lonesome together in the severing hour.

“Don’t do this, Rowie,” I mewl. “You did ask me to come here, the first night we kissed. Please — can’t you see it? It could be real.”

She’s shaking her head
no, no, no
. I feel vague, robbed of victory.

“I can’t,” she says, two syllables. “You’re strong. You can handle it. I can’t. Will you please leave?”