one
Istare at my ceiling fan. The rhythmic spinning and the dull, intoxicating sound try to lure me back to sleep. But I should get up. I should shower and get dressed and primp. But I don’t. I can’t. The snooze alarm is my ally. The shut-off button my best friend.
It’s only when I hear my mother come home that I force myself out of bed. Seven p.m. is a reasonable time to start one’s day, right? It’s still light out.
Fine, I know it’s not,I tell myself.But here I am.
When I stumble into the kitchen, both my mother and older sister, Erica, are waiting. They are dressed to slay after their workdays, and I tighten my robe to hide my baggy shirt and frayed sweatpants. I force a smile.
My mom begrudgingly smiles back at me before she crosses to the other side of the spacious kitchen. “Callie, your sister brought us quinoa bowls. Kale, green apple, tofu, and such.”
“Sounds yummy. Thank you.” It sounds disgusting.
Erica pushes a bowl across the table. “Thought I’d stop by after my video shoot. And,” she says, lowering her voice, “it’s not like either of you knows how to work a stove.”
“Nor do you, takeout queen,” I point out.
“I’m not the one who somehow manages to burn spaghetti while boiling it.”
“At least I tried,” I mutter. “That one time.”
Somehow, the plastic top to my scary quinoa bowl flies across the room as I open my dinner. It would have been nice if it’d hit my sister, but sadly, it just drops to the floor.
I wish I liked her more, but I can’t. She could not possibly have on more makeup, but that’s to be expected, given that her makeup-guide YouTube tutorials have cultivated a huge fan base. Her face is so contoured with ten shades of bronzer that she hardly looks human. Also, I know for a fact that she hates quinoa, and she only eats it because she pretends to like trendy things that, in reality, taste like exotic animal poop.
I make myself take a bite and fake what gratitude I can. “This is. . . Thank you. It’s so…healthy.”
At least five silent minutes go by, during which we all pretend to be enamored with our dinner.
“You’re at the paint store tomorrow?” my mom asks, trying to sound conversational.
“Of course she is,” Erica says. “I’m not sure they could ever survive without her. Paint doesn’t sell itself.” She plops into a kitchen chair and crosses her legs, showing off her stupidly perfect and fake-tanned calves.
“I do more than sell paint,” I say weakly. “I’m now a consultant.
I go into people’s houses, see the rooms for myself, and help the store—”
“Sell paint!” Erica finishes with glee.
She’s got me there.
It takes a minute for my mom to react. “There’s nothing wrong with helping homeowners pick out colors.”
“Oh, I agree,” Erica says. “What twenty-one-year-old wouldn’t find this to be monumentally challenging, fulfilling work?”
So much of me wants to scream at her. I’d like to launch myself within inches of my sister, knock her contoured ass to the ground, and tell her to go filter crazy forever. To keep changing herself into someone she’s not.
Before I can do anything, my mother’s phone rings loudly, startling us all into and mercifully interrupting this family mess.
I assume it’s one of her needy, high-end realty clients calling, given that her phone sounds nearly constantly with calls and texts, but she freezes slightly after she looks at the screen, before looking our way and waving off the call as nothing.
“Paul, I know. I cannot come out there now.” Her voice has an edge. “Vermont? That’s a huge trip.”
Now, I tense up, and Erica fiddles with her glass and nervously flips her hair.
“So, can you just do the work?” my mom asks. Practically begs.
She smiles tensely at us as she walks into the living room, thinking that she’s out of earshot. But there’s nowhere to hide in this condo. We can still fully hear this crummy conversation.
