Then I Met My Sister (4 page)

Aunt Nic squeezes her eyes shut and a tear inches down her cheek. “Anyway, I found this. Shannon kept it hidden in her room. Your mom was somewhere else in the house when I spotted it. I started to call out for her, but when I opened it and started reading it …”

“Yes?”

She shrugs. “I just couldn’t show it to her. Maybe I should have. I just … couldn’t.”

The bell on the front door dings. I jump, startled. “Helloooo!” a customer calls.

Aunt Nic inhales deeply, dabs her moist eyes, and kisses me on the cheek.

“The choice is yours,” she says. “Read it if you want, ask me questions if you want, never mention it again if you want … whatever you think. I wouldn’t be giving this to you if I didn’t trust your judgment, Summer. You’re a smart cookie.”

She stands up, but I’m still frozen in my chair, clutching the journal as if it were the Holy Grail.

Then she winks at me. “And hey, knock off for the day. It’s your birthday, for crying out loud.” She walks up front to greet the customer, leaving me alone.

Alone with my sister.

Five

I pull a brush through my hair and glance at my watch impatiently. Where’s Gibs?

I’ve asked him to come over an hour before we’re due at the Japanese restaurant, and he’s late. Well, not late. He still has another six minutes to get here on time. But it feels late.

I’ve moped around all afternoon, lying on my bed and gazing at the same spot in my Spanish book until I got bored enough to move to the den and flick channels mindlessly. Then on to the basement. Then back to my bedroom.

It’s the journal. My head is consumed with a faded lavender book and the black Bic ink that fills its pages.

I put Shannon’s journal on my dresser after I got home from the flower shop. Well, not right away. Initially, I intended to devour the whole thing in one sitting. When I got to my bedroom, I opened it to the first page but never focused my eyes. I flipped a few pages, but my eyes kept skittering away. What was my problem? Maybe this was the same feeling that had kept Aunt Nic from reading it. But how had she resisted? How am
I
resisting?

And where the hell is Gibs?

I hear Mom’s sing-song voice at the bottom of the stairs. She must have seen Gibs coming up the driveway and opened the door before he could ring the bell. She’s welcoming him in the foyer, complimenting his shirt. He’s unusually neat for a guy with a ponytail. Like the suit during Honors Day. I bet his mom didn’t even have to talk him into it.

I walk downstairs and give him a peace sign. He’s wearing an Oxford shirt, unbuttoned at the collar and tucked into khaki pants. Only Gibs can manage to look preppie and boho at the same time. His face broadens into a shy, sweet smile. God, he looks cute. But it’ll be another five years or so before Gibs figures out that girls dig his smile. I totally get that, so I don’t waste my time even considering a crush.

He clears his throat and wishes me a happy birthday.

“Thanks.”

“Doesn’t Gibson look nice,” Mom says, surveying my faded jeans, flip-flops and hooded sweatshirt to drive home the comparison.

“Mmmm.” I nod toward the stairs. “Basement?” I say to Gibs.

“Yes!” Mom says. “Why don’t you two go down to the basement and enjoy some TV for a while? We don’t have to leave for another forty-five minutes. You want some popcorn?”

I remind her that we’ll soon be eating a football field of rice, along with several tons of chopped steak, shrimp and veggies. No wonder the Japanese are so skinny. They send us all their food.

I pull my hair out from under my sweatshirt as Gibs follows me down the basement stairs. We plop on the brown tweed sofa. I glance at him from the corner of my eye as he settles against the armrest.

I hug a throw pillow against my chest. “I already got one of my birthday presents,” I say, aiming for nonchalant. “My Aunt Nic gave me this … gift.”

He nods politely. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Gibs raises his eyebrows, prodding me along.

Oh, jeez, why be coy?

“My sister kept a journal the summer before she died,” I say. “My aunt gave it to me today. She said, you know, ‘Read it if you want to, don’t read it if you don’t want to,’ so I figure …”

Gibs’ doe-shaped eyes are locked with mine. “Your aunt is just now telling you about it?”

“Yeah. Who would figure—my aunt the florist, woman of mystery.” I finger my chin. “You think I should read it?”

Gibs considers my question.

“Yeah,” he says. “I totally think you should read it.”

I nod. “Yeah, that’s what I was thinking.”

Gibs shakes his head. “Why are we having this conversation? Why is this even an issue? Who could suddenly be presented with their dead sister’s journal and not read it?”

“You’d think, right?” I say earnestly, leaning closer to him. “When my aunt gave it to me, I thought, ‘I’ll lie on my bed for the next four hours reading it cover to cover.’ But it didn’t happen.”

Gibs looks mystified. “Why not?”

“I don’t know. But I
should
. I should totally read it … right?”

Gibs leans into his elbows. “What’s making this a trick question?”

I sigh and toss my head backward. “I dunno. I’m kinda creeped out.”

Gibs is silent, then says quietly, “I’ll read it with you if you want.”

The sweetness of the gesture catches in my throat. I’ll seriously have to track Gibs down five years from now.

“Thanks, but … I don’t think that’s the solution. I think I have to get inside her head. By myself. You know?”

“Mmm. Don’t be creeped out. It’ll be okay. Maybe it’s filled with recipes, or bad poetry like Priscilla Pratt’s.”

His eyes flicker toward mine for a post-facto sensitivity check.

“That’s kinda what I was expecting,” I say. “But I skimmed it, and … Gibs, it’s like
War and Peace
or something. Whatever was going on in my sister’s head that summer was weighing on her like a ton of bricks.”

“Then you have to read it. It’ll weigh on
you
like a ton of bricks if you don’t. Just take it slow, I guess.”

I nibble a fingernail and stare into space. “What if I find out more than I want to know?”

Gibs shrugs. “Then … you’ll know. It’s like science. Not knowing doesn’t make it not so. If there’s something to know, you should know.”

He studies my expression for a moment. “Read it,” he says simply. “Or stick it in the bottom of your sock drawer and forget about it. Me? I’d read it.”

We hear footsteps coming down the stairs, and in walks Mom with a bowl of popcorn.

“Gibson looked hungry,” she murmurs, placing the bowl on the oak coffee table.

I wrinkle my nose.

“Mom, why don’t you ask Gibson what he got me for my birthday?” I tease, and Gibs’ cheeks turn fuchsia. I’m messing with him. It would never occur to him in a million years to get me a birthday present.

“What did you get her?” Mom asks brightly, and now the fuchsia drains from his face, leaving him deathly pale.

“Uh …” Gibs looks at me for a lifeline, but I just grin at him.

He flounders, grasping for words. Then I come to his rescue. “Advice,” I answer. “He gave me advice for my birthday.”

Mom looks puzzled, then smiles. “Isn’t that nice. You must come from one of those families that gives gifts from the heart rather than material things. Things like poems or sketches.”

Gibs winces.

“I think that’s lovely,” Mom says. “You’re so sensitive, Gibson. No wonder you and Summer are such good … friends.”

She walks back upstairs and I sputter with laughter. Gibs buries his head in his hands. “You’re brutal,” he moans.

“I know, but you forgive me. Right?”

He sneaks a look at me, then stares at his hands. “I
should
have brought you a present.”

I shrug. “Maybe next time. I’d love a poem. Or a sketch. Or maybe you can whip together a sculpture out of twigs …”

He blushes again.

“You
did
give me a present, goofball,” I say. “I was serious about the advice. And I plan to follow it, by the way.” I absently twirl a piece of hair in my fingers. “I’m going to read Shannon’s journal.”

Six

My birthdays have always had weird undercurrents, but this year’s are the weirdest. The Japanese dinner is full of pinched smiles and sad eyes. Yeah, it’s my birthday, blah blah blah, but all that the relatives can think about is Shannon. This is the year I turn
her
age. Her last age. The age that’s frozen in time. Nobody says her name out loud, but you can see it in their faces. Grandma keeps leaning in to whisper to Grandpa on her right and Aunt Nicole on her left. She finally stops after Aunt Nic shoots her a patient but firm glance. By the time the chef is making a volcano out of onion rings, I feel like I’m at a wake.

“How’s school going, Summer?” Grandma asks me primly. She’s that desperate for conversation.

“It’s going well,” Mom responds, intertwining her fingers.

“So you’ll be on the honor roll this term?” Grandma asks hopefully.

Term.
Such a Grandma thing to say.

“She’s doing very well,” Mom says, the slightest bit of crankiness seeping through the false cheer.

Dad catches the waiter’s eye and points toward his empty beer bottle. Mom notices and raises an eyebrow.

“Uh, another for me, too?” Uncle Matt tells the waiter, sotto voce.

“I’d love to see your name in the paper for the honor roll,” Grandma says, stubbornly perpetuating the charade that I’m playing any role in this conversation whatsoever.

“She may not have quite made the honor roll,” Mom says, now undeniably testy, “but her teachers rave about how bright she is.
Next
year. That’s when Summer will hit her stride academically.”

Gibs is trying to catch my eye, but I resist, knowing I’ll giggle uncontrollably if I look at him.

“She’ll be a
senior
next year,” Grandpa observes dryly, pointing out that Mom is always banking on an honor roll daughter “next year” and that the buzzer’s about to sound.

The waiter comes back and hands Dad and Uncle Matt their beers. Dad takes a long swallow and looks blankly at the chef dicing vegetables in a pound of lard, which will look much more harmless when it melts.

“Shannon was always on the honor roll,” Grandma says.

Aunt Nic sucks in a breath. “Mother!” she whispers.

“What?” Grandma asks defensively. “Weren’t we talking about the honor roll? Is it a crime to even mention her name?”

“I’m sure the last thing Summer and Gibson want to talk about on a Saturday night is school,” Mom says. The edge in her voice is now downright unmistakable. Grandma’s on notice.

“Gibson,” Grandpa says. “What kind of name is that?”

He’s not asking Gibs, who might actually know what kind of name he has. Grandpa’s addressing all of us, as if we’re a committee tasked to reach a consensus on what kind of name Gibson is.

“It’s a family name,” Mom says decisively, then looks to Gibs for verification. “Right, Gibson?”

“Uh … ” Gibs says.

“It may be a family name, but it’s a last name,” Grandpa says grumpily. Why Grandpa would feel grumpy—indignant, really—about the name of someone he barely knows is beyond me.

“Fred!” Grandma scolds him.

“It’s a lovely name!” Mom chirps. “I admire family names. They have such presence.”

Aunt Nic and I share a quick conspiratorial smile. She’s only three years younger than Mom, but her easy-going personality makes her seem eons younger.

“Well, I never understood why you wanted to name Summer after a season,” Grandma is saying to Mom. “Of course, it’s grown on me.” She looks at me and says loudly, “It’s a lovely name, dear.”

I smile sweetly, biting the inside of my lip to avoid exploding in laughter, particularly since Gibs keeps nudging my knee.

The chef begins tossing oversized spatulas of food onto our plates.

The food orgy has begun. The piles on our plates soon resemble earthquake debris. There’s no longer any trace of that pound of lard, but it didn’t exactly evaporate into thin air. I look at my food suspiciously.

“Another beer, sir?” the waiter asks Dad.

“Uh, sure,” he responds, as if it would be bad manners to turn him down.

“Your last one,” Mom tells him under her breath.

“So, Gibson,” Grandma says, “are you and Summer an item?”

Okay, that one pushes me over the edge. I drop my head and giggle uncontrollably into my chest.

“Summer!” Mom scolds, which makes me laugh harder.

“Mother, Summer and Gibson are
friends
,” Mom says, enunciating carefully.

This, too, strikes me as hilarious.

Mom pokes me in the side with her elbow. “People are staring,” she says through gritted teeth.

I take a deep breath, look up and glance at Gibs, who looks like he’s being prepped for brain surgery.

“Sorry,” I say, then erupt into another round of giggles.

Dad takes another swig of beer, Grandma looks confused, Grandpa looks bored, and Mom shoots me daggers with her eyes.

Gibs still looks petrified, but now he looks like he’s on the verge of laughter, too.

“Sorry, sorry!” I repeat. “Can you guys excuse me a minute?”

I grab Gibs’ arm, and he has no choice but to follow me as I get out of my chair and head toward the front door of the restaurant.

Dusk is settling as I stagger outside, Gibs in my wake, and sit on the restaurant steps. Gibs sits beside me. We look at each other and dissolve into more laughter. After we both calm down, I impulsively kiss him on the cheek.

“I’m so glad you’re here.”

He smiles and waves a stray strand of hair out of his face.

“Your family is …” He struggles for an adjective.

“Exhausting? Insane? Dysfunctional?” I volunteer.

He laughs. “I was going for ‘nice.’ ”

I peer into the setting sun and shake my head. “Nah. That one definitely doesn’t make the cut.”

We press our legs together to make room for a couple squeezing past us on the steps.

“They
are
nice,” Gibs insists as a breeze brushes against our cheeks. “And scintillating conversationalists, I might add. I totally enjoy lengthy discourses about my name.”

I wrinkle my nose at him and we laugh some more. “Can we just call you Joe from now on?” I say.

Gibs shakes his head. “Let’s go with Fred. That’s your grandfather’s name, right? Might win me some points.”

I peer into his eyes. “You’re blushing,” I say in a light tone. “Why are you blushing?”

Which makes him blush even more. I’m still studying his face, but he’s staring at his fingers.

Might win me some points.
Does Gibs think that I thought he was coming on to me?
Was
he coming on to me?

Nah. Like I said, he’s just not there yet. Which is cool. I mean, the last thing I want to do is ruin a great friendship with lust. Besides, lust doesn’t work out so well for me under the best of circumstances. I haven’t crushed on a guy since Leah Rollins unceremoniously stole Josh DuBois from me in ninth grade.

I shudder at the thought, not because I’m still crushing on Josh DuBois (I’m not), or because I still detest Leah Rollins for her betrayal (I do, but whatever), but because that whole puerile scenario makes me want to puke.

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.