Chapter 47

chapter 47

When I get back to June’s,there’s a twentysomething curly blond dude with a tool belt getting ready to leave.

“Hi,” I tell him, surprised, shooting a questioning look at my sister. There’s a bookcase right in the middle of her living room.

“TaskRabbit,” says June, and thanks him.

We watch as he laces up his boots. I have so many questions and thoughts. He takes what feels like eleven minutes to put on his shoes.

“Thank you,” we say in unison. June widens her eyes at me. Seriously, sometimes it’s like white people pretend they haven’t had to take their shoes off in years.

“Ta-da!” she says brightly once he’s gone, walking me over to the white shelving grid. “Okay, so from here…”—she taps the far side of the shelf and walks around to the back of the couch—“to here…”—she glances at me to make sure I’m paying attention—“is your room.”

I’m speechless.

She points at the TV on the wall. “Obviously, the Samsung’s not yours, but you can use it occasionally. And we can get a pull-out couch if that makes more sense. I don’t care what the fuck you put on the shelves.”

I think of all the versions of home I’ve mood-boarded over the years, and this is somehow my favorite.

“Thank you.” I hear my voice thickening.

She waves this off, and when she sits on the love seat to avoid sitting on my “bed,” the heavy droplet threatening to spill over my left eye quavers. I brush it away quickly and sniff hard. “I take it the view is mine, too?”

“Just as far as the edge of the couch.”

I sit beside her and she turns to me. “So, how was it?”

“A whole lot of God talk.”

“Yikes. What flavor of God?”

“More of a Build-A-Bear, Choose Your Own Adventure kind of God.”

“Is it a cult?”

“Yeah, but there’s no leader. It’s like an independent-study cult where your homemade God helps you learn about your feelings.”

“So, it’s a small cult.”

I think about my talk with Patrick. About cults and families and the secrets and stories that bind strangers together.

“Yeah.”

“And you feel better?”

I consider Ingrid. “Yeah, I do.”

“Good.” She sighs heavily and gets up. “Gotta change my tampon.”

She winces when she returns, doubled over slightly. “I wish every muscle in my body would give it a fucking rest.”

That’s when I remember. I go into June’s hallway closet for my suitcase. I grab my crushed pack of cigarettes and slide out the half-smoked, vintage joint.

“Yo, you want to get high?”

“With you?” She sits back on the sofa.

“Sure,” I falter. “Or you could just have it. For your period or whatever.”

“Spark that shit.” June points over at the stove.

I light it carefully, making sure the dried-out paper doesn’t completely catch, and hand it to her first. “I don’t know how old this shit is,” I warn, walking back into the kitchen to grab a plate.

“There’s an ashtray in my sock drawer.” I don’t all the way believe her until my hand lands on a hard corner. Sure enough, there is. And, shockingly, it’s a Supreme ashtray.

I hand it to her.

“Old weed, new weed. I wouldn’t know the difference. I was always too scared to try. Like, I’m paranoid enough as it is.”

She holds the joint tentatively to her lips. She takes a baby puff and holds her breath. She exhales carefully, eyeing the smoke as if to check that it’s working. “You know, I didn’t mean to say, ‘With you?’ earlier. Like, as if I didn’t want to smoke with you. I was more surprised that you’d want to smoke with me.”

“Can I ask you something?” The weed is pleasingly scratchy in my throat.

June nods as I hand it back. “Sure.”

“Why didn’t you want to hang out with me when I moved here?”

“Um.” June plants the joint in the ashtray with such force that embers fly. “Excuse me, I called you twice when you came. I had to buy you a bed just to get you to talk to me.”

“But you never want to hang out. You called out of obligation and I’m grateful for the bed, but it’s like, that’s such an older sister duty move. That’s basically to look good to Mom.”

June reels back, an incredulous look on her face. “Oh my God. Lastborns are the worst. That is not why anything! Oh!” She stabs the sky triumphantly. “You hid from me.”

“What? When?” Fuck, I already know what’s she’s going to say.

“Union Square subway, by the 4/5/6. Maybe a year ago.” She shoulders into me and laughs. “You’re so fucking stupid.”

I try to keep a straight face but can’t. The weed keeps dissolving all the edges of my feelings.

“You, like, leapt.” She jerks up dramatically with little bunny hands in front of her. “Behind a trash can or something. I saw you. I was late to a meeting and so annoyed, but I should have stopped just to embarrass you in front of all the cool New York commuters.”

“It was a harp. I hid behind a guy with a harp.”

“That shit hurt my feelings,” she says, still smiling but less so.

I can’t believe she saw me.

“I’m sorry,” I tell her and mean it. “I’m sorry for all of it. I’m sorry that you couldn’t rely on me when mom was gone. I’m sorry I was such an asshole to you in school. I’m sorry that I didn’t help you when everyone was being a dick about your period.”

She shrugs. “You had your own shit.” June clears her throat. “Siri, play the Romeo and Juliet soundtrack,” she calls out. The Des’ree song comes on. It’s perfect. I recall the fish tank scene in the movie. Baby-faced Leo in his chain mail and Claire with her half-pony and raver-girl angel wings gazing longingly at each other, separated by glass. It’s so weird to me that June’s never seen this movie and how I have no idea what she pictures when this song comes on.

“It’s amazing that either of us made it out of there when I think about it.” June picks up the joint and relights it at the stove. “We both suffered,” she croaks, walking back. June hands it over, eyes narrowed. “I was such a nerd. And you…” A plume of smoke obscures her face. “Were such a chink slut.”

I laugh—truly laugh—when she says that, and she cracks up so hard she starts coughing.

“You know, I bought one of those Japanese paint markers and covered it over before I left.” She holds her fist in the air and mimes a box. “Made a big-ass square and blacked it out.”

There’s a knot of pressure at my sternum. “Really?”

“You didn’t see it?”

I shake my head. “I never went back into that stall.”

“Wait,” she turns to me suddenly. “So, you did fuck Patrick?”

“What?”

“Sorry, it’s just where my brain went when we were talking about what a gigantic slut you are.”

“Oh my God.”

“Did you tell him about everything? About what’s going on with me?”

“God, no.” I shake my head solemnly. “I would never.”

“Okay.” Her face relaxes. “It would just be weird if he knew and Mom and Dad didn’t.”

“Of course. It’s not my story to tell.”

“It is, though, I guess.” She yawns. “Partially.”

“I didn’t say anything,” I assure her.

“Okay, so what does his body look like? Can you count his ribs from the front, or is he, like, stealth jacked?”

“I’m not fucking telling you.”

She beams. “But you like him?”

“I like him.”

“Fantastic. Now get me a glass of water.”

I roll my eyes and get up.

“Don’t drink from it first,” she calls out.

I hand it to her.

“Thank you,” she says, and drinks thirstily and sets it down next to the ashtray. “You want to know why I really got fired?”

“Yeah.”

“This.” She holds the white ashtray up. “I stole this from my boss.” She shakes her head, smiling at the memory. “He was such a sexist, racist asshole. I knew layoffs were coming and it wasn’t a secret that he hated me.” June shrugs. “So, I took it. He searched everywhere. He was so fucking pissed. He knew I had it but couldn’t prove it. And you know what? It was fucking worth it.”

I stare at the ceramic prize. June is the strangest person I know and quickly becoming my favorite.

“It’s why they call me Selina,” she says proudly. “As in, Selina Kyle. Catwoman. Nobody could figure out how I did it. I’m a fucking legend.”