Mom looks up, and her face breaks into this huge smile. “Oh, they tell such lies! Maybe one day they’ll invent a nail polish that doesn’t chip as soon as you look at it, but until then we’ll just have to make do.”
Laurel and Mom walk off arm in arm, and I trail behind them. They spend at least ten minutes choosing between colors that look identical to me. From time to time, they ask my opinion, and I say whatever they want to hear. Eventually, Laurel makes a decision and the two of them go to the checkout and pay. Laurel pays. I watch as she takes some money out of her purse and gives it to the guy at the register.
I hold my breath as we’re leaving the shop, fully expecting the alarm to go off. It doesn’t.
Grilled cheese sandwiches for dinner, made by Laurel. Mom compliments her on grilling the cheese just right.
After dinner, Mom goes upstairs to call Eleanor. Laurel and I sit in front of the TV. Laurel’s recorded The Cynthia Day Show; today it’s all about a woman who was badly burned in a house fire. Her husband started the fire on purpose. Cynthia Day has just announced that she’s sending the woman and her kids to Disney World and everyone in the studio is crying. I glance over at Laurel; she’s not crying.
“I saw you.”
“Saw me what?” She doesn’t bother to look at me.
“Stealing.”
Now she looks at me. “What are you talking about?” She looks genuinely baffled.
“I saw you stealing that makeup in the drugstore.”
She laughs, and I want to smack her in the face. How dare she laugh at me?
“Why would I do something like that?”
“I was going to ask you the same question. You know you could have bought those things if you really wanted them.”
“I didn’t steal anything.” She folds her arms across her chest and turns her attention back to the TV.
Mom comes back downstairs, and we spend the rest of the evening watching mindless TV shows—all Laurel’s choices, of course.
—
I’m getting ready for bed and replaying my conversation with Laurel in my head. She was very convincing—not even a hint of guilt or embarrassment. Could I have been mistaken about what I saw? Maybe Laurel picked up the makeup and put it right back down again, but I was in such a weird mood and so desperate to see something to tarnish the image of the golden child that my eyes tricked me into believing that I’d seen her stealing.
The fact that I’m even attempting to second-guess myself about something like this is revealing. I’m not delusional. I know what I saw. I just can’t make sense of it, that’s all.
My phone buzzes with a text message. It’s probably Martha. I was supposed to text to tell her all about the big shopping trip. She’d thought it was ridiculous, too, wasting all that money. And she’d actually been quite understanding about the book deal, when I’d explained it all to her. Thomas had been a dick about it, but no more than I’d expected.
The message isn’t from Martha or from Thomas—the only two people who ever message me. It’s from Laurel: Can you come here?
That’s weird. Why didn’t she just knock on the wall like she usually does? I take my time getting changed and brushing my hair before I go next door.
Laurel’s room is dark, the only light coming from Egg the Penguin. I flick the switch next to the door, flooding the room with brightness. At first I think she must be in the bathroom, but then I catch sight of her head. She’s sitting on the floor on the other side of the bed, wedged into the small space between the bed and the wall. I thought she’d stopped doing that. I’ve been checking the space underneath the dressing table every few days, to see if she’s still using it as a hiding spot.
“Laurel? Are you okay?”
“They’re on the bed.” Her voice has a dull, mechanical quality.
Liquid eyeliner and a tube of lipstick. I perch on the edge of the bed to examine them. The eyeliner is electric blue, and the lipstick is an unappealing shade of purple.
“I’m sorry.”
“Why did you do it?”
No answer.
I get off the bed and kneel in front of her. She won’t look at me. Her hair hangs down over her face so I can’t see her expression. “Laurel? You can talk to me, you know. I’m not going to tell anyone.” I’m feeling more charitable now that she’s admitted it.
“I don’t know why I did it.”
I wait for her to come up with something better, and eventually she looks up, pushing her hair behind her ears. “It’s the truth!”
It doesn’t make sense. People don’t just steal things for no reason; they steal things because they can’t afford to buy them, don’t they? “I don’t think the colors will go with your new dress.” When in doubt, try to lighten the mood.
A trace of a smile flickers across her face. “I can’t explain it….It was…I don’t know. I wanted to see if I could do it. I didn’t think I’d get away with it, and I wanted to see what would happen. Does that make any sense at all?”
I shrug because it doesn’t. “You know if you’d been caught, it would be all over the newspapers, don’t you?”
She nods. “Maybe that’s what I was hoping for.”
“Why would you want that?” I’m starting to realize there’s more to my sister than meets the eye.
Laurel stares into space, focusing on a spot on the wall. “Because maybe then they’d see that I’m…normal. That I’m a regular person who makes mistakes sometimes. I’m not someone to look up to. Little kids shouldn’t be asking for my autograph or wanting to get their pictures taken with me. It’s not right.”
I thought she loved all that stuff—she certainly does a good job of smiling and looking like she’s enjoying herself. “You don’t need to do those things, Laurel. No one’s forcing you.”
“I want to take it back. The makeup. I’ll go tomorrow.”
“You can’t! They’d probably catch you sneaking it back onto the shelves and think you’re stealing!”
“Well, I’ll just tell them what I did. Talk to one of the sales assistants.” She looks like a little girl determined to get her way, jaw jutting, eyes defiant.
“No. You won’t. Look, let’s just forget all about it. Pretend it never happened. I understand why you did it, but there’s no need for anyone else to find out about it.” The lie is instinctive; I still don’t understand why she did it—not really. “It would only upset Mom.” That’s the truth.
“I could explain—”
“No. She wouldn’t get it. Trust me on this.”
Laurel asks if I’m sure, and if there’s anything she can do to make amends. There are no amends to be made, I tell her. I’m pretty sure the drugstore isn’t going to go under because someone stole some makeup. In that little-girl voice she sometimes adopts, she asks if I’m angry with her.
“Of course not,” I say.
“Are you sure? It’s just…the last few days I’ve had the feeling that”—she shrugs, and I don’t want her to finish this sentence—“that maybe you resent me a little bit.”
My mouth opens to issue a denial. My mouth shuts again. When I finally speak, I tell the truth. “You’re right.” The look on Laurel’s face just about breaks my heart, so I rush ahead. “No, no, it’s nothing you’ve done! Honestly, it’s my issue, not yours. I think I maybe got a little bit used to getting my own way…while you were gone. And now you’re back, and I suppose it’s just taking me a little longer to adjust than I thought.”
She nods slowly. “It must be hard for you.”
I feel ashamed, hearing her say those words, seeing her looking at me with sympathetic eyes. It must be hard for me? Compared to everything she’s been through? I start to cry, and she comforts me, which makes me feel even more ashamed. I am the worst person in the world.
It was Laurel’s idea, to get up early and make breakfast for Mom. She asked me what Mom would like, and I said bacon and eggs, with toast cut into triangles and served on the toast rack. In truth, Mom would probably p
refer something a bit healthier, but the only fruit we have in the house are three tasteless apples and a speckled banana.
I teach Laurel how to fry an egg and how to get the bacon just the right side of crispy. She prepares a tray, complete with one of the napkins that we only use at Christmas and Thanksgiving. We make a pot of tea and pour a glass of orange juice, then Laurel carries the tray up the stairs. I knock on Mom’s door and we go in. She’s sprawled across the bed like a starfish, which always makes me wonder how she ever used to manage to share a bed with Dad. It takes her a few seconds to wake up, but she finally sits up and props a pillow behind her. Her sleepy smile makes me feel good inside.
“What’s all this?” she says as Laurel places the tray on her lap.
“We made you breakfast!” Laurel says proudly.
“Yes, I can see that! But what have I done to deserve the royal treatment?”
Laurel looks to me for an answer, but I don’t really have one. “We just thought it would be nice.”
Mom takes a slice of toast from the rack and munches on the corner. “Mmm, I could get used to this.”
Laurel and I perch on either side of Mom, and we talk while she eats her breakfast. Mom says it’s the best breakfast she’s ever had, and that’s including the one she had the morning after she got married, when she and Dad stayed in a very expensive hotel. “My two girls,” she says. There’s so much love in her eyes that it almost hurts to look at her. The shame from last night bubbles up in my throat again, threatening to spill out of my mouth and onto the duvet cover.
Laurel starts quizzing Mom about her wedding, and I learn things that I never knew before. Dad was so nervous he threw up in the bushes outside the church; he had to ask around for chewing gum so that he didn’t have vomit breath for the “You may kiss the bride” moment. Mom had a blazing fight with Gran the night before the wedding, but she can’t remember what it was about now. The first dance was some terrible song from the eighties, which Mom insisted on having even though Dad hated it.
Mom doesn’t seem to mind talking about it, which surprises me. I’d have thought she’d want to forget all about the day she married my dad. I say something to that effect, but Mom shakes her head. “I could never regret marrying your father.”
“Why?” Laurel asks. By this point, she’s lying on the bed next to Mom.
Mom gives Laurel a look as if to say, It’s obvious, isn’t it? But it’s not obvious to us.
“Because of you two, of course!”
The three of us smile at one another, and I wonder if I’m the only one thinking that if she hadn’t married Dad, Mom would have been spared thirteen years of unhappiness—the kind of unhappiness that no one should ever have to endure in their lives. I quickly come to the conclusion that, yes, I am definitely the only one thinking that.
—
Thomas’s patience has finally run out; it’s hardly surprising. He hasn’t come right out and said that we need to have sex again soon or he will break up with me, but I bet that’s what he’s thinking. The hints he’s been dropping haven’t exactly been subtle, and they’ve been getting harder and harder to ignore. I’m amazed he’s waited this long, to be honest. He’s not like other boys our age—or rather, he is like other boys our age, but he would rather die than admit it.
I can’t exactly explain to him that he’s sort of dropped down on my list of priorities since Laurel came back. He wouldn’t understand; no one would. Having my sister back shouldn’t mean that everything—and everyone—else in my life falls by the wayside. I know that. I do. It’s just that Laurel coming back has changed everything. It’s changed me.
Still, I do want to have sex with Thomas again. Just to see. The truth is, I haven’t missed him all that much. I’ve been happy just to see him at school, mostly. And I’m sure that can’t be right. I’m sure I’m supposed to miss him, to be pining for him, aching for the touch of his skin on mine. So this is an experiment—to test my feelings once and for all.
When Mom announced that she was going away for a spa day (and night) with Eleanor, the plan popped into my head right away, as if it had been lurking in the wings just waiting for the right circumstances to present themselves. This time, the sex will be happening in the proper place—in a bed—just to see if that makes any difference. Laurel and I are going to start watching a new TV series that Martha told her about. Then I will say that I’m tired and want to have an early night. I’ll make sure that Laurel goes to bed at the same time, which shouldn’t be too hard. Things have been really good for the last couple of days. We’ve been going out of our way to be nice—both of us falling over ourselves to make sure the other one is happy.
As soon as I’m in my room, I’ll text Thomas to let him know that the coast is clear. Or maybe I’ll get him to wait half an hour—or even an hour—to make sure that Laurel is asleep. He will text when he’s outside, I’ll creep downstairs to let him in; the two of us will creep back upstairs and get down to business. We’ll have to be quiet—definitely no laughing this time. As soon as the sex is over, he’ll have to leave. I can’t risk us falling asleep and him still being there when Laurel gets up the next day.
Of course, I could just tell Laurel. She would probably be fine about it. It might even bring us closer together, hatching a plan, keeping a secret from Mom. But it doesn’t feel right. The idea of her in the next room, knowing what Thomas and I are doing. Even if she agreed to sleep in Mom’s room so she wouldn’t accidentally hear anything, it still wouldn’t feel right.
I haven’t told Martha, either. I have a good excuse, though: she’s away for a couple of days, staying with some family friends. But that’s not the real reason I haven’t told her. She would ask too many questions, and I’d probably end up telling her how unsure I am about Thomas. A few months ago, that would have been fine and we could have talked about it and she would have understood. But now she actually likes him, rather than thinking he’s a bit of a pretentious wannabe. I bet she would stay friends with Thomas if I broke up with him, and I bet I wouldn’t be as cool about that as I would have to pretend to be.
The plan goes smoothly, and Laurel falls asleep halfway through the fifth episode of the TV show. Laurel goes to bed, and I text Thomas just after eleven. His reply arrives with lightning speed; he’s clearly raring to go.
I was going to change into my pajamas, but they would definitely spoil the mood, and it’s not as if I have any sexy lingerie hiding at the back of my dresser. So I decided to keep my clothes on—for now.
Thomas leans in to kiss me as soon as I open the front door. He tastes savory, but not in a bad way. Still, it means he hasn’t brushed his teeth in the last few hours. I brushed mine till my gums bled. He grins. “Is she asleep?”
I nod. I listened outside Laurel’s door for long enough to hear the snuffly breathing sound she makes when she sleeps. Thomas and I creep upstairs. He mutters something about the van being a much simpler option, and I shush him. I follow him into my bedroom and shut the door.
—
The lighting is low—I put my bedside light on the floor just in case Thomas decides he wants to do this with the lights on. I didn’t bother to change the sheets, because Mom changed them two days ago and, besides, Thomas isn’t exactly fastidious when it comes to personal hygiene.
It’s only the third time Thomas has been in my bedroom. Mom always insists that we stay downstairs when she’s around—and up until recently, she’s almost always been around. He doesn’t waste any time, launching himself at me and kissing me hard. Too hard—our mouths slam together and for a moment I think I might have chipped a tooth. I tell him to slow down, that there’s no rush.
“Easy for you to say,” he murmurs in between kisses on my neck.
I pull away. “What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask, forgetting that we’re supposed to be keeping the noise down. I repeat the question in a whisper when Thomas doesn’t answer.
“Nothing,” he whispers, pulling me into his arms again. “I ju
st…I’ve been looking forward to this.”
It’s such an innocent thing to say that it makes me smile. Thomas seems to have this ability to say the right words to turn things around. He doesn’t always find the right words at first, but he gets there in the end.
There’s a brief moment of worry when Thomas thinks he’s forgotten to bring condoms; I start to wonder if maybe God (I don’t actually believe in God) just doesn’t want us to have sex again. That he’s putting too many obstacles in our way. It’s a sign. But then Thomas remembers that he put the condoms in his jacket pocket because his jeans were in the wash.
He pulls his T-shirt over his head to reveal his skinny, hairless chest. He’s not self-conscious about his body at all, unlike me. He pulls down his jeans and stands in front of me, with his socks and boxers still on. He looks at me and waits. “Well, aren’t you going to…?” He gestures to my clothes.
I take off my top slowly. Reluctantly. All of a sudden, I’m not sure that this is the best idea in the entire world. It doesn’t seem fair to Thomas to be doing this with him when I can’t seem to make up my mind about how I feel about him. But then he comes closer to me, and he tells me I’m beautiful. I look into his eyes and I believe him. I’m sure about his feelings for me, and shouldn’t that count for something?
I lean into him and tuck my head into that space between his head and his shoulder—the space that I always thought was custom-made just for me. He holds me tight and tells me that we don’t have to do anything if I don’t want to. “I can just hold you for a little while.” I can’t see his face to check, but it feels like the truth. He really wouldn’t mind. And that’s when I realize that I do care about him. I want to do this.
I kiss him fiercely to get the message across, then I push him toward the bed.
—
It hurts more this time, which doesn’t seem fair. I close my eyes and try not to feel. It will be over soon. I wonder if Mom is having a nice time at the spa with Eleanor. If I know Eleanor, it will be more champagne and massages than wheat-germ juice and Bikram yoga. Then I wonder if it’s normal to think about what your mom is up to while you’re having sex with your boyfriend. Probably not.