An Off Year (16 page)

“Oh for Christ's sake,” I said. “I'm going to be here. And then I'm going to leave. Why don't you cry about
me
leaving?”

They stared at me. I tried to concentrate on cutting my steak.

Sometimes it made me sad to think about how little Germaine and I did get along. I know that most siblings, even those immature like me, would say, “Well, I hate my brother or sister, but I really love her.” I was glad for Germaine, and also hoping that once we weren't around each other maybe we'd be able to cultivate one of those “Now that my sister and I hardly ever see each other, I love her!” relationships I'd always heard about.

What does that even mean?

This one time, though, we'd actually been sort of getting along, and I thought we'd have that heart-to-heart. I didn't know what I imagined, a TV show maybe, where we'd get everything out in the open and then hug and cry and maybe go shopping and get our hair done and eat candy, but that didn't work out.

Germaine had been home from college on a break and Dad was out of town on a conference, and she and Josh threw the obligatory party. It seemed like it was going to be crazy—even I was allowed to invite people. Germaine was actually introducing me to her friends, who got a kick out of asking me what high school was like, as if we were generations apart.

The party was going well. Josh and Germaine maintained good crowd control, so there were a lot of people hanging out in the backyard, eating pizza and drinking beer, but nothing was out of hand. Everyone was getting along, the music was good, and the neighbors hadn't called the cops or anything like that. I wandered out into the yard and saw my sister, sitting on an empty keg, smoking a cigarette out of an actual cigarette holder and talking to three or four guys.

“Hey, Audrey,” I said.

Instead of keeping up her friendly front, Germaine rolled her eyes, but didn't look at me.

“I mean, like Audrey Hepburn, like from
Breakfast at Tiffany's
,” I said.

“I'm aware of what you mean,” she said, sniffing, ashing her cigarette and giving her boyfriends a look like, “You see what I'm talking about?”

“I
am
five years older than you,” she pointed out, as if you had to be of college age to watch films.

“So, nobody's puked yet . . . I mean, as far as I can tell,” I ventured, trying to keep up the good-naturedness. Germaine waved off her boys and turned to me with a look that meant she was going to give it to me. I tried beating her to the punch.

“Hey,” I said, “what's your—”

“What's my problem?”
she filled in. “Try this on,” she continued. “You always make everything about you.”

“I what?”

This was getting annoying. I was starting to wonder whether I really did sound like a baby when I talked. Plus, this wasn't the sort of tack Germaine normally took.

I said, flabbergasted, “What is with you? You know, why do you hate me so much?”

“Hmm,” Germaine said, obviously savoring the speech that was coming. It was like she was sitting in front of a buffet and she couldn't decide where to start eating. “Let's see. You're spoiled. You don't take anything seriously, so when I try to actually talk to you, you act like a retard and run off like a banshee. You get special treatment because you're the baby.” She took a giant drag from her cigarette and charged ahead. “You only want to talk about yourself,” she continued, “so whenever I say anything about myself, you completely brush it off. You never ask me about my life. You tell the stupidest jokes and then you pout if everybody isn't utterly delighted. You interrupt people when they talk, and you don't let other people intervene when you talk; you just raise your voice louder and louder. And because you're so self-centered and such a little baby, any little accomplishment you do, anytime you wash the dishes without being asked to, everybody's supposed to react like you just split the atom, and when I fail to be enthralled, Dad acts like I just kicked his puppy.”

“See, this, this kind of speech is not what I—” I tried to interrupt. But she was still on a roll.

“You utterly lack the adult concept of responsibility, doing something because you have to, not because you want to. As far as you're concerned, you can do whatever you want and let everybody else pick up the slack. And I'm the only person who happens to see this, and I hate it! I do everything I'm supposed to do, you do nothing, and you're still the goofy little baby. I can't stand being around you or talking to you or even thinking about you.”

“Wow,” I said, genuinely impressed.

“Oh, and you go through my shit,” she said. “Don't think I don't notice, Cecily. You're not that fucking slick. Well, I've got news for you: you'd better watch your own back because maybe—”

“Okay, okay,” I said. I didn't like the threats. “Well, do you want to know what I hate about you?”

“Fuck you, Cess,” she said, jumped off the keg, and sauntered off.

“Listen to what Germaine just told me,” I said grabbing Meg when I found her. We laughed about what a crazy bitch she was, which helped distract me from wondering about whether it was true. She hadn't yelled at me like that since, but it seemed like it was because she just didn't want to talk to me that much.

 

 

Germaine was moving out the weekend I was visiting Josh. I decided that it would be a good idea to see if she had some sisterly nugget of wisdom for me before we both left. We'd mostly been avoiding each other: she'd been busy with packing and work, and I was just trying to stay out of her way. Now that Dad was suddenly so sad about her leaving, I'd probably look like the bad guy if we had any fights.

The night before I was supposed to leave, I walked down the long hallway that separated our rooms and knocked on her door.

“What.” Her voice came out in a monotone. I was already annoyed.

I opened the door with some struggle, because it always stuck. I couldn't tell if Germaine did it on purpose or she just radiated suckiness that spread even to the walls of her room. “Hey, I—”

“I didn't say
come in
,” she said, glaring at me. She was sitting on her bed, reading a magazine, still in her work clothes.

“Fine!” I said, and shut the door. I was midslam when I realized that I was asking for help and I would never get anything from her if I pissed her off, so I caught the door and closed it softly.

“Hear ye! Hear ye! Germaine, I have come to ask thee sage advice on looking at colleges,” I shouted through the door. “As you may know, I am going to visit our brother, Joshua, tomorrow in the state called Wisconsin and—”

“Jesus Christ, stop yelling. Open the door.”

“Okay. Hi. So, I'm leaving soon, which I know you must be thrilled about, and Dad wants me to know what the hell I'm doing, and I don't. So, I don't know, I thought you might know something.”

“Quit leaning against the door frame and come in and sit down. You're making me nervous.”

“What are you reading?” I asked, sitting on her desk chair.

“I thought you wanted something, Cecily.”

“Oh yeah, right. Well. You know. Dad's all gung ho about this visit and all that crap and I need to get something out of it. I don't really know what to look for, though.”

Germaine didn't react to this question at all, just leaned over to a drawer next to her bed, opened it, and took out a big dark green candle and a pack of Parliament cigarettes. “Open the window, will you?” I did, and she lit the candle and lit a cigarette, ashing into a pop can she had nearby. I wanted to ask her who she thought she was kidding: we all knew she smoked in her room, but I didn't say anything. I'm sure Dad knew she smoked but didn't seem to care as long as she kept it in her room and didn't stink up the whole house. I guess that that was part of her punishment for having to live at home, too, like a kid—sneaking around like a kid.

“Are you looking forward to it?”

“I guess. I mean it'll be nice to see Josh. And it'll be weird. But I guess it's something I have to do.”

“Buy a T-shirt. Actually, get me a ‘Fuck 'em Bucky' shirt if you see one.”

“ ‘ Fuck 'em Bucky'?”

“Josh can explain it to you.”

“Okay, a T-shirt. That's a good idea. I just don't want to make Dad mad and—”

“It's really not that big a deal, Cecily. You see the campus, maybe go to a few classes, check out the study-abroad office, see the gym, go to the bookstore. What else do you think you're interested in?”

“I don't know.”

“Well, bullshit it. Pick up a school newspaper and see what they're talking about. Go see frat row or something.”

“I don't think I can join a fraternity.”

“Okay, I think this conversation is over, Cecily.”

“All right. I guess I want to know . . .”

“What?” Germaine had picked up her magazine again, to signify that we were done. She huffily closed it, but with her finger between the pages.

“Did you like college?”

“Of course,” she snapped. But then she took a thoughtful drag. “It's odd, sort of, being with all these strangers, but you sort of figure out who you are. It's your last chance to be irresponsible, too.”

“What didn't you like?”

“I didn't like that I graduated and suddenly had no idea what the fuck to do with my life. They could have . . . I don't know, prepared us better. I don't know if you know this, Cecily, but if you stay here, it's eventually going to get less fun for you. Dad might give you pity points right now, but trust me, stick around and he'll get less patient. So it's in your best interest to go.”

“Huh.”

“What?”

“I guess I didn't think of it like that.”

Germaine stared at me. “Are you high? What did you think you'd be doing? You know it's practically against Dad's religion to take time off from school, don't you? So whatever it is that you need to have figured out by the end of this year, do it quick, because I don't think you get more time to do it. If you want to go to Italy or Greece, call up Mom now.”

“I don't know why you're so hot to hang out with Mom all the time. She hasn't been awesome to us.”

“Well,
I
don't get why you like hanging out with Dad so much.”

“Duh, I'm the favorite.”

“Gee, you think?”

“I was just joking, Germaine.”

She ashed dramatically into the pop can. “I'm just saying I don't think there's a coincidence that you always take his side and then he lets you stay home for the year. He would have never let me do that.”

“Thanks.”

“Cecily, eventually you're going to have to grow up and deal with the same shit that everybody else does. I'm just telling the truth.”

“Okay,” I said. “I appreciate it.”

“You're welcome. See you later.”

“Let's go!”
Dad cried. He clapped his hands with evil glee. “Wake up!”

The light was harsh and yellow and I hated him for a second. “I hate you,” I muttered into the mattress. It was the day I was to visit Josh.

“What?” he said. “Did you say you want to take a shower? Okay!”

He practically ran down the hall, and I heard the shower turn on.

“The shower's on! Don't waste water! Go! Go!”

I sighed, squinted at him, and trudged to the bathroom and got in the shower, feeling heavy and sickly. As I got dressed, I smelled bacony goodness below, which drew me downstairs despite myself.

“A good breakfast to start your day,” Dad said, placing a plate in front of me. It was still a little dark out, and gray like the day before. The kitchen blared with bright light and NPR.

“The directions are pretty easy,” Dad said, handing me a printout as I dug into a bacon-and-egg smiley-face man. He had even bought the hazelnut-flavored cream that I liked. I turned the coffee nearly white and added about three pounds of sugar to it. “I also put a copy in the car and one in your coat pocket, just in case. And I put a roll of quarters in the car so you will have money for the tolls in case for some reason the E-ZPass doesn't work.”

“Thanks,” I said, sopping up egg yolk with a bite of toast.

“There's also a first-aid kit in the glove compartment in case of emergency,” he said. “And if you get pulled over, don't get out of the car. Keep the windows rolled up until the cop shows you some I.D.”

“Dad, I've taken driver's ed. I even did well! I have this thing called a driver's license. It's like an award they give you when you finish.”

He shrugged his shoulders. “Go brush your teeth!” He whisked the plate from under my chin. There was still one tiny drip of yolk left, but he put it on the floor, where Superhero cleaned it with one wipe. “Go!”

I ran upstairs to brush my teeth. I grabbed my duffel bag and went back downstairs. It was time to go.

“Cecily! Wait!” Dad came hoofing down the driveway before I even backed out onto the street. “Give this to your brother. It's for dinner and other stuff. I will be checking with him that he received the full amount.” He handed me a wad of money. “And I love you. And I hope . . . ah . . . I hope you have fun.”

“Okay, Dad,” I said. “You know, I'm not going to China.”

He rolled his eyes. “I'm glad to be rid of you for a few days. You stink.”

It was time to go.