The Good Sister (7 page)

“You mean like little voices told you so?”

He smiles a Jesusy sort of smile. “Not exactly, no. One thing meditation does for me is it helps me listen to my inner voice. Whether you call that voice God or your subconscious or the universe or whatever, it's the part of us that speaks the truth.”

If I didn't know better, I would think this guy was so full of bullshit we should be drowning in it right now, but Krishna … I don't know.

He's different.

For once in my life I just trust him without questioning it too damn much.

“Why me?”

“I don't know yet, but the more we've talked, the more I've become sure we are supposed to help each other. Maybe I'm supposed to help you, maybe you're supposed to help me, I don't know that part yet. But I think you might make a good receptionist for the time being,” he says with a full-on grin now.

“When you asked about my future plans, I'm not sure because I don't really want to go to college, at least not yet. And I guess I always thought I'd become like…” I feel stupid saying the next part but want to tell him the whole truth. “Like a model or something, some kind of celebrity on TV.”

“It's the dream of our generation,” he says without any sarcasm, and I'm grateful he doesn't make fun of me.

“Do you want to know the whole truth?”

He nods.

“Before my sister died, when I wasn't working at the coffee shop, I spend all day taking photos of myself to post on Instagram, and putting videos on YouTube, and, you know, that kind of stuff.”

“What kind of stuff?”

“Like sexy stuff. Wannabe-porn-star stuff, I guess.”

“Is that what you want to be?”

“No,” I say, surprised the answer comes out so easily. “It's just, I don't have any talent besides looking hot.”

“I don't believe that.”

“It's true.” I look off to the side, out the window where a row of redwood trees rustle in the wind.

“Maybe you need to give yourself a chance to find out what else you're good at, what else you like to do.”

“Maybe,” but I can't think of what I'd do. “I like to dance, but I'm not good enough to get into music videos or anything.”

I might be able to get myself a job swinging on a dance pole, I think, but don't say it out loud. The only thing that's stopped me from doing that yet is the lack of reliable transportation I have into the city, where all the strip clubs are.

For some reason, I want Krishna to think I'm not as awful as I am, but I also want him to know the truth. It's an impossible freaking balance to strike.

“What about your little sister? Do you think maybe she could use your help?”

“What does she have to do with this?”

“Sometimes the good we have to offer the world is most easily found in what we can do for the people around us.”

“She hates me,” I say, but I realize instantly that it's not true. Asha maybe doesn't hate me so much as she just puts up with me.

“Why does she?”

“Well, mostly, I haven't been so nice to her.” Or to anyone. “Nice hasn't really been my style.”

“Do you think you might be able to change her mind about you?”

What I think is, Asha is the least of my worries. She is not the sister making my life beyond miserable right now. Sarah is the one I have to worry about. Now that she's gone, it's as if my relationship with her—and her death—are the only things that matter.

I used to think that if I could just show the world how Sarah wasn't as perfect as everyone thought, then I'd be happy. Then life would be fair. But now I have all the dirt on her. Now I know just how imperfect she is, and I can't tell anyone. Telling her ugly secrets now would mean leaving out everything I did wrong.

My legs are starting to ache sitting in this cross-legged meditation position again, and I don't want to talk about Asha anymore. I shrug and give a little who-knows smile, hoping that's enough answer for him.

“Can I tell you something else?” I say.

“Sure, anything.”

“Remember how I told you my sister died?”

He nods.

“I was there when it happened.”

I don't say the rest. I don't tell him
my
big ugly secret—that I am the reason she is dead, or Sarah's secret, which I'm afraid would pale in comparison to mine. That stuff, I can't say aloud.

I'm not sure I ever will.

He stares at me with this crazy intensity that makes me think I'm going to burst into flames, but he seems to be waiting for me to continue.

I don't.

“That's why I had to stop and talk to you on the sidewalk,” he finally says.

“It is?”

“You're carrying a burden too heavy for one person to bear.”

I say nothing to that, not sure what the hell to say.

“But we can't solve the world's problems in a day, and you're probably wondering if I'm ever going to give you a ride home, right?”

I smile and stretch my legs. “Yeah, sort of.”

“Let's get going then.” He stands up and extends a hand to me.

I take his hand and stand up myself, feeling warm at the physical contact with him, but then I feel stupid, because, of course, it's not like we're ever going to get naked together.

Unless I can change his mind about that celibacy thing. But as I walk out to the beat-up, old Toyota with him, I realize that's not exactly what I want to do. Instead, I think I want Krishna to stay just as he is—not quite like any other guy I've ever met.

Maybe someday I could tell him the whole ugly truth about Sarah's death, and he might not hate me for it. He might just smile that Jesus smile and tell me everything has a purpose. Maybe he will tell me how to sleep through the night while remembering that kind of truth.

But I doubt it.

Eleven

Asha

Spring break comes and goes. I realized right away I couldn't stay in the park forever unless I want to spend all my time smelling bad and starving, so I went back home to the house where Sarah is not, where all the questions about her death that have no answers scream at me. Home, 414 Redwood Way, has a gaping, empty space where my sister should be, and that space threatens to swallow me up, the closer I get to it. I stay in bed for the entire week trying not to get swallowed while most people my age are living it up. I try to read, but I can't focus. I hear nothing from Sin, and I want to die.

Thoughts of Tristan, and that kiss, alternately torture and entertain me. I can focus for a minute maybe on how it felt to have his mouth on me, his hand traveling up my thigh, but then thoughts of Sin and his anger always interfere, and I've decided it's better to just put the whole thing out of my head as much as I can.

I also try not to think about Sarah, and what we would be doing if she were around on this day or that day or the next day. I mostly fail.

Lena hassles me to get out of bed, to help her with things. I refuse, and she flips out, and then she either goes to bed too or she leaves and goes to her boyfriend Ron's house, where she is spending more and more time these days.

Rachel and I usually have a strict policy of not talking and staying the hell away from each other, but near the end of spring break, she passes my door, sees me lying in bed, and stops.

She looks like she's about to say something, but instead she just crosses her arms over her chest and leans against the doorframe, staring at me as if I were a strange bit of flotsam that had washed up on the beach.

“What?”

“You can't stay in bed forever,” she points out, as if this is somehow a helpful piece of news.

“Actually, I can.”

To this, she says nothing. Just keeps staring.

I consider telling her to go away, but it would take too much energy and would probably have the opposite effect of what I want.

I close my eyes, and a memory surfaces, one of Rachel taking care of me after the bone-marrow donation. I was in bed, achy and exhausted, while Lena and Ravi were at the hospital with Sarah. So we were home alone together, and it was probably Rachel's first time having to take care of someone else. She seemed to be enjoying the responsibility, which surprised me even back then.

I remember her bringing Lena's laptop into the room, since we didn't own a television, and looking up online games for us to play while we sat side by side in bed. And she read to me from
A Wrinkle in Time
until it started giving me a headache. Then she went downstairs and came up a half hour later with a tray that held a bowl of soup and a cup of hot tea. The soup, a strange concoction of brown broth and floating food objects that she'd made from scratch herself, tasted so salty I gagged at the first mouthful.

But when Rachel looked hurt, I made up some lie about its going down the wrong pipe and forced myself to eat the whole bowl, claiming it was delicious. I got a horrible stomachache after, but it was worth it to have a night of Rachel and me getting along.

Nowadays, if Rachel brought me soup, I'd have to worry that she'd spit in it, or worse.

Without a word, she finally disappears from my doorway, leaving me to wonder what, if anything, she had to say.

 

 

The Monday after spring break, I go back to school but wonder why I've bothered to show up at all. My attendance has been spotty for the past month since Sarah died—a few days in school here and there, zombielike, and the rest not. My sister is still dead. This must be worth at least a couple more weeks of skipping classes. Maybe the rest of the semester.

But Lena has launched a campaign to get me into therapy, so now I'm doing whatever I can to stay away from home. I don't want to face Lena now, or Rachel, or a therapist, or any more reminders that Sarah isn't here or there or anywhere.

I realize, when I sit down in first period, I am hoping Sin will be here and acting normal again. I'm hoping he'll just pretend that horrible day of the funeral never happened, and if he does, then maybe I'll feel okay enough to go home and take a shower and sleep in my own bed.

Last night, after a fight with Lena over the Therapy Issue, I slept in the park in my sleeping bag again. I woke up with a bunch of dried-up redwood leaves tangled in my hair and a couple of itchy, red bug bites on my arm. I look like hell—I know because I checked in the girls' restroom a few minutes ago—and there wasn't much I could do to repair myself in the few minutes I had splashing water on my face and trying to untangle leaves from my hair.

I don't care what anyone thinks though.

Mostly.

The girl sitting next to me, Andy something or other, is looking me up and down. I can tell she wants to ask me something—what happened to you? Or, why do you look like such a wreck?—but she doesn't. She probably remembers about Sarah.

“Cool tattoo,” she finally says.

I've forgotten about it. I should be washing it and putting lotion on it. It doesn't hurt anymore. I look down at the stars. My jeans are rolled up, though one pant leg is now longer than the other. For a moment, I hate the tattoo. It looks trendy, like something I'll regret when I'm old. I should have gotten something a little more timeless, I think. Maybe a dragon, or a bird.

But it's for Sarah, and there isn't anything more right for her, even if it is ridiculously trendy.

“Thanks,” I say so quietly I'm not sure she can hear me.

Her attention slowly fades to the front of the room, where not much of anything is happening, just Mrs. Riggs shuffling through some papers. I sit through the first period in a stupor, and Sin never shows up. This isn't unusual for him, but I find myself staring at the door the entire time, willing him to appear.

Later, I wait at his locker, knowing his second-period class is geometry and he is beyond screwed if he fails it. He can't afford to miss another class, and sure enough, he comes ambling down the hallway toward me three minutes before he has to show.

I can tell by his expression though that nothing has changed. He doesn't look at me so much as he looks through me, intent on retrieving his geometry book from the locker I'm leaning on.

“Move,” he says without even a hello.

“Are we ever going to talk about why you're mad at me?”

He half looks at me and rolls his eyes. “I don't have anything to say. Now move.”

I step aside, but I don't leave. I watch as he attempts his combination, screws it up, and tries again. He gets the numbers wrong a second time.

“It's four, ten, seven.” I can remember his combination better than my own.

He sighs heavily. Drama queen, I want to say, but I can't. I'm too afraid of pissing him off even more when I'm not even sure what's wrong.

I swallow my pride. “I'm sorry.”

I need him, and he knows this. I'm not even sure I'll make it through the rest of the day without breaking down if he doesn't stop this and be nice to me again.

Still, he says nothing. He jerks his locker open so hard it almost hits me in the face, and I have to step back to avoid it. This shocks me even more than his silent treatment, because Sin is not violent. He's not the hit-me-in-the-face-with-a-locker-door type. Throwing my sandals at me the day of the funeral was the most aggressive thing I've ever seen him do.

Without saying a word, he grabs his books, slams his locker shut, and walks away.

I watch his thin shoulders, covered in a black cotton cardigan that I'm pretty sure belongs to me, moving as he walks. He moves like a cat, stalking down the hall in a way that's half-natural and half-practiced.

He's wearing his dark brown hair free of product today, overgrown and shaggy. Not really a hairstyle at all. It suits him. With his hair unstyled, he looks a lot like Tristan, only smaller and more tense, less numb to the world.

What does he think of me? That I'm fake? A user? That I'll just take advantage of whoever is nearby to distract myself from real life?