We Are the Goldens (2 page)

A win for Felix, and a win for me, because I had every intention of making him do my homework.

We walked together to freshman orientation in the gym. It felt good to have someone to sit next to, someone to be
seen with, because most people didn’t yet know that I was Layla Golden’s little sister.

I recognized some faces. There were two other kids from Pine Academy, but neither of them were friends of ours. There were some girls I knew from the soccer field and there was Hugh Feldman, the son of a colleague of Dad’s, who he tried to force-friend on me when we were in second grade. Remember? It backfired because Hugh pulled down his pants when they came over for brunch and Dad freaked out. So ridiculous. Who cares if you wear pants or not in second grade?

I stared at Hugh Feldman across the gym and imagined him pulling down his pants right then, in the middle of freshman orientation, and it made me giggle. Felix whispered, “What’s so funny?” but I didn’t tell him because I didn’t want him to think I was a big perv.

My classes were okay. I liked English the best, obviously. The syllabus surprised me. We’d be reading books that I knew had things like sex and drugs and bad language, and that was when it first hit me that I was in high school. There would be freedom. There would be choices. There would be blurred boundaries. You know this because you’re over halfway done here, but I’m wondering now if it’s a mistake, if maybe we shouldn’t be expected to find our own way, or put away childish things. Maybe we still need someone to hold our hand.

I looked for you at lunch. No luck. I sat with Marina Baker, whose team we beat 2 to 1 in the finals last season. She’s good, but honestly, I wasn’t too worried about
her when it came to the varsity benchwarming spot with my name on it.

I thought about Parker and Duncan Creed, those poor dead brothers. Sometimes I found myself talking to them, like how when I was younger I used to talk to my stuffed animals. That first day I imagined them seated across the cafeteria, waving me over, gesturing to the empty chair at their table.
Sit with us
, they’d say. Whenever I thought about high school, I pictured beautiful, perfect boys like them. Not the acne-prone, greasy-haired boys with humongous Adam’s apples who filled the seats around me.

Anyway, I know I’m going on and on, but it just feels good to go back and remember a time when I still thought I was starting what would be the best year of my life. When there were all kinds of possibilities, plans, things to count on.

But now life has killed the dream I dreamed, or whatever that line is from
Les Misérables
, the musical I sat through three nights in a row just because you were in charge of turning on and off the lights.

I MADE THE TEAM
.

I’ll probably never know if I made it because I’m your sister or because Coach Jarvis saw my potential, but I don’t really care.

I know I’m supposed to want to be judged for who I am and what I can do, but I’ve never minded being judged for you.

Everyone was really nice to me at tryouts. They know me from my sideline cheering and from pizza parties at Dad’s. They joked about what should be printed on the back of my jersey. Little Golden? Golden #2?

Felix watched from the bleachers. He said he’d decided to walk home through the park and stumbled upon us in our purple and gray sweats, but I knew he was worried about me. He understood I’d take it hard if I didn’t make the cut.
But also, I knew he liked watching you. And the other girls on the team.

Coach Jarvis didn’t post the results until the next day, but as I sat on the grass unlacing my cleats and slipping off my shin guards, she said, “Nice work out there, N. Golden,” and I knew that meant
Go home, relax, you have nothing to worry about
.

N. Golden
. That’s what it says on my jersey. Does yours say
L. Golden
? No, it does not. We both know that you are The Original Golden. You don’t need a qualifier.

Mom and Dad fought hard for you. They didn’t meet until they were in their midthirties, and then for years they enjoyed their lives as a cohabitating couple with lots of pocket change. They had successful careers and took fancy vacations. They lavished attention on their Bernese mountain dog, who perished, thankfully, before I joined the family because as you know, I’m terrified of dogs, especially big ones.

As Mom approached the big 4-0 it struck them that they might like to have a baby. That’s how Gramma tells it. She makes it sound like they were characters in a cartoon comic strip who one day realize what every reader knew all along. Thought balloon: BABY.

So: Quick trip to City Hall. Sad little bouquet of white Gerbera daisies. Wedding lunch at Zuni Café. Then years spent trying to get pregnant. Doctors. Tests. Pills. Hormone shots. Dad depositing his contribution into a little plastic cup, but God knows neither of us wants to think about that, so let’s forget I said anything. Several rounds of IVF and voilà: The Original Golden.

Perfect Baby Layla.

Damn if your pictures aren’t cute. So smiley and round and wide-eyed. If Mom and Dad had less class, they’d probably have pimped you out to sell teething biscuits or wet wipes. They say you hardly cried, and I don’t think parents lie about that sort of thing. You slept through the night at four weeks.

Finally, they had it all.

And then, eight months later: surprise.

Sometimes I think you willed me into existence. Took a look around and thought
I don’t want to do this on my own. I need backup
.

Mom and Dad were shocked. At forty-four she was pregnant again, the good old-fashioned way.

Nobody wants to think too hard about his or her conception, but I’ve always taken a weird pride in how I was made. I like to think I was ushered in by fate. The universe saying:
Uh-uh. That Original Golden needs a little sister
.

Suddenly the perfect child had to be scolded regularly:
Careful with the baby. Don’t squeeze her so hard. You’re going to suffocate her. Give her some space
.

Our nannies, and there were many who came and went in those early years, liked to dress us up to match. Those are my favorite pictures of us. Especially the one where we’re both in purple dresses and I’m wearing my favorite bunny-ear hat and you’re wearing a headband with a big purple flower on it, almost as big as your face. You’re the awkward-looking one while I shine.

Mom and Dad sent you to kindergarten even though
you’d be the youngest in your class. You were so bright, so eager, so ready.

They decided to hold me back. I don’t think this had anything to do with how ready I seemed. I’m pretty sure I could have mastered the art of cutting and gluing and circle time with the rest of the five-year-olds.

Maybe they wanted to preserve my baby-ness for as long as they could. Without a baby, what did they both need to stick around for? I don’t think it’s a coincidence that Dad moved out the December after I started school.

Who moves out in December? Who doesn’t at least wait until after Christmas? He could have done it the week after New Year’s. Wouldn’t that have been a better time to break up the family? They called a family meeting. They sat facing us in separate chairs; we sat together on the couch. They said they loved us more than anything, and the whole time you kept your arm around me, and I don’t remember much beyond the feeling of your palm
tap-tap-tap
ping my shoulder. They said we’d always be a family, the Goldens, that wouldn’t change.

The four of us haven’t had another meeting since.

Anyway, what I really want to talk about is the other reason I think they had me wait to start kindergarten: they wanted to give us more room to find our own way. I’m sure their shelves full of child-rearing books urged them to foster our individuality, put some space between siblings. And I’m sure they thought they were doing the right thing, because Mom and Dad are genuinely decent people. But they screwed that one up royally.

See, we aren’t your average siblings. Those books don’t know that I am me and you are you, and yet, we should be near each other.

And maybe, just maybe, if Mom and Dad hadn’t listened to those books and held me back, if I’d started at City Day the year before, a freshman to your sophomore, if I’d been nearer, then none of this ever would have happened.

HOW IS IT POSSIBLE THAT
you never mentioned Sam Fitzpayne? In all of our conversations about City Day, when I’d sit on your bed until you yawned and told me to get lost so you could get your beauty sleep, and I’d shuffle back to the room I never wanted, how did you never mention him?

He’s like Parker and Duncan Creed—the perfect boy I imagined I’d see everywhere, but there were none until the Thursday I saw Sam.

I spotted him in the hall. I noticed the way he circled you.

He’s so beautiful. How can you not love that shy smile, the dimple on his left cheek, the shaggy hair, his green-gold eyes? How could you have failed to mention him? How could you not stand still and let him stop circling?

That Thursday after school, as we walked from practice to the bus stop, I said, “Tell me about Sam Fitzpayne.”

You stopped and looked at me. “Sam? Really?”

You made a show of thinking it over, as if contemplating him for the first time.

“He’s just a boy.” You continued walking. “He’s a little boy.”

Every now and then you exhibit a blind spot. For the most part, you have perfect taste. You look great without seeming to put in any effort. Your room is DIY mixed with classic teen and vintage hip. As for music—everything I listen to I chose because you liked it first.

Anyway, about Sam. It was really hot on the bus ride home. That’s September in San Francisco. Summer finally arrives when there are no free days to enjoy it. I was sweaty and sore and irritated at you. Why? Because sometimes you fail to see gifts dropped right at your feet. You step over them and walk on.

We hopped off the bus a few stops early so we could pick up dinner on Chestnut Street. I like to cook; you don’t. You wanted sushi, but I convinced you we should go to Lucca Delicatessen and get ingredients for a spaghetti puttanesca, one of my best dishes. We paid with Mom’s credit card.

She was out that night. A date with Barry, probably. She really liked Barry, and we did too, though we teased her that she couldn’t possibly marry someone named Barry.

Barry, will you pass the salt?

Barry, what time will you be home?

Barry, don’t forget to pick up the dry cleaning
.

Who could go through life like that?

This was endlessly funny to all three of us. Poor Barry. He didn’t stand a chance.

I feel bad that Mom hasn’t remarried. She wants to, and I know that the reason she hasn’t has something to do with us. It’s not like we’ve tried to sabotage any of her relationships; it’s just that even though we spend three out of every seven days with Dad, we take up a lot of space. Mom is tirelessly devoted to us. We are her north, her south, her east, her west, to quote that W. H. Auden poem. I know it’s about a death, but to Mom we’re her compass, even if sometimes that’s not how it feels.

I think you can be too hard on her. I’ve never said that because I’m genetically programmed to take your side, but honestly, you could cut her some slack.

We ate our dinner—one of my better efforts. I started clearing the dishes even though I think it should be the job of the one who didn’t cook to clean up. I was at the sink, wrist deep in lukewarm water, when you said: “So … there’s going to be this party Saturday night.”

I remember where I was standing because that’s what happens when big moments strike: people remember exactly where they were, like they remember exactly what they wore, which in my case was still my sweaty practice gear.

I’m not trying to compare the moment I knew I’d be going to my first high school party to landing a man on the moon or anything, I’m just saying that this was a monumental moment for me and I couldn’t understand why you didn’t seem to share my excitement.