the receiver.
“Okay, let me drop her into the playpen.”
This was usually how calls with my sister went, about 85% of it was her verbally wrestling with motherhood peppered with our fragmented attempts at conversation.
“Okay, Em’s safe and Benji is napping, so you have me all to yourself. How’s everything going?”
“Good, work is the same. I picked up an extra class at the dance school teaching five-year-olds. Oh my god, they are so cute. A handful, but cute.”
“And how’s everything with money? Are you doing okay?”
“Yes, thank you.” My sister was the reason I could afford to live alone, even in a tiny apartment in LA. She was the only true family support I had. And I tried really hard not to ask, but occasionally it was do that or a bill went without being paid. “How’s Alec?”
“Good, he’s busy with work as usual and the holidays are coming so we’re revving up for that. Are you coming home?” She already knew the answer to that.
“No . . . I can’t afford it anyway.”
“I’d get you a ticket.”
“It’s not just that. You know that. It’s not like I’ve been invited.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. If a formal invitation to come home is what you need, I’ll tell mom—”
“No. Don’t. I have plans here anyway.”
She sighed a sigh that admitted yet another defeat in the battle of getting Birdie home.
“Anyway, something happened earlier this week. I’m okay though.”
“What? What happened?”
“I was mugged while walking home from work.”
“Mugged? Oh my god! You see? That’s it, I am talking to Alec. We are going to help pay for you to live in a better neighborhood. I can’t have you living like this.”
“No, it’s fine. I like where I live. My building is in an okay part of Downtown LA, I just have to walk through a couple of not so great blocks to get there.”
“Well, then that’s just as bad.”
“I don’t want to move. And you guys do enough for me. It was my fault anyway.”
“How could it be your fault?”
“I tried to be a Good Samaritan and it backfired.”
“I could kill you sometimes, you know that? You and your big mouth.”
“But you love me for it, too.”
“I don’t recall that growing up.”
My sister and I are different in so many ways. Of course, since I’m adopted, we’re not biologically related. She is actually the biological child of my parents. My parents had just the two of us. Let me be clear—I was never meant to feel different in any way. My parents were equally strict with us. But while my older sister did everything they wanted—the perfect petite blonde with the perfect accountant husband, and the picturesque little family—I was always wandering. I was the redheaded mixed girl (of what, I don’t know, but I think some percentage of black and white. The point is, I was physically different) with gorgeous facial scars. I wasn’t born ugly, just different from the norm, and as if God thought I didn’t feel different enough, he got someone to mark my face up for that extra umph. I never could focus in school, though my teachers always said I was brilliant. That was the reason my parents put me in dance. They thought it would build my confidence because I hated going to school, hated how the kids mocked me, even though my popular older sister did what she could to protect me. They also hoped it would help expend some energy and improve my focus in school. It did expend energy, but I think their hopes backfired. They wanted dance to be a tool to make me compliant, and all it did was make my desires wander more.
“So what happened?” she asked.
“I was walking home and I saw some people hassling a guy. I said something and then they started picking on me too.”
“Oh my god. Bird, I really could punch you in the head.”
“What’s new?”
“So did they take your things?”
“No, the guy who I helped suddenly turned into Chuck Norris, punched one, and wrestled the other. It was insane. One of them stabbed him. The cops came just in the nick of time.”
“The attacker had a knife? Oh my god.” If she was wearing pearls, she would be clutching them. “How many were there?”
“There were two. And one did, obviously.”
“Did the cops catch the guys?” Her voice quivered.
“Yes. Right away. One was at the scene, the other didn’t get far because of the ass-whooping he got.”
“I take it you’re pressing charges?”
“I don’t have to. The detective