Carried Away - P. Dangelico Page 0,4
side window of my jalopy. He’s dressed in sweats and a faded UCLA Bruins t-shirt, hair mussed, his pale blue eyes laughing at me from behind thick-rimmed black eyeglasses. His lips curl into an insidious smirk as he takes a sip of what is, without a doubt, ethically sourced coffee.
“You scared the crap out of me, you creep.”
“Says the woman sitting in my driveway, talking to herself for the past twenty minutes.” Turning, Charlie walks back toward the house. “Are you coming?”
I either get in there or pop a tent on the corner of San Vincente and Bundy. Grabbing the bag of fresh bagels I bought for the occasion, I dutifully follow after him.
Inside, Jackie is at the kitchen table, stuffing her face with yogurt and granola. Her dark brown eyes peer up at me and do a quick and brutal assessment of my short denim overalls/white tank top/Princess Leia hair buns combo. My sister has strong opinions of what a professional woman should dress like and my preferred style, the Princess Leia hair buns and eclectic clothes ain’t it.
“I come bearing gifts,” I say flashing the goody bag and take a seat at the table opposite the two of them. “And the overalls are Helmut Lang FYI.”
“So inappropriate and expensive,” she says right out of the starting gate, nodding, “cool.” Another spoonful of food gets shoveled into her mouth. “I said to Charlie ‘Look, babe, a bum has appropriated our driveway,’ and then I said ‘Oh, never mind, it’s just my baby sister.’ Do you ever wash your car?”
She’s one to talk. The show pony is wearing a coffee stained USC Law sweatshirt, pajama bottoms, and her black hair is haphazardly piled on top of her head which, frankly, looks unwashed.
“I’m conserving water,” I say, shrugging her off. That’s only half true. In my heart, I do try to conserve water. In reality, I don’t have a nickel to spare for luxuries such as car washes.
Jackie rolls her eyes, her cheeks stuffed with food. And yet dirty hair and all, she still looks gorgeous. My sister is one of those people that looks beautiful under any circumstance. Like her beauty takes adversity as a personal challenge and rises to the occasion every time. Tears only make her eyes look bigger. The flu turns her into a willowy heroine from a 19th century novel.
Me? I get so much as a sniffle and end up looking like Kermit the frog. It’s fucking annoying.
We’re pretty much polar opposites. I love fashion, and travel, and the thrill of the chase. Jackie loves order and routine. By 10 am on any given Sunday, my older sister––older by five years––typically has done an hour of hot yoga, showered, blown out her hair, applied her makeup flawlessly, and grocery shopped for the week. This hot mess that is my sister nowadays is out of the norm because she’s four and half months pregnant, and she’s already had two miscarriages.
“Zelda called,” Jackie casually announces to the table even though there’s nothing casual about the subject.
The abbreviated version of our sad family tale is that our mother walked out on our family when I was ten and Jackie was fifteen. She left our father for a woman and moved to New York City to “actualize herself.” That’s the bullshit she left in a letter on the kitchen counter while Jackie and I were at school and Dad was at the hardware store. More on that later. So, yeah, the subject of our mother is a touchy one.
“Did you speak to her?”
Jackie shakes her head, lost in thought. “I didn’t pick up.”
I have zero doubt that I do not want Zelda anywhere near me or my life whereas Jackie is more conflicted. “Are you going to?”
“Are you?” she answers back, leveling me with a pointed stare. She knows the answer to that. I haven’t spoken to her in four years, since my college graduation when she showed up uninvited, and I don’t plan to start now.
“How’s my niece?” I ask while I grab a fresh raisin bagel and slap a blob of cream cheese on it. Time to get off this topic.
“Nephew,” Charlie chimes in.
“Fine,” Jackie replies tightly, casting a faraway gaze out the glass patio door. She’s become increasingly superstitious about this pregnancy. I’m convinced she thinks that if she makes a big deal out of it, she’ll lose the baby again. “What’s going on with Ben?”
She’s purposely changing the subject, but I let it slide. I’m about