She made me promise we would FaceTime at lunch.
Two years ago, my sister walked across the stage to collect her high school diploma and kept on walking to the parking lot, drove to the airport, and flew to New York City. My parents lost their minds, but they let her stay. I guess she was over eighteen, and they didn’t have a choice in the matter. My sister is a free spirit who reports to nobody.
“Hiiiiyeeeeeee,” she says, while moving the phone slowly toward her face, until all I can see is half an eye and a freckle.
“Hi,” I say while propping the phone on the steering wheel so I can keep devouring my sandwich. She pulls the phone away from her face, revealing her bedroom—which is also her living room and kitchen. From what she tells me, rent is impossibly expensive in New York City. My sister has a teeny-tiny loft on the Lower East Side. It’s so small, she doesn’t live in an apartment; she lives in a diorama of an apartment.
“Excuse me, is that a five o’clock shadow?”
“No,” I say, a little too defensively.
“Put the phone closer to your face and let me have a look,” she demands.
I can feel my face redden. “There’s nothing to see.”
My sister knows exactly how to embarrass me—always has and always will. I run my hand along my jawline. It’s going to be years before I have any facial hair. If I had it my way, I would have the most manly of man-beards. It would be nothing but beard as far as the eye could see. A beard that food gets caught in—not just crumbs, but full pieces of fruit and bread. The kind of beard that would leave no question in anyone’s mind that I’m a man. At this point, I’d settle for a soul patch. But it’s not up to me.
“Hey,” I say, “I was reminiscing about my first haircut. How did you talk that barber into giving me a face shave?”
She acts taken aback that I would even ask. “Pony, that’s a secret between me and Mikhail.”
“Tell me,” I demand, then take a bite of my sandwich.
“Ewwww, don’t eat that in front of me. You are aware of my stance against eating meat. Poor cow.”
A moment passes. It’s clear that she’s not going to reveal her secret. I change the subject. “So, sis, what’s new with you?”
I ask my sister the same question every time we talk because she’s always up to something interesting and weird.
“Well, Ponyboy, I’m glad you asked. There’s something I need to tell you . . . I’m a unicorn now!”
I rest my case.
“Congrats!” I say. “When will the horn grow in?”
“Ugh, come on, Pony. The amount you know about this world could fit in a Diva Cup.”
Gross.
Her voice takes an educational tone. “Unicorns are the third person in a couple’s open relationship. I’m his girlfriend . . . and I’m her girlfriend . . . I’m their girlfriend!”
“Please bring them home for Christmas,” I demand, then take the last bite of my sandwich, mostly bread crust and BBQ sauce.
“No way, Pony. The wardens would lock me in the basement and never let me out.”
She’s correct: my parents are very strict.
“Come on,” I beg. “I need the entertainment. It’s so boring without you here, Rocky.”
It took a month in New York before my sister changed her name to Rocky. To my parents’ dismay, her new name was not up for debate. I do feel bad for them sometimes—they raised daughters and now they have a transgender son named Pony and a unicorn named Rocky. They must wonder where it all went wrong.
“And, how did you meet . . . what’s their names?” I ask.
“Raul and Amethyst.”
“Of course.”
“Well, I was at the vegan café in my yoga center after an intense acro session. I was eating a quinoa and tempeh bowl—”
I interrupt. “I understood about three of the words you just said.”
“Pony, focus!” She snaps her fingers at me. “I’m sitting there when this attractive couple with the most amazing energy sits down at my table and asks if I want to join them. I thought they meant for lunch, but that’s not what they meant . . .”
“OK, no more information is needed, thank you,” I say.
“Breakfast time!” Rocky sings as she rolls out of bed. She works until late as a server at a trendy West Village restaurant, so her day starts around noon. I watch her walk the ten steps to