We survived Sundays in church. Not for a couple of hours—the entire day. I love Jesus, and I have the Vacation Bible School certificates to prove it, but He doesn’t need to see me from sunup to sundown every weekend as proof. Had it not been for the chicken plates they served in the basement, I would’ve called CPS several times on behalf of my anxiety.
There is no logical explanation for why my sister didn’t tell me she wanted to visit a church that started at eight and let out at eleven thirty. I ran out of Twizzlers after hour two.By hour three, I contemplated fainting. The only thing that would’ve come of that is a prayer cloth over my lower half and church aunties reviving me back to consciousness by speaking in tongues. No one to rescue me from sitting between a man with breath in need of an exorcism and the woman swatting me with the side of her hat.
Strike two came after Marcela insisted we eat brunch at an upscale restaurant with no weather mats to stop me from electric sliding over the marble floor. I almost went back to church in a casket the second my ankle boot hit the ground. Between the slush outside and the frozen stares, staying at home and not spending a small fortune only to still be hungry was the better plan.
Which brings me to strike three: Marcela’s line sister inviting herself to our brunch.
Lisa insisted we sit in the private dining room with a wall of expensive wines the second she trotted into the restaurant wearing heels that would have me calling the injury attorney with the catchy jingle.
I was never a fan of her or her attempts to weasel her way into my time with my sister, the same way I’m not a fan of her plus-oneing herself to our family events and the annual DC galas my father forced us to attend. All Lisa cares about is herself and being seen.
She always steers conversations to who she’s with or the luxury trip someone else financed. I’m not mad or jealous. I also did not risk slipping and falling to sit through another story that strokes her ego.
“Aruba was beautiful,” she coos, with an emphasis on “beautiful.” Her accent is foreign to her Buffalo roots. “Low humidity. Warm sand. Luxury brands. Come next time.”
“Did you forget I have a district to run?” Marcela lifts her Bellini to her lips. “I can’t just disappear for a week.”
“Four days,” Lisa corrects.
Marcela waves her fresh manicure. “Same thing. I have commitments.”
“Like traveling to another country for dick?” Lisa arches a brow. “How is that not the same?”
My sister leans her forearms on the polished wood table, careful to keep the sleeves of her tweed pencil dress away from the croque madame in front of her. We’re the only two at this table that seats ten who aren’t eating a small plate of sprouts to look cute for the few people who walk by the street-level window.
“First, the dick lives in Amherst,” she says about her senator sneaky link. “We go to his house in Canada to keep people out of our business. Second, I’m an hour away. Third, and most important, I don’t fuck for handbags or trips I can’t afford myself.”
I choke back a laugh.
Marcela and Lisa’s relationship is interesting, and by “interesting,” I mean unnecessary but tolerated. Lisa is building up her event-planning business. She hangs around my sister for access to her contacts, former corporate clients, and associates. Marcela’s star is on the rise as a councilmember, garnering state and national headlines. Lisa wants a piece of that and leeches where she can.
If this is what friendships look like, I’m glad I keep to myself.
“Something funny?” Lisa’s glare sears into my profile.
“Nope.” I cut into the tiny crab cake on my plate. Not bad, but it could use some Old Bay.
“Do you even know how to compute being around people? A man?”
“Not too much.” My sister’s tone is her first and last warning to try me in her presence.
“Sorry.” Lisa feigns innocence. My smirk lifts her high cheekbones into a phony smile with perfect white teeth. “How are you liking Buffalo?”
“Good,” I say, “but we don’t need to pretend you care. Go back to trying to impress Marcela.” Her face falls, and my sister bites her lip and drops her head.
I never understood small talk or communicating with someone you don’t care about. Both seem pointless.
Lisa’s jaw clenches, and her eyes narrow. “I’ll do no such thing. I’m friends with your sister, and I hope we can be closer now that you live here.”
“Okay” is my response.
Lisa has known me since she came home with Marcela during winter break of their freshman year of college. Never once did she display any signs of caring about me. If anything, she’d take jabs about my clothes and my K’nex set. I was twelve at the time.
I frown at Lisa’s playful shove and look at Marcela, who lifts her shoulder before finishing her glass.
“Come on, we’re older now.” Lisa laughs and tosses the twenty-eight-inch bundles cascading down her back. I twirl my coils, which are sitting high from my wash-and-go. The shrinkage is real, but it’s moisturized.
I giggle to myself at the double entendre. Antonio is rubbing off on me.
