“You need an excuse?” I raise an eyebrow. Dylan laughs.
I know what she said about yearbook was an oversimplification, though. While she’s definitely enjoying her pièce de résistance portrait of Jake, I know she edits photos of the ecology club’s spring cleanup with equal diligence, despite a distinct lack of abs.
I return to my physics homework, trying to refocus on rotational motion while Dylan clicks and studies her screen. It’s quiet for a moment, each of us concentrating. While Dylan and I work in each other’s company often, genuine silence is rare. Dylan usually wants to discuss the details of our days, or play me a YouTube video of whatever sweaty rock show she went to over the weekend, or—
“Okay, it’s perfect. Coffee break?” she asks, sitting up straight and unconsciously looping the longer side of her short hair over her ear. Checking the clock on my phone, I do the math and realize I don’t really have time to finish the problems I’m working on before driver’s ed. What’s more, I could use coffee. The mug I made this morning is wearing off, leaving me an unpleasant combination of weary and wired.
I close my book. “Why not?” We head into the hall, Dylan following me down the stairs. On our way to the door, we pass Jamie, who’s on the couch watching something in the living room.
She hits pause. “Where are you guys going?” she calls out.
“Just Starbucks,” Dylan replies cheerfully. I hover near the kitchen, saying nothing. Ever since we were in sixth grade, Dylan’s loved Jamie. My sister had just come home from college for winter break and her first night here, she hosted a huge party for her high school friends while our parents were out. It was surprising—Jamie was never a “partier” in high school. Looking back on it now, I guess it was the first indication of how Jamie would change. Of how growing up could look like growing sideways. Dylan was sleeping over that night, and I remember waiting to fall asleep while the pulsing music and the noise of the party kept us awake. I was furious. Dylan was enamored.
Jamie gets up, not bothering to turn the TV off. “Do you guys need a ride?”
“We’re walking.” I speak up, lightly annoyed Jamie just wants to insert herself in whatever I’m doing because she’s bored.
“Oh, great. I’m craving a latte,” Jamie says enthusiastically. She steps into her sandals and heads past Dylan and me to the door. I inhale and exhale. While Jamie inviting herself irritates me, it would be unforgivably standoffish to tell my sister she’s not welcome, especially without good reason.
We walk outside. It’s a perfect day, everything in pure colors Dylan wouldn’t even bother to Photoshop. The fresh pavement of the road, the cloudless brilliance of the sky, the pattern of green and gray lawns and driveways. We follow the sidewalk in the direction of the mini-mall near our house.
“You guys been working on homework?” Jamie asks. Her languid pace sets ours.
“Yeah,” I say, squinting and wishing I’d grabbed my sunglasses from my desk.
“On a Saturday? It’s the weekend.” Her voice is playful.
I glance sideways at my sister. Every day’s the weekend for her, which I restrain myself from pointing out. I don’t want to rub her face in her situation, and I certainly don’t want to upset her. “Yeah,” I repeat. “On the weekend.” Jamie did homework on the weekend when she was in high school too. I don’t know how she forgot, or maybe she just doesn’t think it’s important anymore.
If Jamie hears the edge in my voice, she ignores it. She turns to Dylan. “Who do you have this year?”
Dylan names several of her teachers. While they share horror stories of Mr. Murphy’s excruciatingly slow lecturing style, I scrutinize the familiar scuffs and seams of the sidewalk.
We cross the street in front of the mall, and Dylan changes the subject. “Alison mentioned you’re learning the guitar,” she says to Jamie. By mentioned, Dylan means I texted her the other night complaining I couldn’t concentrate over the metallic whine from Jamie’s room. I choose not to clarify this detail.
Jamie brightens instantly when Dylan brings up the guitar. “I am,” she says with her unwavering excitement. “I even met up with this girl from my graduating class who plays drums. We’re thinking of starting a band.”
This startles me from my silence. “Who?”
“Mara Naser,” Jamie answers. “It’s wild—I didn’t even know her in high school, but we’re in a Facebook group for Fairview people still in town.” She pulls open the door to the Starbucks. The familiar smell envelops me, the sweetness of the flavored syrups and the bitter bite of the coffee.
“Now you’re just going to start a band with this random girl?” I ask.
“Is it a crime to make new friends in the neighborhood, Alison?” There’s a rare hint of irritation in Jamie’s voice. Then her eyes soften, turning somewhat sad. “Everyone I was friends with in high school lives in other cities.”
I don’t reply, feeling kind of bad for my sister. Even so, her seeking out her old high school classmates seems like one more sign of regression. There are certain people in your life you’re supposed to graduate from. Returning to them is like forcing yourself to play with the toys you enjoyed when you were in kindergarten.
We order our drinks from the register. Black iced coffee for me—the perfect combination of productivity and refreshment—a Frappuccino for Dylan, and a nonfat, sugar-free vanilla latte with an extra pump of syrup for Jamie. I follow Dylan to our regular table, where we wait for our orders. “So what does Mara, like, do?” I ask Jamie, keeping my voice light. I’m hoping Mara has more happening in her life and will be a positive influence on my sister.
Jamie shrugs like the question’s uninteresting. “I think she’s applying for her master’s?”
“In what?” I’m coming off like a parent eager for her kid to make friends with the honor students.
“I don’t really know,” Jamie says quickly. “You can ask her tonight. She’s bringing a friend over and we’re going to practice.”
I frown. I’d hoped the band idea was an unformed possibility, not one materializing in our garage in a few hours.
Jamie’s eyes fix on Dylan, her face lighting up. “Maybe you could take some photos of us sometime. I’m thinking of making a website.”
I want to tell Dylan not to waste time on this whim of Jamie’s. But when I look over, Dylan’s evidently elsewhere, gazing out the window with a distant and unreadable combination of emotions in her eyes. Following her gaze, I immediately know why she’s distracted.
In the parking lot stands Olivia, having a conversation with a girl I don’t recognize. Olivia’s hair is different, cut short and dyed platinum from its natural blonde, and she’s dressed with an effortless style I don’t remember her having. She and her friend each hold their keys, lingering like they’re meaning to leave and not wanting to. Clearly telling a story, Olivia gestures with her hands, a habit of hers I remember from hanging out with her and Dylan while they dated.