Angeline bobbed her head, facing the coffee table where Cat’s notes for the next issue, her “EIC” notebook, and printouts of last year’s Fit to Print winner were spread out.
It was like being caught naked.
Cat quickly went to gather them up, and Angeline set her hand on one of the front pages.
“Red and Blue totally trounces this,” she said.
Cat froze. “Yeah, well, Ravi’s really talented.”
“Don’t do that. Not take credit. Without your stories, he’s got nothing to work with. And you’ve given him a lot to work with lately.”
“You’ve been reading my articles?” Cat tried to sound nonchalant.
“A few.” Angeline lifted her legs off the floor and drew them into her chest. She then let out a long breath and added, “Fine, all of them.”
“But why?”
“Because they were about me, obviously.” Angeline gave a wry smile.
Right.
“Okay, so truth?” Angeline said. “I did start reading your stories to keep tabs on how you were portraying me. But I kept doing it because . . . it was sort of like knowing what was in your head.”
Cat tentatively sat on the couch opposite her sister, waiting for some joke about what she found in Cat’s head.
Instead, Angeline continued, “Leo and Sammy are super close. So, whatever, we’ve never been. There’s no rule that we have to be just because we’re biologically linked.”
Cat gave a half nod, half shrug. She stretched out her legs, and from the other end of the couch, Angeline did the same. Their jeans touched—Angeline’s high-waisted, spray-painted-on pair and Cat’s straight leg that sat squarely on her waist. Cat wore one of her long-sleeved black T-shirts, while Angeline had on a short-sleeved linen shirt with buttons along the sides—black too.
Cat pointed to their unintentional matching outfits. “Mom would love this.”
“Irish twins,” Angeline said.
Cat had nearly forgotten people used to call them that, seeing as how they were less than a year apart. A familiar nickname on this stretch of coastline known as the Irish Riviera due to so many residents having ancestral ties to Ireland. Their mom had indulged it, getting a double stroller, dressing them alike, attempting to style their hair the same, even though Cat’s would never cooperate.
She and Angeline acted like they’d always hated it when they got older, hindsight attaching feelings of the present to the memories of the past, warping it as much as bringing it into perspective. But they’d tied those matching ribbons in each other’s hair before Easter egg hunts in the backyard, rode matching white bikes with yellow baskets to Lighthouse Beach, and made their communion together in the same church just across from where they sat now. Angeline had dropped out of Sunday School first, not reaching confirmation, and Cat had followed.
Cat said slowly, “That’s not technically true. That we’ve never been close. Before Dad left—”
“You look like him, you know?” Angeline said suddenly. “At least the him I remember—in person, not through one of Botox Wife’s sepia or sunset or happy-day filters.”
“No, you look like him. You’ve got his hair, at least minus the red. While I’ve got . . .” Cat ran her hand through her bob, and when she pulled it free, pieces stuck straight out to the side. “I mean, is this part glue or what?”
Angeline popped up and kneeled on the couch. She swatted Cat’s feet. “Turn around.” When Cat didn’t move, Angeline lowered her voice. “Trust me, okay?”
No teasing hid in her sister’s tone, so Cat swung herself around.
“You’re using the wrong conditioner.” Angeline started to brush Cat’s hair with her fingers. “I set that butterscotch hair mask in the shower weeks ago, but you never even opened it.” She pulled back Cat’s bangs. “Your hair is coarse. It needs the moisture.”
“Why didn’t you tell me to use it?” Cat asked.
“Figured if I did, you’d be less likely to.”
“You’re probably right,” Cat whispered, lulled by her sister’s deliberate movements.
“So pretend it’s from Emmie and use it. Along with the coordinating butterscotch shine I’ll put in with the hair dryer.”
Cat jerked her head. “What?”
“Butterscotch. Really, Cat, you need to let yourself have a signature scent anyway.”
“No, not that.”
“Emmie? Emmie Hayes? You two are friends now, aren’t you? That’s who you’ve been texting with?”
That sensation of being naked returned. She and Emmie had settled into a friendship, their texting letting Cat open up in ways she hadn’t to anyone in a long time. And that was supposed to be hers, alone. She started to sit up. Angeline held her and switched out her fingers for an actual brush from her tote bag on the floor.
“It’s okay,” Angeline said. “At least you waited until after the primary. Doesn’t look so bad.”
Cat’s senses piqued. “An endorsement? Is that what you’re after? You didn’t have to butterscotch me up, you could’ve just asked.”
“Oh, I wasn’t . . . that’s not why I . . .” Angeline fell back on her heels. “Why is this so hard?”
Cat already missed the feel of her sister’s hands in her hair. She retreated to her end of the couch and grabbed the stupid pair of angel wings. “I don’t know.”
“Listen, truly, Cat, I’m just glad you have someone to talk to.” She gestured to the angel wings. “Someone to be your wing girl with Ravi.”
Cat’s eyebrows shot up. “My what?”
“You’re into him.”
“Into—”
“It’s okay, Cat in the Hat.” Angeline’s eyes lit up. “He’s cute. Totally got an artsy surfer soccer player vibe going. And he’s into you too, I can tell.”
Cat’s face burned, and she wanted to brush her off, but instead blurted out, “You think?”
Angeline nodded eagerly. “That drawing he made of you? Total love letter.”
“That was just so I’d let him put editorial cartoons in the paper.”
“Last week’s with Slothy behind the voting booth curtain was hilarious. But, sorry, still not buying it.”
Cat traced a line of tweed on the couch. Her sister knew more about this than she did, but she wasn’t operating with all the facts. “Even if he was, he’s not anymore.”