by Cazzie David
Romy won’t let me borrow anything either, but that’s because she has a very bad case of OCD. Can you get luckier than having a disorder that prohibits you from loaning anything to your sister? I wish I had her OCD instead of my five anxiety disorders. The only things I ever got out of them was therapy, medication, and weird looks from my parents. She really pushes it, though, adding new things to the OCD list constantly. I’ve slept in my sister’s bed countless times over the years, but one day I just touched her blanket and . . .
“Ew, Cazzie! You touched my blanket!!!!! Please don’t do that, you know I have OCD.”
The reaction was as if a sewer rat had licked her. I walk into her room without socks—“Cazzie, your feet, I have OCD.” I take a tampon—“Cazzie, don’t take any of my tampons, I have OCD.”
“What does that have to do with anything?!”
“I need a certain amount to be in the box!”
Romy lives in New York but she comes back to LA for all of the holidays, which in my opinion is far too often. During her December break last year, we went Christmas-gift shopping and stopped for ice cream along the way. As we got back into the car from our final task, she picked up my empty ice cream cup and said, “Ugh, you know I hate trash in my car.”
“No one likes trash in their car,” I said, rolling my eyes. We hadn’t had the opportunity to throw it away yet.
“No, but I really hate it. Like, you don’t mind it.”
“I do mind trash, but okay.”
“All I’m saying is that you can handle trash in your car and I can’t.”
If Romy could write Instagram bios for the both of us, they would be: Cazzie David—“Much less clean than my sister, can’t do anything, can handle trash.” Romy David—“I shower twice a day, super nice sister, can’t handle trash.”
At the end of that particular trip, I dropped her off at the airport to go back to New York. You might think that was a nice thing for me to do, but I only offered after a huge blowout fight involving all her “You don’t care about me” nonsense.
“You just don’t do anything for me. You won’t even lift a finger for me.”
“Mom already said she would drive you! Why does it matter who brings you there?” I asked.
“You’re just so unhelpful. You never help me!”
“No, in this situation, if I bring you, I’m helpful, but I’m not unhelpful if I don’t help you, as you are already being helped by Mom!”
“You’re such a mean sister!”
At this point, she knew that was all she had to say to get me to do anything; it’s like telling a kid you’ll give him a dollar to stop crying. And because I am constantly trying to prove that I’m not a mean sister, I dropped her off at the airport.
“Say, ‘Have a safe flight!’ ” she commanded as she was getting out of the car. I stared at her, dumbfounded. “Cazzie, please! I have OCD!” As if she wouldn’t be able to get on the flight unless I said it.
I didn’t want to indulge it. But I definitely did want her to get on the flight. “Have a safe flight!” I said.
The strongest memory I have of getting guilted via “mean sister” was when Romy came back home that summer a few months later. She, my dad, and I were all having dinner when my dad asked what I was doing later that night.
I rarely, if ever, leave my house. I’m not cut out for the outside world, especially the outside night world, so I primarily hole up in my room. But when I was asked by my longtime childhood crush to join him and his friends at . . . a club (somewhere I’d go only for a guy I’d been obsessed with since I was six years old), I decided it would be the one night I’d go out for the year. And to ensure that I would enjoy myself, I invited my most fun and least embarrassing friends to come with me.
“I’m going out with some friends,” I answered.
“Wow! Whoa! Look at you! Going out!” my dad said, surprised. “Romy, what are you doing?”
“Nothing,” she said dramatically.
My sister never misses an opportunity to try to elicit pity. However, doing “nothing” on a Saturday night isn’t sad. I’ve done it almost every Saturday night for my twenty-six years of living and will probably do it for the next twenty-six years as well. And at that point I’ll be over fifty, so I’ll definitely be staying in the twenty-six years after that too.
“Why aren’t you hanging out with your friends?” I asked, since it was abnormal for her not to have plans with them.
“Because half of them are out of town and I’m in a fight with the rest of them.”
“Well, you can come to Julie and Glenn’s with me. We’re watching a movie,” my dad proposed.
When I said I do nothing most Saturday nights, I meant that I usually go to my cousin Julie’s with my dad to watch a movie. It’s something I happen to enjoy, but it’s apparently my sister’s last choice after actually doing nothing.
“No, thanks,” my sister said in a tone even more melancholy than her “Nothing.”
Then they both stared at me expectantly, waiting for me to invite her to join me. But I couldn’t. This was the first night I was going out in seven months (yes, seven) and I wanted to have fun! It wasn’t personal. Does anyone like clubbing with their younger sisters? Anyone besides weird influencer model sisters who take pictures grinding up on each other?
It wasn’t her fault that I wouldn’t have fun with her; it was mine. She’s just not someone I can have fun around because she knows me too well and knows that I never have fun. Here’s how it would go: We’d be in the club (Omg no), and I’d be trying to have a good time with my friends. We’d drink, dance a little, jump around, and I’d accidentally let a smile slip out. Enter my sister:
“Wow, I’ve never seen you have so much fun before.”
This observation would make the contrarian in me immediately recoil. When someone points out that I’m having fun I’m instantly unable to continue having fun and even regret having had fun in the first place. I wish I were the type of person who could respond with something like, “I know right?! It’s so fun! So happy!” and continue on with the night. But I’m not.
I’ve had plenty of fun times with my friends before, so it’s not strange for them to witness me enjoying myself. But because I’m innately miserable whenever I’m around any of my family members, none of them have ever seen me have a good time. Plus, if Romy came, I wouldn’t be able to flirt with my childhood crush because she’d say, “Wait, why are you flirting with him? That’s so weird, Cazzie. We’ve known him since we were six.” Uh, I don’t know, why do you think?
“I would never not invite you if you had nothing to do!” my sister screamed as she stormed off to her room.
“I would never care about having nothing to do! Nor would I ever make you invite me!” I called out after her. My dad looked at me with deep sad eyes, shaking his head in disappointment.
An hour later he came into my room. “Honey, she’s really upset. She’s going to be alone in the house all night.”
“She can go with you! Or stay home, who cares, why is it a big deal?”
“I know. But she’s your sister. She’s hurt that you don’t want her to come with you.”
She’s your sister is You’re a mean sister in adult-speak.
A few minutes later, my sister stomped past my room to leave with my dad for our cousin’s movie night.
My friends then arrived one by one and we started trying on clothes, blasting music—a classic getting-ready montage. We were about to head out when a text came in from my cousin Julie: What happened? Why won’t you take her out with you?
And then one from my dad: I wish you would be nicer to your sister.
I explained the situation to my friends and they released a synchronized “Awww,” which was absolutely the wrong reaction to have, because, naturally, I started second-guessing myself. Is it actually fucked up for me to want to go out with just my friends? Does my dad hate me? Does my cousin think I’m a bitch? Am I really a mean sister?
> All signs pointed to yes, but it still wasn’t enough to make me voluntarily sabotage my night. I would be uncomfortable if she came! Didn’t I deserve to have a good time?
As I was contemplating this, I got a text from the CC (childhood crush) saying they were now going to a bar (not the club) and to meet them there. This new location was much easier for all of us to get into and wasn’t really a fun, flirting location; it was a more-the-merrier kind of environment. So, with this change of venue in mind, I thought I should probably just bring Romy so everyone would stop thinking I was a mean sister.
I told my friends I was going to surprise her and pick her up from my cousin’s house to come out with us. They again let out a synchronized “Aww.” Still very much the wrong reaction.
I knocked on my cousin’s door and was let in by her husband, Glenn, who looked surprised to see me. Great, this was already embarrassing. I walked into the living room to interrupt whatever movie they were watching and found my sister sitting between my dad and my cousin on the couch. There was a chocolate bar unwrapped in front of her, and her face was red from crying. It looked as if she had just been dumped. Ridiculous.
The situation felt straight out of a romantic comedy—I was interrupting a moment to surprise someone and profess regret for my actions. The thought made me cringe and want to abort the mission entirely. Everyone was looking at me, waiting to hear what I was going to say. It was too much attention to bear, even though it was just four of my family members.
“I’m here to invite you out,” I proclaimed with no enthusiasm.
“Aw, that’s very nice. Isn’t that nice?” my dad said to Romy.
“You’re a good sister!” my cousin exclaimed. It was pretty clear that Romy had been ruining their night with her whining and they wanted her to leave.
“I don’t want to come anymore,” Romy announced.
According to rom-coms, when someone makes a big gesture, the other person is obliged to forgive them. Especially if it’s something as minor as them wanting to go out with just their friends. Meanwhile, I was outside the house with a metaphorical boom box. “Come on, let’s go.”
“You only want me to come because you feel bad.”
“No, I actually don’t feel bad at all. I couldn’t feel less bad. I just want you to come.”
“Go, sweetie, you’ll have fun. You should go!” my dad said.
“But I don’t—”
“We’re not all going to stand here convincing you. Just come or don’t come!” I blurted out.
She came.
We spent the entire car ride home arguing over whether I was a mean sister or not.
“You’re so mean to me, Cazzie.”
“How can you say I’m mean to you when I just drove here to pick you up to come with me?”
“You just are.”
“You make me be mean to you by acting like this!”
“Just be a NICE SISTER!” she screeched.
We arrived back home engrossed in a full-blown fight, and I knew I needed to create a buffer between us. In what I thought was a stroke of genius, I invited another friend to come with us because he and Romy got along. He could talk to her so I wouldn’t have to, I reasoned. A perfect plan.
The five of us were about to head out the door when a text from the CC came in informing me that they were no longer going to the sister-friendly bar by my house but to the club that we were originally going to go to. If only I had gotten the text thirty minutes sooner, I could have enjoyed myself.
Trying to get five people into a popular club on a Saturday night is almost impossible unless you’re famous, which I’m not, or know someone there who is, which I didn’t. But it was too late to bail. I was dressed, which means I had already accomplished 88 percent of going out.
When we arrived, there was a twenty-person line outside composed of much hotter girls in much tighter dresses and much higher heels. I can attest to the fact that there’s truly nothing more humiliating than standing behind twenty people to get into a club. And I wish more than anything I couldn’t attest to that.
To avoid the humiliation of waiting in line, I texted a person I’d met maybe twice that I’d heard through one of my friends was a promoter at the club. (Actually, this might be the most embarrassing part.) Hi, it’s Cazzie! I don’t know if you remember me, I’m sorry I’m texting you, but I’m at—I’m not going to tell you where I was because if you knew, it would make all of this even more mortifying—and can’t get in. I’m five people total. Can you help us out? I didn’t mention to him that one of the friends I was with was a guy, because trying to get one guy into a club is equivalent to trying to get four girls in. So technically we were eight people. The only reason I was even trying at this point was because the CC knew we were outside and I didn’t want him to think that I was a loser who not only would go to this club but would go and not be able to get in.
The promoter (ugh) I texted walked outside a few minutes later, and to this day, I’ve never seen someone look more like they think they’re the shit. I’ve also never seen myself act like more of a loser. “Charlie!” I yelled out. My voice went five octaves higher than usual, probably because I subconsciously knew that no one wants to let a monotone, sarcastic girl into a place of vivacity. Clubs are for women with long blond locks and token brunettes with their hair pulled back so tight, it creates the illusion of even more filler. A place where personality consists of having one arm up in the air and wanting to get fucked up.
Charlie gave me one-tenth of a second of his attention by ever so slightly nodding in my direction as he talked to the bouncer, who then lifted the rope to let six girls waddle in, self-satisfied looks smeared across their faces. I could hear their thoughts: We’re special, cool, and hot; we’re cool and special and hot.
Charlie approached me and said, “You’re next.” Oh, wow, thanks so much, Charlie Fuckface, like I fucking care? (But actually thank you.) He proceeded to inform me that “for right now” he could get in only me and two of my friends (the original amount I was supposed to come with), but he could try to get the other two in a bit later.
When my sister heard him say this, she gripped me like of course she’s going to be in my group going in, she’s my sister.
“Since Charlie knows both of us, we should split up so both groups will have a better chance of getting in,” I suggested to Romy.
“What’s wrong with you—you would just leave your little sister outside?”
My guy friend said he also had to come in with my sister and me because it would be the most difficult for him to get in, which was valid but upsetting to say the least.
If clubbing were a team sport, I was stuck with a collection of every captain’s last picks. To compile a good going-out team, you must pick teammates based on who’s the most outgoing and who allows you to be the best version of yourself. When you’re surrounded by these types of friends, it helps you feel like you deserve to be there and that it’s okay that you’re taking up space where another human instead of you could be because your team is a good-time team. It makes a huge difference in your overall confidence when you are in a social setting where you do not, by any means, fit in. Entering the club with my little sister and friend I’d invited solely to help distract my little sister was not boosting my confidence.
As we started walking in, I turned back to catch a glimpse of my two friends in line, the only people I’d wanted to go out with in the first place. My CC was waiting by the doorway. We hugged and walked in together while I worried about the good-time people I had left behind and the bad team he would now forever know me by.
We were brought to one of the “tables,” which they should really just call stools as they are only large enough to hold one bottle of alcohol. My sister, friend, and I awkwardly stood in front of it, since there were so many awful people squeezed into this place, there wasn’t room for even a foot behind it.
The circumstances were so uncomfortable that after one single moment my friend
whispered into my ear, “I’m leaving,” and ran off before I could respond. It would have been nice if he hadn’t come in with us in the first place so I could have brought in my two friends who I actually wanted there and who would have stayed, but it’s FINE, I GUESS.
This had suddenly become a desperate situation: I was at the club with just my sister. I felt frozen, unsure of what to do. I texted my friends the name of the person whose table we were at, hoping that might be enough, and then I just stood there, thoughts racing about my next move. I wasn’t drunk enough to dance—not like there was any amount of alcohol in the world that would encourage me to dance with my sister. If there was ever a world in which I did, she would be sure to remind me of it every day after: Remember that time we went clubbing just the two of us and danced? Sickening.
I got a text from one of my friends outside: I just used the name you gave me. The bouncer laughed in our faces. We’re going home. I spent my entire Saturday night waiting outside of—still not telling. My friend takes her Saturday nights very seriously; that’s how fun she is. Saturday night is basically her Christmas. I knew I had let her down.
So there I was, standing in the club with just my sister, the absolute polar opposite of how the night was supposed to go, when the CC finally came up to me. It was too loud to hold a conversation, but we also couldn’t stand there silently. So I resorted to pointing at the woman whose job it was to thrust around in a net hanging from the ceiling.
“How dumb is that?” I screamed so he could hear me.
“Oh, I never noticed that before. Ha.”
I racked my brain for anything I could possibly say or do to keep him standing there, but before I could come up with anything, my sister approached and said, “What are you drinking?”
“Tequila soda,” I responded curtly.
“What should I get?”
“I don’t know. Whatever you want.”
“Will you come with me to get it?”
“No, you can do it. The bar is right there,” I said.
“Okay, Jesus,” she said, and she walked over to the bar.