Confessions of the Sullivan Sisters

by Natalie Standiford

  “Bull—” Phoebe said. “They give you grief, but you and your sisters do what you want in the end.”

  “’Cause we’re not afraid of them anymore,” Lily said. “What can they really do to us?”

  “That’s true,” Phoebe said. “It’s not like getting a time-out is a big threat.”

  Near the keg, Dr. Gornick put his arm around Shea’s shoulders. “You’re the sexiest girl out of this whole bunch, you know that?” he said. Shea swayed slightly.

  “Shea Donovan is wasted,” Phoebe said.

  “I’m so shocked,” Lily said.

  Ilsa came out from the kitchen with her plate of brownies, looking for victims. She crossed the patio to her husband and offered everyone treats. Then she put her arm around Shea’s waist. Dr. Gornick let her go, and Ilsa led Shea to a picnic bench.

  “Looks like Shea’s in for one of Ilsa’s pep talks,” Phoebe said.

  “Oh God, poor girl,” Lily said. “‘Where do you see yourself in ten years? You don’t want to be dependent on a man.’”

  “She should talk,” Phoebe said. “If she married that creepy Dr. Gornick for any reason other than money, she’s crazier than I thought.”

  “Joe,” Lily corrected. “Call him Joe.”

  We all laughed. But then Ilsa waved us over.

  “Jesus. What does she want?” Phoebe said.

  “Girls! I need your help for a minute. I’ve got brownies….”

  “Enough with the brownies,” Lily said. But we all got to our feet and joined Ilsa and Shea at the picnic table.

  “I’m trying to explain to Shea that she doesn’t have to behave in this self-defeating way,” Ilsa said. I half expected Shea to burst into a rage and yell at Ilsa for humiliating her in front of everybody, but Shea just sat and swayed. She looked more than drunk, like maybe she’d taken some pills or something.

  “These girls get plenty of attention from boys—right, girls?” Ilsa waved a hand toward me and Lily and Phoebe. “But they don’t have to resort to wearing their blouses unbuttoned or doing whatever boys want.”

  Shea gaped at us under her blond eyebrows as if she was trying to figure out who we were.

  “Ilsa, I don’t think she’s getting it,” Phoebe said.

  “Maybe this isn’t the best time for a lecture,” I said.

  “Lecture? I’m not lecturing her. This is girl talk. Right? A heart-to-heart.”

  Shea started crying. She just sat there with tears running down her face, her nose dripping, quietly sobbing. She kept her hands at her side, not bothering to wipe away the mess on her face.

  “Oh my God.” Lily turned away.

  Ilsa put her arm around Shea. “That’s right. Let it all out.”

  “Let go of her,” I said. “You’re embarrassing her. I’ll take her inside.”

  The party had stopped dead. Everybody was staring at Shea. Brooks ran over. “What’s wrong?”

  “Shea’s upset,” I said.

  “Shea, do you need a ride home?” Brooks said. “Because Norrie and I are leaving, and we can drop you off if you want.”

  Shea moved her head, but I couldn’t tell if she was shaking it or nodding.

  “Where’s Caitlin?” I asked.

  No one seemed to know. Tim Drucker made a rude gesture and pointed toward one of the upstairs windows.

  “Forget it,” Brooks said. “Caitlin will find a way home. Let’s get Shea out of here.”

  “There’s no need for that,” Ilsa said. “I’ve got this under control, kids.”

  Brooks helped Shea, still crying, to her feet. “I really think she should go home.”

  Ilsa rose and towered over us. “Young man, we’re the adults here, and this is our house. I’m a professional. I can handle this.”

  “I’m a dude man!” Dr. Gornick, oblivious, was howling the lyrics to a song.

  Brooks and I helped Shea to his car. I gave her a Kleenex and she finally wiped her wet face.

  “Thanks, you guys,” she said. “For a few minutes there I felt like I couldn’t talk. Like I had a gym sock on my tongue.”

  “Are you okay?” Brooks asked.

  “I think so. I think Tim slipped something in my beer.”

  “That jerk,” I said, only I used a stronger word than “jerk.” We eased her into the backseat of the BMW. “Do you want some water or something? Are you sure you’re all right?”

  Shea shook her head. “I’m okay. I dumped the beer when I noticed it tasted funny.”

  “We’ll drive you home,” Brooks said. “Where do you live?”

  “In Lutherville,” Shea said.

  Lutherville was not on our way home, but Brooks didn’t seem to mind. I didn’t mind either. I like driving down the dark, winding roads out in the country at night. There’s something romantic about it—even with a drunk girl passed out and snoring in the backseat. Maybe especially then.

  “It was nice of you to come to Shea’s rescue,” I said to Brooks.

  “Ilsa’s always doing that, trying to psychoanalyze girls in the middle of a party.” He didn’t look at me, just kept his eyes on the road. “It’s not right.”

  “They’re both jerks,” I said. “Ilsa and Dr. Gornick.”

  “I used to wish my parents were cool like Dr. Gornick,” Brooks said. “But now I’m glad they just stay on their side of the fence. Who wants your dad singing classic rock at your parties? I don’t care if he does supply half your friends with Valium.”

  “Dr. Gornick gives kids Valium?”

  “That’s what Tim Drucker says.”

  We drove in silence for a few miles while the dark wooded road morphed into a commercial strip. “Do you have any idea where we’re going?” I asked.

  “No. Better wake up Shea and ask her.”

  I shook Shea gently. “Hey, Shea, how do we get to your house?”

  She groaned and opened her eyes and dragged herself up to a sitting position. She stared out the window as if she didn’t recognize this landscape at all. But she did.

  “Turn left on York Road,” she said. “Then left on Othoridge.”

  She slumped back down on the seat. When we stopped in front of her house she tumbled out the door, muttering, “Thanks, guys,” and stumbled toward the ranch house. We lost her for a minute on the lawn, but then she reappeared in the pool of light on the porch. The door opened and she vanished into the world beyond it.

  We headed back to the city, a good twenty-minute drive. I didn’t know what to say to Brooks so I turned up the radio.

  When we got to my house he kissed me on the cheek. He didn’t try anything else, and I didn’t expect him to. He is a well-known gentleman, and I must admit, Almighty, he deserves his good reputation. I sometimes suspect that he’s extra-careful around me, though, since anything that happens between us is sure to get back to you and Mamie.

  “Thank you for coming to the lamest dance ever with me,” he said.

  “I forgot all about the dance,” I said. “Seems like months ago.”

  “We only stayed for five minutes. I think we set a record.”

  “Well. Thanks for a nice evening.”

  “Let’s do it again sometime, Norrie. Soon.”

  “Okay.”

  He got out of the car and went around to open the door for me. Then he walked me up the concrete path to our front door. He kissed me on the cheek again.

  “Well, ciao,” he said.

  “Ciao,” I said. I don’t know how to say anything else in Italian except abbondanza! And that didn’t seem appropriate.

  SEVEN

  THE NEXT NIGHT WAS MY FIRST DATE WITH ROBBIE. THAT WAS A busy weekend.

  I met Robbie at the Charles Theater at seven. He didn’t need to buy tickets because he works there as a projectionist and curates the Vintage Film Series.

  I noticed on the poster that the Hitchcock movie we were about to see was part of the Vintage Film Series. “So it was your idea to show Vertigo tonight?” I said.

  “Uh-huh. We’re doing tw
elve straight weeks of Hitchcock.”

  We went inside to buy popcorn. The girl behind the counter cooed, “Hi, Robbie,” and gave us the popcorn and Cokes for free.

  “Hi, Aileen,” Robbie said. “This is Norrie.”

  “Hi, Norrie.” Aileen smiled at me but underneath her smile I saw suspicion or jealousy or annoyance—it was hard to tell exactly what.

  I liked the movie; it was kind of scary and sexy. Afterward, we stood awkwardly outside the theater while the crowds poured onto the sidewalk around us. I waited to see what would happen next.

  “Well,” he said, “I guess you need to get home now?”

  “Not really.”

  “You don’t?”

  “No. It’s cool.” Ginger and Daddy-o were out, so I wasn’t worried.

  “Oh. Okay. Want to get something to eat?”

  “Yes!” I wished I hadn’t said that so enthusiastically, but I couldn’t help it.

  “Do you like bouillabaisse?”

  “Mais oui!”

  “Then follow me.” We walked down Charles to Mulberry and headed west.

  “Where are we going?” I asked.

  “Maurice’s. Have you ever been there?”

  “No, but I’ve always wanted to go.” St. John goes there sometimes. “Is it true their specialty is ostrich?”

  “Mwah!” Robbie kissed his fingertips. “It’s ostri-licious. Will you try it?”

  “Maybe,” I said, adding, “Abbondanza!” and throwing my arm in the air for no good reason.

  Robbie laughed. “You sure have lots of lust for life.”

  “I’m not usually so energetic and happy, I swear. I mean, I’m a happy person generally, I’m not depressed or anything, but I try to keep things under control—”

  “That’s okay, Norrie. I like it. Don’t you get sick of everybody acting cool all the time?”

  “Yes, I do. I never thought it before, but you’re right. It’s tiresome.”

  “Totally tiresome.”

  “If we become friends, I promise not to act cool,” I said. “If I like something, I’ll gush about it without holding back my enthusiasm. If I hate something, same thing.”

  “If we become friends?”

  “Okay, when we become friends. Now. We’re friends now. I like you! Okay? I like you and I’m not pretending I don’t in order to look cool.”

  He didn’t laugh. I really thought he was going to laugh.

  “Thank you,” he said. “I appreciate that. I like you too.”

  “That wasn’t very gushy,” I complained.

  “You promised not to act cool. I didn’t.”

  “No fair, Robinson Pepper!”

  “When I’m in a gushy mood, I’ll gush. I promise. Right now, I’m hungry.”

  “Mmm. Me too.”

  The neighborhood started getting sketchy. We turned down a dark alley and stopped in front of a small brick house with a pink door and bright blue shutters on the windows. The main window was obscured by stained glass. There was no sign over the restaurant. There was a sign over the burned-out storefront across the street, which said: CHOP CHOP KARATE SHOP.

  Robbie rang the doorbell. A man’s eye appeared in a peephole. “Who is it?”

  “Robbie Pepper. Two for dinner?”

  The door opened. A bald, skinny, old man in an apron appraised us, then let us in. “Right this way, sir.”

  The restaurant was dark, lit only by candles. I touched the patterned wallpaper. It was snakeskin. Tom Waits played quietly through the speakers.

  “Your waitress will be right with you.” The old man disappeared into the kitchen.

  “That’s Maurice,” Robbie said. “This place has been in his family since the 1920s. It used to be a speakeasy.”

  I looked around. There was a collection of odd figurines on a shelf in one corner, and bronze sculptures mounted here and there on the walls.

  A pretty waitress gave us menus. “Hi, Robbie,” she said.

  “Hi, Marissa,” Robbie said. “This is Norrie.”

  Marissa and I said hi to each other. I thought I saw that same look in her eye that I’d seen in Aileen’s. Competitive.

  “Let’s get a pitcher of sangria,” Robbie said.

  Marissa said, “Sorry, Robbie, but does Norrie have ID?”

  He turned to me and blinked as if he didn’t understand the question. I shook my head.

  “Oh. Right. Sorry. Norrie, what would you like to drink? That’s nonalcoholic, I mean.”

  “Coke, I guess.” I felt like an infant. Marissa’s smug smile didn’t help. “No, ginger ale.”

  “Two ginger ales,” Robbie said.

  “Are you sure you don’t want a glass of wine?” Marissa asked Robbie. “We’ve got a nice Sangiovese tonight.”

  “No, thanks,” Robbie said. “Ginger ale’s good.”

  Marissa shrugged, like Whatever you say, cradle robber, and left us to our menus. My happy, gushy mood faded away. I suddenly felt self-conscious and uncomfortable.

  The doorbell rang and this time Marissa answered it. A large group trooped into the restaurant and started for a table in the corner. As they passed by, a rangy guy with long hair and glasses looked at us. “Robbie!”

  “Hi, Robbie,” one of the girls in the group said.

  Robbie introduced me to them while Marissa impatiently tapped a pile of menus against one hand, waiting to seat them. “This is Doyle, Katya, Josh, Bennett, and Anjali.”

  “You guys should come sit with us,” Doyle said.

  Robbie glanced at me. “Is that okay?”

  “Sure.” I was curious about his friends and hoped they’d save us from awkwardness.

  Under Marissa’s withering gaze we moved over to the corner and squeezed into a round booth. Doyle—the guy with the glasses—immediately ordered two bottles of wine. Marissa made a point of swooping my wineglass out from under my nose.

  “Larissa Dalsheimer is up for the Sondheim Prize,” Katya said. “Can you believe that? She paints pornographic scenes on children’s blocks. Could she be more obvious?”

  “Her stuff is crap,” Doyle said. “But she’ll win, you watch.”

  “Erotic stuff always wins prizes,” Anjali said. “It’s supposed to be so subversive.”

  “Larissa gave me one of those blocks,” Josh said. “I like it.” That made sense to me, since Josh, with his shaggy blond hair and ironic hipster mustache, looked like a porn star. An ironic porn star. Or at least how I imagine an ironic porn star to look, since I’ve never seen a porno movie. (Honest, Almighty. I swear!)

  “You probably modeled for it,” Doyle said.

  Josh sat back and grinned. “I’m not saying one way or the other.”

  “Don’t press him, Doyle,” Bennett said. “You’ll just encourage him.”

  Katya is an artist and the others are grad students like Robbie. They wear their piercings and tattoos and the unnatural colors in their hair in the blasé way of people who run together in the same tribe.

  “So, Norrie, are you in school too?” Katya asked.

  “Oh yeah,” I said, hoping to leave it at that. Unfortunately, the look on her face told me her curiosity didn’t end there, so I added, “Robbie and I met in a class at Hopkins.”

  “Really?” Anjali said. “You look kind of young to be out of college already.”

  “Uh, yeah, I know,” I said. “Everybody says that.”

  Robbie laughed. “She’s not out of college. She’s still in high school.”

  “What?” Bennett burst out laughing.

  “Robbie!” Anjali gasped.

  My face burned with embarrassment. Jane calls it “Instant Sunburn,” when I blush so fiercely my whole head turns red.

  “We just went to a movie together,” Robbie said. “What’s the big deal?”

  “No big deal,” Doyle said. I had a feeling they were thinking it was rude to talk about this in front of me. And I guess it kind of was. So they stopped. But I knew they’d all be talking about it later. To defuse
the situation, I said, “It’s not like we’re dating or anything.”

  Robbie looked kind of sheepish at that, but didn’t contradict me. What I’d said was true—the literal truth, if not the spirit of the truth. Meeting Robbie had given me cheekbones, and that had to mean something. But nothing concrete.

  Josh poured a glass of wine and reached across Anjali to set it in front of me. “Josh…” Anjali muttered.

  “What?” Josh flashed me an innocent smile. Everything about him seemed designed to make him look harmless, from his boyish curly hair and slight yoga body to his T-shirt with a pink flower on it. All sweetness and light he was, as Miss Maura would say. But was he? “I’m just trying to make her feel welcome.”

  Marissa stopped at our table. “You guys ready to order?” She looked at me first. I’d barely glanced at the menu, but it didn’t matter. I knew what I wanted.

  “I’ll have the ostrich.”

  I did it just to show I wasn’t a little picky-eater kid. I really wanted spaghetti, but that’s what a kid would order. Besides, I was curious to see how ostrich tasted. I was adventurous now.

  “She’s a brave little toaster,” Josh said.

  “Josh, why do you have to be such a prick?” Anjali said.

  “What’d I say now? Is this about some feminist thing? I’m more feminist than you’ll ever be, Anjali.”

  Anjali rolled her eyes.

  “Norrie doesn’t mind, right, Norrie?” Josh said. “She doesn’t want us to treat her differently just because she’s a little younger.”

  Robbie looked me in the eye to gauge how I was taking Josh’s teasing. “It’s okay,” I said. “I’ve got two older brothers.”

  “Told you she was tough,” Josh said.

  A new song played softly through the speakers, an accordion and a man’s low French voice. “Ooh! Charles Trenet!” Bennett cooed, neatly changing the subject.

  “He’s no Aznavour,” I said.

  Robbie looked at me in surprise. Everyone did.

  “My brother St. John and Daddy-o and I had a Battle of the Charleses, Trenet versus Aznavour. We played all their records, one after another, and voted. Aznavour won.”

  They all gaped at me.

  “You can close your mouths now,” I said.