Confessions of the Sullivan Sisters

by Natalie Standiford

  “You better not.”

  “How was the opening?” Sassy asked.

  “Crowded,” I said. “And guess who was there? Ginger and Daddy-o.”

  Sassy gasped and Jane laughed. “You’re kidding! Did they meet Robbie?”

  “Yes. They were very polite.”

  “What did Robbie think of them?” Jane asked.

  “He thought they were charming.”

  “Everybody always says that,” Sassy said.

  “Yeah, if they only knew the truth,” Jane said. “That’s exactly why I’m writing this blog—”

  “Please,” I said. “Like you know the truth about anything.”

  Sassy tried to keep the peace. “Where’d you go after the opening?”

  “To a party at this girl Carmen’s house—and she turned out to be Robbie’s ex-girlfriend.”

  “Holy crap.”

  “Yeah. Shea Donovan was there too. It was one of those nights when you can’t go anywhere without running into somebody.”

  “You mean, like, every night?” Jane said.

  “Shea got wasted and threw up in Carmen’s bed.”

  Jane cracked up. “Poor Shea,” Sassy said.

  I put on my nightgown and nudged Jane over to make room for me on the bed. Sassy picked up a hunk of my hair, twirled it around in her hand, and let it drop. She likes to play with my hair.

  “The thing is,” I said, “I keep thinking about Shea, and me, and what it means that we’re, I don’t know, in the same world. If we’re both dating these older guys, does that make me…like her?”

  Sassy twirled my hair some more. Jane thought this over.

  “You mean, are you a slut like Shea? The answer is definitely yes.”

  I bumped her with my hip so hard she almost fell off the bed. “Really. I can see what people think of Shea. The girls at the party were putting her down. But what do they say about me? And how does Robbie think about me? Do you think he sees me as a malleable little high school girl he can use and then dump? Like I’m too young to know what he’s up to? I mean, why is he with me? Why really?”

  I didn’t really expect them to have any answers. I wish I had an older sister.

  “You have two choices,” Jane said. “You can play it safe, break up with him right now, and you won’t get fooled and you won’t get hurt. Or you can keep seeing him and find out what happens. It might be good, it might be bad.”

  “What do you think I should do, Sass?”

  She stopped playing with my hair and stretched her legs out from under her nightgown. “I think you should give him a chance. Keep your eyes open. If you chicken out, won’t you always wonder what would have happened?”

  I noticed a brown spot on Sassy thigh, about the size of a quarter. “Where’d you get this bruise?” I touched it lightly.

  She flinched but said, “It doesn’t hurt.”

  “How’d you get it?”

  “I got hit by a car,” she said.

  “Again?” I said.

  “Sassy, what’s wrong with you?” Jane said. “Don’t you ever watch where you’re going?”

  “I do,” she said, looking sheepish. “They just come out of nowhere. It’s like I have a magnet inside me that attracts cars.”

  “Did you hit your head? Are you hurt anywhere else?” I asked.

  “No. Don’t worry, I’m fine.”

  I looked at Jane, who shook her head.

  “Really, I’m fine,” Sassy said. “Cars can’t hurt me.”

  “Sassy, no.”

  “Not that immortality stuff again.”

  “How else do you explain it?” she said. “I fell through a hole in the space-time continuum, and in this parallel universe I can’t be hurt. I’m unkillable.”

  “You’re un-sane,” Jane said.

  “Sassy, please don’t think you can just walk in front of moving cars and be okay,” I pleaded. “You’re just as killable as the rest of us.”

  “Okay,” she said. But I could tell she wasn’t convinced.

  “Who’s the boy, Norrie?” Ginger asked.

  I went downstairs at 10:30 the next morning. Takey had finished his cereal hours earlier and was already out with Miss Maura at a soccer game. Sassy, Ginger, and Daddy-o were quietly eating eggs and bacon. Jane followed me downstairs a few minutes later.

  “What boy?” I said like an idiot.

  Ginger sighed dramatically and rattled the charm bracelet on her freckled arm. “The boy you were with at the gallery. He was terribly good-looking. Though I’d like him better with a haircut.”

  “Oh, him? That was Robbie.”

  “I remember his name, darling. That’s not what I’m asking.”

  “I thought he seemed like a very nice young man,” Daddy-o said. “Refined.”

  “You could tell that just by looking at him?” Jane asked.

  “Of course, lovey. How else?”

  “What is it with boys and crazy hair these days?” Ginger shuddered.

  “I’d think you’d like that crazy long hair,” Daddy-o said. “Reminds you of your own youthful adventures.”

  Ginger and Daddy-o can easily lose the thread of a conversation and go off on some tangent like “Hair Styles of 1977.” But not this time.

  “It reminds me of my youth a little too much,” Ginger said. “So—? What school does he go to?”

  “School?” I said.

  “Yes, Pie. You know, that place where you go to learn nine months a year?”

  I had a feeling that Ginger and Daddy-o would like Robbie just fine, as long as they didn’t find out too much about him.

  “Well…he goes to Hopkins.”

  “College boy, eh?” Daddy-o said. “What’s he studying?”

  “Film,” I said.

  “Film?” Ginger said. “That sounds like a perfect waste of time. But wasting time is what college is for, I suppose.”

  As long as they accepted the information they had so far and probed no further, I might be all right. Leave it to Sassy to spill the dirt.

  “I want to meet him,” Sassy said. “I can’t imagine going out with a boy who’s older than St. John.”

  Daddy-o slapped the newspaper on his plate, and Ginger let her bracelet clank on the table. “Older than St. John? What are you talking about?”

  “Ha-ha,” Jane gloated. “There are no secrets in this family—anymore.”

  I glared at Sassy, but immediately felt guilty about it, because I knew she felt sorry and didn’t mean to be such a blabbermouth. Jane, on the other hand, was going to get it.

  “I thought you said he was a college boy,” Daddy-o said.

  “He must be pretty stupid if he’s older than St. John and hasn’t finished his degree yet,” Ginger sniffed. “Is it a learning disability or does he take a lot of drugs?”

  “He’s in graduate school,” I explained.

  “Exactly how old is this gentleman?” Daddy-o asked.

  “Twenty-five.”

  Daddy-o frowned, pondering this. “That’s quite a bit older than you, Norrie.”

  “Where did he go to high school?” Ginger asked.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “He’s from New York.”

  “New York!” Ginger got up and threw herself onto the chaise longue. You know the green one by the breakfast nook? We keep it there in case she’s seized with an urge to lie down. “A twenty-five-year-old film student from New York…with a learning disability…who takes drugs. Oh, darling, how awful. What kind of future could he possibly have?” The age difference in and of itself didn’t bother her. It was the slackerish nature of his chosen profession. And maybe the drugs, which were a figment of her imagination but now would be stuck in her mind forever.

  “What about St. John?” I said. “Who’s hiring philosopher poets?”

  “St. John comes from money,” Ginger said. “There’s always a future in money. Does this Robinson Pepper have money?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. I doubted it, and I didn’t care.


  “At least he lives the life of the mind,” Daddy-o said. “That’s something.” But I could tell by the way he picked at a nonexistent crumb on his chin that he felt uncomfortable with the situation.

  “What if you end up marrying him?” Ginger said, off on her own tangent. “You don’t want your last name to be ‘Pepper’…Norris Pepper…It’s too…redolent.”

  “I could keep my own name.”

  “It’s annoying when women do that,” Daddy-o said. “It makes everything so complicated.”

  I slurped my cooling coffee. “We’re not getting married. I just met him a few weeks ago.”

  “You hardly know him,” Daddy-o said.

  “He’s already having a bad influence on you,” Ginger said. “Since when do you slurp your coffee that way?”

  Jane burst out laughing and slurped hers too.

  “My slurping my coffee has nothing to do with him.” I slurped again. “Anyway, you have nothing to worry about because I’m not going to marry anyone.”

  “Me neither,” Jane said.

  “Nonsense, darling, you’ll marry someone lovely and suitable,” Ginger said. “You too, Jane. Sassy, thank you for not making such a ridiculous declaration in the first place.”

  “I didn’t have time to,” Sassy said. “I might not get married, who knows? And what’s suitable?”

  “Suitable is like Brooks Overbeck,” Jane said, clearly trying to cause mischief.

  “Exactly,” Ginger said. “Norrie, this Pepper person isn’t a boy, he’s a grown man. He’ll either toy with you and toss you aside—”

  “Oh, he had better not do that,” Daddy-o said, his jowls shaking.

  “—or he’ll want to get serious with you. You don’t want to get all wrapped up with someone like this now, Norrie. You’ll miss out on all the marvelous boys your own age, like Brooks. You’ll have plenty of time in your twenties to date aimless losers who think they’re creative and can’t make a living. And besides, who are you going to take to all the debutante parties this year? Not some crazy-haired grad student from out of town. He doesn’t even own a proper seersucker suit, does he? I’m assuming he doesn’t.”

  Jane smirked, triumphant because this conversation fed so beautifully into her theory that our family is evil.

  “I have no idea what kind of clothes he’s got hanging in his closet,” I said. “For all I know he’s got a Starfleet captain’s uniform hidden in there. If he wants to wear it to a debutante party, that’s up to him.”

  Ginger was really pissing me off. Daddy-o less so, because I could tell he was seriously thinking this over, until his brain got tired and he wished it away. But Ginger was putting all kinds of obstacles in my path, silly obstacles that were all about her and what she wanted.

  “End it now, darling. That’s my advice. This little adventure of yours isn’t going to go anywhere.”

  “I agree,” Daddy-o said. “This situation makes me very uncomfortable. I don’t like thinking of you with a man who’s older than my oldest son.” He picked up his newspaper and gazed into its depths, ready to wash his hands of this whole affair and go back to his absentminded preoccupations. “I don’t want to forbid you to see him, Norrie—one can’t legislate one’s heart’s desires, after all—but I certainly wish you’d stop so our lives can go on again as usual. Thank you, dear.”

  Ginger studied me for a long time. At last she said, “Norrie is just trying to get some attention, that’s all. To worry us and rebel a little. Aren’t you, darling? You haven’t been a bit rebellious until now, and everyone’s entitled at your age.”

  She turned her face away and closed her eyes. “And, girls—this goes for all three of you, and you too, Al—I hope this won’t get back to Almighty. She doesn’t need to hear the sordid details of your love life, Norrie. It would only upset her, and no one wants that.”

  “Certainly not. No one wants that,” Daddy-o chimed in.

  See how we keep things from you, Almighty? But now I’m telling you everything. I’m not leaving anything out.

  Conversation over. Daddy-o was buried in his newspaper, and Ginger covered her eyes with her forearm as if she had a terrible headache. Sassy shrugged and looked sheepish. Jane grinned mischievously. I pointed at the ceiling—universal code for “My room, now”—and the three of us went upstairs for a Tower Meeting.

  “This isn’t over, is it?” Sassy said on the stairs.

  “No, it isn’t,” I said. “And, Jane, this had better not end up on that stupid blog of yours.”

  “Freedom of speech. You can’t tell me what I can and can’t write about, Mussolini.”

  I pressed her against the wall and said in my most threatening voice, “I’m your sister. If you care about my happiness and well-being, you will not write about my private problems in your blog.”

  “Understood,” Jane said. “Unless it becomes a public matter. Then it’s out of my hands.”

  “Make sure it doesn’t become a public matter,” I said between clenched teeth.

  “Will do, Mildew.”

  “Think of it this way, Jane,” Sassy said. “If you spill Norrie’s secrets, she won’t confide in you anymore. How would you like that?”

  She tried to hide it, but I saw a flash of horror cross Jane’s face. She hates to be left out. I gave Sassy a grateful smile. Sometimes she knows exactly the right thing to say.

  ELEVEN

  I FELT THE DIFFERENCE AS SOON AS I WALKED INTO SCHOOL on Monday morning. Girls said hello to me as always, but there was a tentativeness to their greeting, as if they were keeping their distance. They looked at me with curiosity or scorn, when no one had ever been curious or scornful toward me before. What was there to be curious about? I was just another girl like them, even less interesting than they were since I never got into trouble and always seemed to be on the right track: the boring track.

  But word of Carmen’s party must have gotten out, because everybody knew about it. I could feel it. I had become a different person in their eyes. I had become a pariah. I had become Shea.

  Claire met me at my locker and confirmed my suspicions.

  “Norrie—really? You were at a party with Shea and two guys in their twenties? How did this happen?”

  “How does everybody know?”

  “Caitlin must have blabbed. I think she’s jealous of Shea.”

  I didn’t see how anyone could be jealous of Shea.

  “Why didn’t you tell me about it?” Claire asked.

  I didn’t need to tell Claire about it, because I had Jane and Sassy. And then there was Brooks…Claire wouldn’t understand. Also, I feared the Caitlin effect: that Claire would blab and everybody would get the wrong idea.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “It was weird. The girl who had the party turned out to be Robbie’s ex, and I think she still likes him or is mad at him or something. Then Shea threw up in her bed and that didn’t help at all—”

  “Are you, like, friends with Shea now?” Claire asked. “Because that’s what everyone’s saying. That you and Shea are going to parties downtown together and picking up older guys.”

  “That’s what everyone thinks?” I was shocked. How could my own classmates change their image of me so suddenly? “That’s crazy. I went to a party and Shea just happened to show up. Doesn’t that happen to you all the time?” This city is a big spiderweb that catches you no matter where you go. That’s how it seems to me, anyway.

  “I’ve got to meet this Robbie guy,” Claire said. “I don’t see how you can like anybody else when you could have Brooks. But that’s just me.” I knew that’s what she’d say. She’s on your side, Almighty.

  How could I explain it to her? I liked Brooks, but I had the feeling he was just being polite when he paid attention to me, that he was just playing his role, doing his family duty and making his grandmother happy by playing prince to my princess.

  Robbie changed everything. Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t squeeze myself back into the old snow globe everybody want
ed to keep me in. The glass was already broken.

  TWELVE

  AND NOW, ALMIGHTY, I’M GOING TO WRITE A PART OF THE story I never planned to tell you. I feel very uncomfortable about it. Not embarrassed, just uncomfortable. But I promised myself I’d tell you everything, and this part is important.

  Maybe if you could forget that I’m your granddaughter and try to think of me as a person you don’t know, or a character in a book…it might help you get through this without having a heart attack.

  One November night after Speed Reading class, Robbie asked me out again. Just the two of us. And to make sure we wouldn’t be disturbed by ex-girlfriends or wastoids I go to school with, he offered to cook dinner for me at his place. He lives in a studio apartment in an old building in Charles Village that’s filled with other grad students. He wrote down the address for me. Friday night.

  I told Miss Maura and Ginger that I was spending the night at Claire’s house. I didn’t tell anyone else what I was doing—not even Claire. I had a feeling something big would happen that night, and I didn’t want any interference.

  Robbie lives in a run-down brick building, twelve squat stories dotted with windows. The lobby has a dingy, chipped mosaic floor that was probably pretty once, a long time ago. The elevator is slow and creaky. I rode it up to the seventh floor and rang Robbie’s buzzer. He opened the door wearing a plaid apron, his hair standing straight up from the steam in the kitchen.

  His iPod was playing some old-fashioned music: a baby-voiced woman singing playfully about peeling a grape. I gave him some flowers I’d brought and he kissed me on the cheek.

  The apartment is tiny, with a loft bed wedged in one corner, a desk underneath it, and a little kitchen with a window that looks into a courtyard filled with dozens of other windows, lit and unlit, a fascinating hive of students buzzing in their tiny cells.

  I sat at the kitchen table, which was set with an open bottle of red wine, a bottle of sparkling mineral water, and a plate of cheese and crackers. Robbie stood at the stove, stirring a boiling pot of pasta.

  “I hope you like spaghetti and meatballs,” he said. “Because that’s what we’re having.”