When My Sister Started Kissing

by Helen Frost

  until late afternoon. Do you still want to go? Abigail says,

  Yes. And then, to me, You can go to the Johnsons’ on your own.

  Pam asks how far away the Johnsons live, and Dad says,

  Our nearest neighbors—just up the road. Abigail is sure: she

  would rather go with Pam than go to their house. That look

  flits across her face—something she isn’t telling me.

  If She Knew

  Abigail

  What would Claire say if she knew that TJ and I

  kissed, the night before we left last summer?

  And—what does TJ think about that now?

  We were talking, and admitted that we wondered

  what kissing is like. I said, We could try it, and TJ said,

  Why not? We agreed: it was fun! But how will it feel

  to see him again now? Since he lives here in no-phone-land,

  we haven’t even texted since that day. Will it be awkward

  if we end up alone together? Although that shouldn’t be

  too hard to avoid, with all those little spies in his house—

  especially the nosy twins. Not sure which one it was who

  caught us holding hands behind their boathouse, a minute

  after we had kissed, and blurted out, I’m telling!

  TJ thought fast. Nothing to tell, he told her. Abigail

  tripped, and I helped her up. That’s it. Now scram.

  Dad’s Hand on the Tiller

  Claire

  Good—since Abigail isn’t going to the marina,

  I have Dad all to myself. The water’s rough

  and he goes pretty fast, making me laugh as we

  go bumping over the waves. It’s enough

  just being together—we don’t try to talk over

  the motor, but we point things out to each other:

  three turtles lined up on a log, a pair of swans

  at the entrance to the channel leading to another

  lake, a blue dragonfly that lands on Dad’s hand

  as he holds the tiller. At the marina, he buys bait

  and gasses up the boat. I get an ice cream sandwich,

  and go out on the dock to eat it while I wait

  for him to talk to everyone he hasn’t seen all year.

  We ran into Fred and Ruth Gibson: this could take

  a while. They like to know—and tell—everything

  about everyone, all up and down our side of the lake.

  As we head back home, Dad says he heard

  about a new fishing spot he wants to try out.

  We drop our anchor there, and I sit quietly

  with him while he casts for perch and trout.

  After a while, he asks me to pick up the oars

  and row over to a slightly different spot.

  He’s not catching much, but we stay here for

  an hour or so. Comfortable, talking a little—or not.

  The Lake Trail

  Claire

  Someone has already cleared the lake trail

  to the Johnsons’ house, so I walk

  along it, and find TJ all by himself,

  fishing from the end of their dock.

  Hi, Claire, he says. When did you get here?

  I saw your dad and—what’s her name? Ann?—

  last week, but I didn’t have a chance to ask when you

  were coming. He tosses a small fish back in.

  We got here on Sunday, I say. Her name is Pam.

  She’s about to have a baby. He laughs. Moms do that a lot.

  Well, his does, that’s true—she has three kids

  younger than me. But I remind TJ, Pam’s not

  our mom. I dangle my feet from the side of the dock,

  staying quiet so I don’t scare away the fish.

  I’ve always liked TJ. He’s nice to me, and

  never treats me like a little kid. I wish

  I had him for a brother. One time, the summer

  before last, he fixed Abigail’s bike, and I told her

  she should marry him. She laughed at me, but TJ

  smiled in a nice way—not like he was so much older.

  He reels in a fish, catches it in his landing net. A good-sized

  walleye. Second one this morning. You guys want it? he asks.

  He even says, I’ll clean it for you. Three mallard

  ducks swim under the dock, then go on past.

  TJ’s sisters and brother come down to the dock.

  Sadie’s hair is longer than Sophia’s this year.

  We’re six now, Sophia brags. Devon adds, I’m nine.

  I found my own way down here. He smiles ear to ear

  about the handrail that TJ and Mr. Johnson built

  for him, since he only sees a tiny bit, out of one eye.

  I hug all of them. TJ wraps the fish in newspaper

  and gives it to me, saying, Tell your sister I said hi.

  Mirror

  Claire

  Abigail and Pam are back. I count seven

  shopping bags. We’ve never worn anything

  but old jeans and T-shirts up here at the cabin,

  and now Abigail is pulling out new running

  clothes, new shoes, and all these shorts and tops.

  She got a haircut, and gold highlights in her hair.

  Plus something weird happened to her eyebrows.

  I don’t know when she started to care

  about all this. She models a white swimsuit,

  an expensive kind with sleeves. Pam agreed

  it was worth it, she says. Now I won’t wear a shirt

  to cover up my lightning scar, and I won’t need

  as much sunscreen when we go to the beach.

  That’s true, I guess. Abigail, I say, that scar

  has faded so much you can hardly see it now.

  She studies her arm in the mirror. Are

  you sure? she asks. Yes, I am. No one will notice

  it. She says, Thanks, and smiles at the mirror

  (it agrees: she’s cute), then looks at me

  and squints one eye, to see if I share her

  admiration. I look out the window. Claire,

  she asks, are you upset because Pam and I

  went shopping? No. It doesn’t bother me—

  it’s just so stupid. Of course not, I say. Why

  would I be? I can hate Pam all by myself—I don’t need

  your help. Abigail tilts her head. Pam’s not so bad,

  she says. Give her a chance. Whatever. Let

  the two of them be girlfriends—I still have Dad.

  Glitter and Gloss

  Claire

  Abigail comes to supper with glittery eyelids,

  glossy pink lips, plus the gold streaks in her hair.

  Pam does this thing where she catches Dad’s

  eye with a meaningful glance: Don’t go there,

  don’t say what you’re thinking, it warns him.

  He gives a slight nod, then, Claire, he

  says instead, remember to put your bike away—

  it might rain. I answer, Okay, Dad, and we

  all go back to trying not to stare at Abigail. Pam

  decides this would be a good time to call

  attention to a stain on my T-shirt, and says in a

  bright voice, They’re having a sale at the mall

  all this week. I’d be happy to take you to get some new

  summer clothes. And maybe, she has to add, Chloe

  could fix your hair a little bit. Get your bangs

  out of your eyes? She thinks I’m ugly

  and unfashionable. I bet she assumes

  I’m jealous of my sister. Guess what? None

  of that is true. No thanks, I say. I don’t want to be

  the kind of girl I bet Pam was, when she was one.

  Eastside Swimming Beach

  Claire

  I wouldn’t mind staying home today, but it


  sounds like Abigail wants to wear her new

  clothes where someone besides us will see them.

  I’m tired of the cabin, she says. What should we do?

  So after lunch, we pump up our bike tires

  and head down the gravel road. We pass TJ’s

  house—he’s out working on the motor

  for their boat, and looks up when he sees

  me wave to him. Hi, Abigail, he calls out. Why

  does she just speed past and ride on? We steer

  around the dog that always chases us—

  either it’s slower or we’re faster this year.

  Then we pedal by the gravel pit and boat launch,

  coast past Loon Landing (a big house some rich

  guy built two years ago), and now here we are

  at the old familiar Eastside Swimming Beach.

  Everything is the same as always—music blasting;

  the smell of sunscreen; the flagpole a little bent;

  band kids selling snacks at the concession

  stand, which still needs a coat of paint;

  a group of moms watching toddlers play in the sand;

  a few old people. I wonder if anyone I know is here.

  There’s a group of kids who live here year-round, but

  Jonilet isn’t with them—she was my best friend last year.

  Abigail and I park our bikes and head toward the spot

  where we always spread our blanket, part shade,

  part sun. She likes to sit and sketch after we swim.

  I usually watch people, or take out a book and read.

  What Is Summer For?

  Abigail

  There are always lots of boys here

  at the lake, and what is summer for?

  Fun. That’s what. It looks like Michael,

  from last summer, is the lifeguard. Brock Sundet

  might be here—not that he’d notice me, but …

  Wait, is that him going over to talk to Michael?

  Claire, I say, let’s put our blanket over there

  near that girl braiding that other girl’s hair.

  See them? Right in front of the lifeguard stand.

  Something’s Different

  Claire

  Abigail spreads her stuff out on our blanket,

  slathers her face and legs with sunscreen,

  kicks off her flip-flops, and runs into the water.

  I stand on the shore and watch her become queen

  of Eastside Beach. She dives under the rope,

  comes up laughing, flings water from her hair

  into a ring of sunlight, attracting a swarm

  of boys—were they even here last year?

  I know they were. But something’s different now.

  Last summer, Abigail liked to look at boys—

  a lot—this year, the boys are looking back. She’s like

  a kid on Christmas morning with a pile of new toys.

  Pointers

  Claire

  At times, it seems like Abigail is still the same

  as she’s always been. When we got back

  from the beach today, we came into our room

  and stretched out on our beds to relax.

  Pam has this blog called “Pointers from Pam.”

  Little tips about how to get extra use out of all

  the things normal people throw away, like

  the cardboard tube inside a toilet-paper roll:

  “Cut one up and paint it to make napkin rings!

  Use them to keep your socks in pairs!” Umm …

  really? Would anyone actually do that? Abigail

  and I try not to laugh at something that dumb,

  but sometimes in private we make up pointers

  of our own: “If your parents won’t let you do

  something you want to do, try asking when they’re

  too busy to say no.” And: “They might believe you

  if you tell one of them the other one said yes.”

  Even though I’m not quite eleven, we call ours “Tips

  for Teens.” But today when I say, I have a tip for teens,

  Abigail walks over to the mirror to gloss her lips,

  kisses a piece of Kleenex, then kisses the air and

  announces, I’m not going to make fun of Pam anymore.

  What? One trip to the mall, a haircut, a new swimsuit,

  and now she’s on Pam’s side? Wow, Abigail, I say, how mature.

  All I Did

  Abigail

  God, Claire, quit looking at me like

  you think I’m some kind of traitor

  to our childhood. All I did was

  get a few new clothes and let a girl

  named Chloe cut and tint my hair.

  Don’t act like you don’t know me.

  Well, okay, yes, we also went

  to the eyebrow place—you have

  eyebrows, too, somewhere under

  those two caterpillars on your face.

  I’m not trying to be mean. It’s just—

  I’m a girl. I like to look like one, okay?

  Dad’s Still Dad

  Claire

  Abigail

  Are you still mad at me?

  Not mad. Maybe a little annoyed.

  But never mind.

  It’s just that— everything’s different this year.

  Not everything. Dad’s still Dad.

  Remember that time when we were little, and he put up the tent so we could sleep outside, and then we got scared, but we still wanted to sleep in the tent, so he let us bring the whole tent into the cabin?

  I remember. You, me, and Benjamin Bunny, all zipped up in one sleeping bag.

  Yeah.

  Are you ever going to give that rabbit back to TJ?

  I don’t know.

  Maybe you could do that for me?

  Maybe you could do that for yourself.

  TJ has probably forgotten about him.

  Or maybe not.

  Claire

  Abigail

  You could take Benjamin Bunny over there, and give him to Sadie and Sophia.

  It seems like you’re avoiding TJ.

  No I’m not! It’s just that …

  I don’t know. It’s hard to explain.

  Dad, is that you at the door?

  Dad

  Are you girls still awake?

  Claire

  Abigail

  Yes.

  Come on in.

  Dad

  Want me to play my banjo while you go to sleep?

  Claire

  Abigail

  Sure, Dad.

  Like you always used to.

  My Side of the Blanket

  Claire

  Today is too hot to ride bikes to the beach,

  so we take the canoe, staying close

  to the edge of the lake where the trees

  hang over the water. A breeze cools us

  as we paddle past the sandbar, through

  the water lilies, past Anna’s Island. We pull

  the canoe onto Eastside Beach and pick the same

  spot as yesterday for our blanket. Abigail

  stretches out in the sun while I go get a drink,

  and just as I return, a boy walks by and

  says, Hey. Abigail looks up at him, smiles as if

  they’re friends, and answers, Hi. She brushes sand

  off my side of the blanket. He says, I’m Brock, and then

  this happens: I’m Abi, says Abigail. What’s that

  about? When did my sister change her name

  from Abigail to Abi? Brock takes off his Cubs cap

  and sits down like he’s some famous person

  who doesn’t have to ask if anyone would mind.

  “Abi” sees me standing there and gives a

  subtle sign that means: Claire, could you find

  something else to do for a while? Go for a swim?

  Come back later? If we had our bi
kes instead

  of the canoe, I’d just go home right now.

  This boy, Brock, can have the stupid

  blanket. But I can’t leave “Abi” stranded here.

  I walk away slowly, listening to them talk.

  He asks, Here for the summer? She says, We come up

  for about a month every year. How about you? Brock

  says, We stay here all summer. Abi: You’re lucky.

  I wish we did. When did my sister learn this

  whole new talking-to-boys voice? She sounds like

  she got a part in a play and this is the first practice.

  Jonilet

  Claire

  Good—Jonilet is here today. Hi, Claire, she says.

  She gestures toward Abigail: Your sister

  looks different this year. Sit with me? Is it that

  obvious? With Brock and “Abi” sitting together

  on our blanket, I don’t know what to do

  or where to go, and that must be clear

  to Jonilet. She’s going into sixth grade

  like I am, but she also looks different this year—

  more like a teenager. She got her braces off.

  Her hair is curly. And, wow, her hands—with

  all different-colored fingernails, and a fancy

  henna tattoo going up around her wrist.

  We walk past my blanket. “Abi” doesn’t

  look up when I go by, but I can see

  her cheeks are burning, either from the sun

  or from sitting so close to a boy. Jonilet says, He

  likes her. His name is Brock Sundet—I know him.