My Sister Rosa

by Justine Larbalestier

  I am not violent.

  My strides match the syllables. I am not vi-o-lent. I am not vi-o-lent. I am not vi-o-lent.

  How can Sally compare me to Rosa? We are nothing alike!

  I am not vi-o-lent. I am not vi-o-lent. I am not vi-o-lent.

  I am not like Rosa. I am not like Uncle Saul.

  He has no empathy, little self-control, he’s addicted to thrill-seeking, has serial girlfriends and wives, loves flashy cars and driving too fast. He can fly a helicopter and he parachutes. I suspect there’s worse. So many ticks on the Psychopathy Checklist.

  I think Papa is like Rosa too.

  Papa really is violent. Or, at least, he used to be. He still yells, but he used to beat David and Saul, until they were big enough to stop him. When he was younger Papa had affairs. He did whatever he wanted. Sally says it’s a miracle David isn’t like his father. I guess that’s Saul’s job: being exactly like Papa.

  Psychopathy can run in families. That’s the DNA part, though there’s also environment. The two are hard to separate.

  When I ask Papa about his parents, my great-grandparents, he says they were smart and ambitious. They made me what I am. If that’s literally true then they could have been like Rosa too.

  David says his grandparents were broken people. That his grandfather never laughed, always criticised. That his grandmother didn’t say much. His grandfather beat Papa the same way Papa beat David and Saul. Being beaten and surviving, Papa told David, is what makes you a man.

  It might not mean anything. Back then, parents beating their children was normal.

  Papa loves that I like to box.

  David says the Nazis broke his grandparents. They lost their parents and brothers and sisters and cousins and uncles and aunts and grandparents and cousins and nieces and nephews and friends and acquaintances and enemies. The rabbis, the matchmakers, the butchers, the tinkers, the tailors. Dead in the Warsaw Uprising. Dead trying to escape. Dead at Treblinka, Sobibór, Auschwitz-Birkenau. Dead of starvation after the war.

  Then there were three: my great-grandfather and great-grandmother and their small boy, Papa.

  Trauma can kill empathy too but only if you’re genetically predisposed.

  Papa doesn’t tell many stories about his family. But there was a great-great-great grandfather – give or take a few greats – he talks about. A crack shot, excellent horseman, with a reputation for derring-do and success with women.

  Papa has a faded photo of him with an absurdly curled moustache and a tankard of beer. He’s not smiling and his eyes look cold. But back then everyone with pale eyes looked cold in photos; no one smiled, because you had to sit still for so long.

  He could have been like Rosa. Or he could have been full of empathy. Liking to shoot and ride doesn’t mean he was a psychopath.

  If I become a father, will my child be like Rosa or like me?

  There’s no way of knowing. It’s always both nature and nurture. We are the sum of our genes, the morphology of our brain, and our environment. Our genes are not just the DNA we’re born with. Genes can be shaped by environment too. Brain morphology is not fixed, brains rewire themselves as we grow and in response to trauma. Our environment is more than the spaces we grow up in, it’s everyone we interact with, starting with our parents, our carers, our siblings, our friends.

  We can be affected by unusual experiences: being kidnapped or even something as mundane as meeting someone different, even a book or a movie can change us.

  Discovering boxing rewired my brain, made me faster and fitter. All the travel we’ve done, living in Auckland and Wellington in New Zealand, Jakarta in Indonesia, and Bangkok in Thailand – even though I didn’t pick up much Bahasa or Thai – those places changed me.

  It’s dark. I need to sleep. But I’m wired and angry and hungry and I don’t have any money, just Papa’s credit card. What would he say to paying for my breakfast? I could tell him the parentals forgot to give me pocket money, which is true. David gave me twenty dollars on our first morning and nothing since. I have a handful of change left.

  Papa will be happy, I’m sure. He’ll love that I’m at odds with the parentals, especially Sally. At the moment Rosa and I are in the will and David isn’t. Sally never was. Papa’s convinced that without Sally’s influence David would be a captain of industry.

  I text the parentals that I’m going to spend the day exploring the city. I don’t wait for their response.

  I keep running.

  I am not vi-o-lent. I am not vi-o-lent. I am not vi-o-lent. I am not vi-o-lent. I am not vi-o-lent.

  Sojourner is at the five p.m. class. I was close to falling asleep during my pre-class stretch, but when I see her the tiredness is gone. She’s with Jaime.

  ‘Hi,’ I say.

  ‘You still up for church?’

  I nod. Jaime smiles slyly. Sojourner gives me the time and address.

  We both have our phones out. Hers is old and crappy like mine. I should ask for her number. But Jaime’s right there.

  The church is on Second Avenue a few blocks from our apartment. Does that mean she lives close too? The class starts before I can give her my number.

  I text the parentals that I’ll be late. I’m not ready to face them. Or Rosa.

  I hang around to watch the seven o’clock sparring session. My legs feel like lead, but I’m buzzing, ready for anything. I may never sleep again. I don’t care anymore. Is this how Rosa feels all the time? Not giving a damn?

  The session consists of Sojourner, Jaime, Meathead and four others I recognise but don’t have names for, as well as six strangers. Dido runs the session. I think I’m going to ask her if she’ll take me on as a one-on-one student.

  Then somehow I’m sparring.

  I don’t decide to do it. It just…happens. Dido assumes that’s what I’m there for. She asks Sojourner if she’ll be my opponent. Sojourner grins.

  Then I’m in the ring wearing slimy headgear that smells of a hundred other people’s sweat and a hard plastic mouthguard that doesn’t fit which Dido keeps as a spare. She assures me it was disinfected. I believe her because it tastes like bleach.

  Dido nods. We touch gloves.

  Sojourner’s first punch lands before I’m ready. I blink and my nose stings.

  I don’t know if she hit me with her right or left. If it was a jab or a cross or a hook or an upper cut.

  Left cheek. Then ribs.

  So a jab, then an upper cut. I think. Then another. Then my nose again.

  I have to stop thinking and start seeing.

  I have to look her in the eye.

  I move. Her cross glances my chin.

  I look straight at her. I see the cross coming.

  I shift left, spin, parry the next jab, feint back.

  I remember how to defend myself.

  She’s really hitting me.

  With gloves. In my face. On my body.

  My nose.

  Ow! I don’t say. I grunt.

  I’m thinking, not seeing. When I look in her eyes I see the punches coming. That cross again. I duck.

  Someone’s yelling but the headgear muffles it.

  Her fist comes at me again. I weave right. She misses. I can do this.

  I diamond cut out of her path. I slide backwards, hitting the ropes, then sideways. A boxer never moves in a straight line. A boxer doesn’t stand still, either. I pivot out of her way.

  I weave, I bob. I parry a fraction too late. Right cross to my nose. Again. It throbs.

  Liquid pours down my face. Blood? Snot? Or merely sweat? Probably sweat. My eyes are stinging. I can taste salt. Though blood is salty too. Dido will stop us if I’m bleeding.

  Too much sweat in my mouth, which is already full of too much saliva. The mouthguard is manufacturing it now. I want it out of my mouth.

  I duck again. Almost falling. I spin to the corner of the ring, turn quick, but she comes at me with a flurry of punches I try to block, to parry, to evade. I mostly flinch, my back to the ropes
, my gloves held in front of my face.

  I force myself off the ropes, away from her punches. I follow Sojourner’s eyes, evade her blows.

  A bell sounds. The bell sounds.

  Sojourner stops, lowers her gloves, taps mine. I tap hers. I sink to the floor, back against the ropes, struggling to get my gloves off.

  Dido steps into the ring, pulling the velcro on my right glove, undoing my head gear.

  ‘Good first go,’ she says. ‘Maybe next time you might want to think about throwing a punch. Offence is a thing, you know?’

  I look up at her, sweat running into my eyes, then across at Sojourner.

  ‘I didn’t punch you?’

  ‘Dude,’ Sojourner says, wiping her face with a towel, ‘you didn’t even try.’

  I didn’t?

  A boxer who doesn’t punch. Great start, Che. I wish Sally had seen it. Maybe she’d believe I’m not violent.

  Dido pats me on the back. ‘Next time. You used your feet. You remembered your defensive sets. Sid hardly laid a glove on you. Four good hits is all I saw. Not bad.’

  I thought I landed punches. I thought I’d thrown punches.

  ‘So what did you think?’ Dido says. ‘Your first time. It can be intense.’

  ‘It was fucking awesome,’ I say. I hadn’t realised until that second but now my exhilaration takes hold. ‘Nothing like training. I fucking loved it.’

  She pats my head. ‘Good boy. Next time: throw a punch! Get some ice on your nose. It’ll bruise up big otherwise.’ She peers at it closely. ‘Don’t think it’s broken.’

  When I get home no one’s in the living room. I make a sandwich and quietly eat it over the sink, then slink upstairs and close my bedroom door behind me, wedging my chair under the handle. I don’t want another nocturnal encounter with Rosa. My backpack and shoes by the door downstairs will let them know I made it home.

  I crawl into bed. I doubt it’s even nine yet. I’ve evaded saying a word to the parentals about sparring. No matter what Rosa says, that’s not lying. I’ve broken a promise but I haven’t lied. I’ll tell them in the morning.

  It was more intense than I imagined. Part of me thought Sojourner was trying to fucking kill me. I’m pretty sure my heart is still beating too fast. I have to do that again.

  I crash.

  When I wake it’s the next afternoon. My heart feels like it belongs in my chest for the first time in days.

  ‘He woke up!’ Rosa yells as I walk down the stairs.

  Sally and David come out of the office.

  ‘Welcome to the land of the living,’ Sally says. ‘You beat the jetlag, eh?’

  ‘I think so. I hope so.’

  ‘Why is your nose red?’ Rosa asks.

  ‘Because,’ I tell her, ‘someone punched it.’

  David stares. ‘What did you say?’

  Sally too. ‘You promised you wouldn’t spar!’

  I’m about to tell them that I broke my promise, but Rosa’s right there. If I break a promise, why should she keep hers?

  ‘Sometimes the pads slip,’ I say, which is true, but it’s an evasion. What’s an evasion but a kind of lie? I’m lying because of Rosa.

  I hold my hands up to demonstrate. ‘We work with pads sometimes. In pairs.’

  ‘Sounds dangerous,’ Sally says. ‘Maybe you shouldn’t do that.’

  ‘I’ve been doing it for years. How often have I come home with a bruised nose?’

  Sally bites her lip.

  I should tell them about the sparring right now.

  But Rosa.

  How can I make her see my breaking this promise is not the same as her breaking her promise not to kill?

  Sally reaches forward to touch my nose. ‘It looks swollen.’

  ‘I iced it,’ I tell her. ‘It’ll be fine. Doesn’t hurt unless I touch it.’

  ‘Ice it again,’ Sally says.

  I do as she says. It hurts.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  On Sunday I get to the church a bit early, waiting out on the street, feeling like an idiot.

  It has a giant rainbow flag hanging above its doors. I’m wearing my one suit, which doesn’t quite fit anymore, with a tie I borrowed from David, who thinks it’s hilarious I’m going to church.

  I didn’t know what to wear. The few times I’ve gone to temple I wore a suit. This is nothing like temple. There’s that rainbow flag, shifting in the breeze, and all the guys around my age are wearing jeans and T-shirts. One balances a skateboard between his legs. Oops.

  They’re all white. I realise I was expecting it to be a black church.

  No Sojourner. I’ve been looking up and down the avenue, willing her to appear. My hands are in my pocket because I don’t know what to do with them. I pull my phone out again. No texts.

  Someone taps me on the shoulder. I turn and there’s Sojourner in a blue dress and shiny black shoes. Her hair’s pulled back. I can’t help smiling. ‘Where did you come from?’

  She gestures up the church steps. ‘Helping Mom. She’s a minister here.’

  I nod. She already told me that. It’s another reason I’m wearing a suit.

  ‘Look at you,’ she says. ‘I’m impressed.’

  ‘I wasn’t sure what to wear and…You look great.’

  Two men say hello to her, both of them black, and wearing suits.

  More people show up. Black, brown, Asian and white. Older women in dresses, a few in giant hats. One woman has feathers. Most of the older men are in suits; most of the people our age are more casually dressed. I don’t stick out, though. I’m not the only teenager in a suit.

  ‘What kind of church is this?’

  ‘A welcoming church. An interfaith church. A diverse church. A place of worship and social action.’

  ‘You sound like you’re reading a brochure.’

  Sojourner laughs. ‘I helped my mom write it.’

  ‘Oh.’ I look nervously at the church entrance again.

  ‘You’ll be fine, Che. Let’s grab a seat.’

  I follow her in, feeling like an impostor who might get struck by lightning. A white woman in robes is by the door.

  ‘Hello, Sid,’ she says, hugging Sojourner. ‘Who’s this?’

  ‘This is Che. We train together. He’s new in the city.’ Sojourner turns to me. ‘This is Alice.’

  We shake hands, but instead of letting go Alice puts her other hand on mine and holds it firmly, as if she’s worried I’ll escape. ‘Welcome to our church and to New York City. Where are you from?’

  ‘Sydney. Australia.’

  ‘Wonderful.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  She smiles at me warmly, letting go of my hand. ‘I hope you’ll find a place here.’

  Everyone waves or says hello to Sojourner. She introduces me as a friend from her gym who’s interested in learning more about their church. This leads to many hands on my shoulders, hearty handshakes, and heartfelt wishes that I find what I’m looking for. Almost all of them bless me.

  ‘You know everyone.’

  ‘Mom’s a minister. Remember? I’ve been coming here since I was in Mama’s womb.’

  Because of all the greetings we wind up having to squeeze into the last pew. We’re pressed against each other, thigh to thigh.

  ‘Sorry about the crowd. Should’ve warned you. Evening service is popular. We have the best choir.’

  I don’t mind.

  The members of the choir wear robes and gather on the stage. The church is buzzing with conversation. Seems like everyone knows each other.

  Then the choir sings. Sojourner hasn’t lied. They’re amazing. Without my realising what I’m doing I’m on my feet, swaying like everyone around me, smiling.

  The song makes me want to sing, but once I’ve picked up the chorus I realise I can’t without being a hypocrite, given that I don’t love Jesus. I hum and sway instead.

  When the song ends we slide into our seats with contented smiles, so the woman who gets up to welcome us is greeted with warmth and
joy, because that’s what the music gave us, and now we’re giving it to her no matter how boring her administrative announcements are.

  There are more songs, more singing.

  Everyone stands, sways, arms in the air, praising Jesus. I stop feeling like a hypocrite atheist moving to gospel music and I just move. I’m not sure if it’s the music making me feel this way so much as it is Sojourner next to me feeling the music.

  ‘I like you too.’

  At least, that’s what I think Sojourner says. Her voice is low and the choir are singing loud.

  Her side brushes against mine, our hands graze. We’re both smiling hugely, then she whispers it again. ‘I like you too.’

  Her breath brushes against my ear. I swallow.

  I feel light and giddy and overwhelmed and I shift, then stumble.

  ‘White boy,’ she says, with laughter. I smile, find the rhythm again, sway with her once more, feel the music travelling through our bodies.

  The back of her hand slides past mine. I slip my hand into hers. She doesn’t pull away. Our fingers interlock, warm, strong, callused. She squeezes. All the breath goes out of me.

  ‘Yes,’ I say.

  Sojourner nods. ‘You feel it too.’

  I do. I more than like her. I more than want her. What I feel for Sojourner is too big for words. What I feel for her makes my whole body, my heart, my mind, my pancreas even, yearn.

  We turn at the same time and our mouths are so close that for a split second I know we’re going to kiss but then the moment passes. We are in a church, surrounded by her family, her friends – there’s no way we can kiss.

  The song stops. I stand, blinking, as everyone sits. Sojourner pulls me down. ‘Che,’ she whispers. I’m dazed.

  I look around. I’m not the only one. Ripples of happiness run through the congregation. Sojourner and I hold hands. Alice, who greeted me, is behind the lectern, talking to us about something, Jesus most likely. All I can hear is the heartbeat in Sojourner’s fingers, in her palm.

  I’m pretty sure I’m in love.

  I feel love for everyone. I look around the church, taking in the smiling faces, a small girl with bouncing blonde curls.

  ‘Oh my God.’

  Rosa’s on the other side of the aisle two pews down. Sally and David are not with her.