Names I Call My Sister

by Mary Castillo

“Come on now, Crystal. I used to call you all the time. Don’t you remember? I’d recognize your voice anywhere.”

  She swayed, light-headed with alarm, and grabbed the wall to steady herself. “You must be mistaken.”

  “Not at all,” he said with a low chuckle. “So…what are you wearing?”

  “Don’t call here again.”

  “Not gonna tell me? Bet I could find out for myself.”

  Cristy slammed the phone down, but not before she heard the guy’s taunting laughter. Pulse racing in her neck, she spun to pick up her bag, wrestled her cell phone out and turned it off. She dropped it and her purse to the hardwood floor. Who the hell cared if the mirror in her compact shattered? What was another seven years bad luck?

  “Cristy?” Lola asked, worry sharpening her tone.

  Shaken, Cristy leaned her back against the wall and slid down to the floor. With her elbows on her knees, she dropped her forehead into her hands.

  “Wh-Who was that?”

  Cristy remained silent for a few long moments, then slid her hands away and met Lola’s concerned gaze. “Some pervert who called me Crystal,” she said in a monotone.

  Lola looked confused.

  “My phone sex name,” Cristy explained. “And he wanted to know what I’m wearing.”

  “Oh my God. Sick bastard.”

  Cristy listlessly flung her arm toward the front room. “And I’m sure it won’t take long before he walks through that door to get my fashion details for himself. He intimated as much. Maybe he was just toying with me, but who knows?”

  “Dios mio.” Lola rubbed away the goose bumps that rose on her upper arms. “I never even thought of that.”

  Cristy managed a brittle smile. “Yeah, so how exactly are we going to run a business if we have to worry about some creep walking in? And how many people know I live upstairs? I can’t even feel safe in my own home.” Tension stretched between them as they pondered the frightening possibilities.

  “You’ll stay with me until this blows over.”

  “If it blows over. And actually, you’ll have to stay here with me. I can’t leave the shop vulnerable.”

  “Right. Of course not. Okay.” Lola bit her bottom lip, her eyes wide and troubled.

  “Marisol’s innocent, well-meaning broadcast doesn’t seem quite so harmless now, does it?”

  The business line rang again. And again.

  Neither Cristy nor Lola moved.

  On the third ring, Lola bent forward and yanked the cord from the jack.

  Cristy closed her eyes and exhaled into the silence. “I swear to God, my sister will make this nightmare go away and give me back my incognito life. No matter what it takes.”

  Chapter 3

  Damn it! She’d screwed up again!

  According to Mom, her baby sis was on a rampage, threatening to disown her or kill her—whichever Cristy found the simplest and most satisfying at the time.

  Marisol threw her gearshift into overdrive and merged into the steady stream of commuter traffic onto westbound I-70. Her insides were revving out of control, but her BMW handled the acceleration calmly. Just like her sister, Cris. Always infuriatingly composed and serene. Throughout their lives, Cristy had this weird talent for being able to anticipate consequences before she took actions so she could always make the best choice. The phrase “spur of the moment” didn’t exist for Cristy. Marisol envied her that ability, but, truth be told, she also found it just a tad bit annoying.

  She smacked the heel of her hand against the leather steering wheel. She hated being on her sister’s shit list. Not that Cris would believe her—or even give her a chance to explain—but she truly hadn’t meant to embarrass her. Couldn’t Cris see that? How many ways would she have to show her love and respect for her sister before Cristy truly trusted her?

  The whole groveling her way back into Cristy’s good graces plan was a long shot, at best. She knew that. But what was the alternative? Over the years, she’d found it virtually impossible to discern what would or wouldn’t send her sister flying off the handle. Shit, she’d given Cristy a simple shout out that morning for her determination and entrepreneurial ingenuity. Cristy’s past had been the positive example of the show. A compliment. Hello! She figured Cristy would be proud of the resourcefulness that allowed her to launch her business at the tender age of twenty-six. But, no.

  Okay, there was that teensy detail about not discussing her private life. But, still, it never ceased to amaze her how shy and private her sister could be. So she had one little phone sex job on her résumé. Big deal! That fact shouldn’t be embarrassing to someone as successful as Cristy. But it was.

  Why? No. Seriously. Why?

  Someone needed to fill her in, because she just didn’t get it. And yet, she knew Mom hadn’t exaggerated her sister’s anger. Mom said Cristy was more torqued off than she’d ever been, even angrier than she’d been after the Welcome to Womanhood party (which really had been intended as a thoughtful gesture). This time, Cristy didn’t just want to disappear. She wanted Marisol’s head on a stake. Of that, she had no doubt.

  They might have landed on opposite ends of the personality spectrum, but she and Cristy were connected in some weird psychic way. All day long she’d felt Cristy’s anger boiling over inside her own chest—like a wicked bout of acid reflux. They needed to talk this out, and yet Cristy stubbornly refused to answer her cell. She had left messages, urgent pages, text—nada. She’d pleaded with Cristy via voice mail, to no avail. She even faxed over a note asking Cristy to pretty-please-with-chocolate-on-top call.

  Still zippo.

  The stony silence from Cristy freaked her out more than anything, so she had no choice but to track her down and force the issue. She’d push her over and sit on her if that’s what it took to make her listen to reason. That tactic had always worked well when they were kids.

  Whatever it took to elicit a response from Cristy, she’d do it. Even if she had to instigate a screaming match or a fistfight. Food fight, pillow fight, arm wrestling—at this point, anything was better than her baby sister’s silence.

  She adored Cristy, and nothing she had ever done or would ever do was intended to hurt her. Period. Before this fiasco was over, Cris was going to know that, once and for all.

  So much for Simplicity being her peaceful little oasis. After the phone creep scare, Cristy and Lola decided to keep the doors locked and only open them to regulars. They’d hoped doing so would lend a bit of normalcy to the day while keeping them safe from any deviants who might be skulking in the alley.

  Talk about wishful thinking.

  News traveled way too fast. Instead of the typical Monday stitch-and-bitch session, interspersed with brisk sales of both yarn and yummies, her family of regulars ignored their needles and peppered her with embarrassingly frank questions instead.

  What did she say to the guys?

  Would she demonstrate her phone sex voice?

  Did it turn her on, too? (Please.)

  Had she ever masturbated while on a call?

  Ugh! As if! Were they out of their minds? They were as intrigued by her alleged racy past as Lola had been. Consequently, she spent most of her day feeling like she’d landed in some jacked-up Jerry Springer episode. After the supertraumatizing masturbation question (shudder), she excused herself and hid out in the back room going through the rest of the blissfully silent boxes.

  When Lola popped in to tell her that crews from two local TV stations had just pulled up in their vans, Cristy apologized to the customers and closed the place altogether. She hoped Marisol was satisfied. Not only had her sister violated her trust in the worst possible way, but she’d screwed her out of practically a whole day’s profits, too.

  After the last customer left, Cristy double-checked the lock, then peeked out the wavy glass of the front window at the news crews setting up their equipment. One crew even unloaded a cooler and chairs. Did they plan to camp out? Unfreakin’-believable that she would merit this kind of atten
tion. Talk about a slow news day.

  She shook her head at the absurdity of it all, then joined Lola, who was cleaning up the kitchen. “I wonder how long they’ll stay out there,” she said over the whoosh of the overhead mounted sprayer.

  Lola wiped some water from her face with the crook of her elbow. “You know the media. They’re like a dog on a bone.”

  Cristy slid onto a tall stool next to the wide worktable she’d picked up especially for Lola at an antique shop on Broadway. The thick wooden piece had come from Denver’s historic Pasquini’s Bakery. Cristy knew it would be the perfect thank-you gift after the first time Lola’s baked goods had doubled Simplicity’s profits. “Need any help?”

  Lola smiled at her from the stainless steel sink, one hand aiming the industrial-sized sprayer she used to clean the pans and dishes. “Nah, there’s not that much. But I’ll take the company.” She lifted her chin toward the vintage glass bakery case—another antique shop find. “Might as well have another scone. We have a lot of leftovers.”

  “Yeah, thanks to my hag of a sister.” Cristy reached into the case and plucked out a doughy morsel. The clock tick-tocked on the wall, and the lemony scent of the dishwashing liquid wafted in the air. Everything seemed normal, and yet it wasn’t.

  “You talked to her yet?”

  Cristy broke off a chunk of white chocolate and popped it into her mouth. “How could I talk to her? She’s dead to me. We’d have to hold a séance.”

  Lola rolled her eyes. “You need to talk to her, girl. Tell her about that sicko who called, at the very least. She’s a local celebrity. She’ll know what to do about it.”

  “I know. I’ll talk to her as soon as the urge to pound her face in subsides.” Cristy scrunched up her nose. “She’s been trying to get ahold of me all day. She even faxed.”

  “Call her back!”

  “No need.”

  “Huh?” Lola shook water droplets off a large baking sheet and set it upright in the prongs of the drainer.

  “Trust me. Marisol doesn’t like being ignored and—” She glanced up at the clock. “—she got off work twenty minutes ago. Ten bucks says she’s on her way here right now, just as fast as her broom will carry her.”

  Lola laughed as she dried her hands on the green apron she always wore while cleaning up, then she lifted it over her head and hung it on one of the antique glass doorknobs they’d fashioned into wall hooks.

  Right on cue, they heard pounding on the back door. Marisol never entered through the front door, for some unknown reason—another annoying aspect of her personality.

  “Cristy! Open up!”

  “Speaking of Satan,” Cristy said in a droll tone.

  “Hurry!” Marisol said in a stage whisper. “Before the news crews see me.” The sound of Marisol sliding a credit card into the door’s lock mechanism carried into the kitchen.

  Cristy quirked one eyebrow at Lola. “Should I call the cops on her? Have her arrested for attempted burglary? I’m sure Mom and Dad would bond her out, but probably not before she suffered through an invasive cavity search at the jail. That would definitely cheer me up.”

  Lola clucked her tongue and aimed one pointer finger at Cristy. “Stay here. I’ll get the door.” She started toward the sounds of Marisol breaking and entering, then hesitated and turned back. With a wan smile, she snatched up her knife block and moved it to the other side of the room, as far from Cristy’s reach as she could.

  Indignant, Cristy rolled her eyes. “Give me a break. I’m not the Lorena Bobbit type, you know.”

  “Sorry. I prefer to err on the side of caution. Can’t have my good knives confiscated as evidence, after all.” Lola shrugged, then disappeared into the creaky back hallway.

  Cristy used the moment alone to take several deep breaths. She knew what her sister would say, and she knew it would piss her off even more. Same shit, different fiasco. Her blood began to boil. On second thought, maybe it was a good thing Lola had moved those knives after all.

  Moments later Marisol click-clacked into the kitchen on her pricey five-inch heels. Inside, Cristy scoffed. Only her sister would dress up for a job in radio, for God’s sake. She couldn’t get enough of being the center of attention, right down to her freakin’ impractical footwear.

  Cristy’s spine stiffened and she clamped her hands together in her lap to keep them from shaking. Her eyes narrowed.

  Lola followed Marisol in, wagging her finger at Cristy in a silent warning against the commission of murder, or something, Cristy thought. Whatever. If it came to that, Lola knew damn well it was justified.

  “Have a scone,” Lola said to Marisol in a false cheery voice. But her gaze never left Cristy’s face.

  Neither did Marisol’s. She froze in the middle of the kitchen, her Tods bag clutched to her abdomen. She didn’t acknowledge Lola. Instead, she gulped, then said, “Cristy?”

  Stare-down.

  Marisol’s throat tightened, telegraphing her fear. Good. She should be afraid.

  “Aren’t you going to…throw something? Or yell?”

  “Eat…a…goddamned…scone,” Cristy demanded in her most evil voice. “And apologize to Lola while you’re at it.”

  Marisol’s uncertain gaze darted from Cristy, to the scones, to Lola, and back to Cristy. She edged over to the display and extracted a scone. “Wh-What for?”

  “What for? In case you hadn’t noticed, we usually sell out of Lola’s baked goods. But thanks to your big mouth, today we have a shitload that will go to waste.”

  Marisol blinked rapidly. “I’m sorry. I never meant to—”

  “Shut up!” Cristy lunged to her feet, fists clamped at her sides. “God! I pegged that one. That is the last thing I want to hear come out of your mouth. ‘I didn’t mean to,’” Cristy mocked. “You never mean to, Mar, do you?” She paused long enough for her sister to shake her head. “Too bad, because this time you crossed a line.”

  “But Cristy—”

  “But nothing! Shut your hole! It’s my turn to talk.” She jabbed her arm toward the front of the house. “The worst part, Mar, isn’t that we had the crappiest business day so far this month, even though we did. Or that Lola did all that baking for nothing. Not even that the news vans are parked outside waiting to pry into my personal life, which you know I despise—”

  “Cris—”

  “I’m not finished.” She snatched up a long wooden spoon and pointed it at her sister. “You want to know what the worst part is? Give it a guess. You’re a smart woman.”

  She swallowed thickly. “That I embarrassed you in public?”

  “Strike one!” Cristy swung the spoon as if going for a home run. “Try again.”

  Marisol flinched. “That Mom and Dad know?”

  “Strike two! Although I may never forgive you for that, come to think of it.” She smacked the spoon on the table. Hard. “Dare to take a final stab at it? Be careful now. You’ve already got two strikes.”

  Marisol’s hand fluttered up to her neckline and she took a half step back. “That I…um…broke a promise?”

  “Strike three, Marisol, even though you do totally suck for that. Maybe you should look that word up, promise, because you don’t have a clue what it means.” Cristy spiked the spoon onto the floor so hard that the handle snapped off. “Three strikes, and you’re out. Out of touch, that is. But don’t worry. I’ll tell you the worst part.”

  Shaky, Marisol slumped onto the edge of a stool. She hadn’t touched her scone. For some reason, that fueled Cristy’s anger like a squirt of gasoline on a flame.

  “The worst part,” Cristy said, stalking back and forth in front of her sister, “is that—thanks to you—I’ve been dodging calls from strange men who claim they used to call me on the stupid phone sex line. Of course, that was back when I was anonymous. Now they know exactly how and where to find me.”

  “What?” Marisol’s eyes went wide.

  “You heard me. Thanks to you, my anonymity is gone. Every pervert in the metro area
now knows where I work and live.”

  Marisol’s face drained of color.

  “You seem surprised. Are you surprised?”

  “Cris—”

  “Because you shouldn’t be. If you had taken a moment—just one damn moment—to think before you opened your big mouth, you might have considered the consequences.” Cristy bent and swept the broken spoon parts off the floor. This time she spiked them into the empty metal trash can, watching her sister startle when they clanged on the bottom. “It’s not enough for you to ruin my business and embarrass me, but now you have to place me in actual physical danger? I hope you’re happy!”

  “Oh, God, Cris. Do you actually think you’re in danger?”

  “Gee, what do you think, Einstein?”

  Marisol dropped her scone to the tabletop and crossed to her sister. She grasped her upper arms and didn’t let go, even when Cristy tried to wrench away. “You have to believe I never meant for that to happen.”

  Cristy twisted violently a couple of times, trying to get loose of her clutches. When that didn’t work, she hiked one knee—hard—into the center of Marisol’s left thigh.

  Marisol yelped and staggered backward, rubbing her leg.

  Cristy advanced on her until they stood nose-to-nose. Marisol’s eyes welled with tears. “See, the thing is, you never mean for bad things to happen, and yet they do. Because you never think.” Cristy rapped a knuckle on her own temple. “And I’m sick of it! You have no boundaries, and you have no respect for anyone’s privacy. This time,” she aimed a finger at her sister’s chest, jabbing her just under the clavicle with each word, “you…just…went…too…far.” And then she shoved her.

  Marisol stumbled backward on her stupid fuck-me heels, but Lola caught her before she fell flat on her ass. Too bad.

  “Settle down, Cristy,” Lola said in a soft chastising tone.

  “God, I’m so sorry.” Marisol wailed, covering her face with her hands. “I’m scared, too. God! What do you want me to do?”

  “I want you to fix it,” Cristy snapped. “All of it.”

  “How?”