Names I Call My Sister

by Mary Castillo

  All heads vehemently shook. Mrs. Molina’s eyes looked even bigger than usual behind her magnifying glasses. “You can check my purse if you want,” she said, holding it out with shaky hands.

  “Oh, my freakin’ God,” Cristy whispered, laying her palm over her forehead. This was exactly what she hadn’t wanted to happen. She allowed herself a moment to picture her sister dying a thousand painful deaths, then tried to smile.

  “Of course we won’t go through your purse,” she assured the owl-eyed octogenarian, rushing to take her by the elbow.

  “If you’re sure…”

  “Mrs. Molina, I’m so sorry for the disruption. Please, feel free to browse as long as you’d like. Have a coffee. In fact,” Cristy raised her voice so everyone could hear her, “I’ll offer a ten percent discount on anything you might want to purchase. And cappuccinos are on the house.”

  When in doubt, offer free stuff. Excited murmurs filled the room as everything slowly returned to normal. Several of the women headed for the kitchen to retrieve their beverages.

  As the raucousness died down, Cristy slumped into a chair with a groan. She propped her elbows on the table and rested her forehead against the heels of her hands. “Shit, I need a Valium.” Three hands, each bearing a pill, appeared beneath her face. She glanced up. “I was kidding. Sort of.”

  The women each shrugged, putting the pills back in their purses or pockets.

  “Whoa.” Allegra shook her head as she watched the woman who’d fainted amble toward the café. “That was whacked.”

  “Are you okay?” the Mondragon sisters asked, in stereo.

  “No,” said Cristy. “I couldn’t be less okay. Not to worry, though. Everything’s going to be fine.”

  Lola emerged from the kitchen looking troubled. “Uh, Cris?”

  Cristy struggled to focus. “Yeah?”

  Lola gestured over her shoulder and stage whispered, “I’ve got people talking about free cappuccinos and whatnot? Did I miss something? I was outside throwing the trash away.”

  “I’ll fill you in later, but yes.” Cristy waved her hand wearily toward the customers congregated in the café section. “Anything they want, Lola, give it to them. Give it all to them. I just don’t care at this point.”

  Lola, befuddled, glanced around at the others, then shrugged. “You’re the boss. Free drinks, it is.”

  “What can we do, Cristy?” Alma asked.

  “Two choices.” She ran her fingers slowly through her hair. “Either someone can kill Marisol, or I need a phone.”

  Allegra lobbed her cell over, and Cristy caught it.

  “So I guess the contract hit is out? Sucks to be me,” Cristy said as she punched the phone’s keys.

  “Who are you calling?” Diego asked.

  “Who else? The hell spawn,” Cristy said through clenched teeth. She tossed her hair as she lifted the phone to her ear. “She wins, okay? I’ll do her goddamned show.”

  Chapter 10

  “We’re on in sixty seconds,” Wyatt told Cristy, settling the big, bulky headphones over her ears.

  She pulled them off and aimed a pointer finger at her sister. “You remember the rules, Mar?”

  “Of course, sweetie. Don’t worry. Do you think I’d do anything else to get on your bad side?”

  “Hard to tell with you. Frankly, your track record sucks. Regardless, I swear to you—” She scowled at Wyatt. “—both of you, if you do anything to embarrass me or put me on the spot, I’m out of here. I will provide a vague overview of the whole phone sex thing, but there will be no demonstrations of any kind, understand? And don’t call me Crystal.”

  “Of course not,” Marisol said.

  “Also, I won’t talk to any questionable guys, nor will I tolerate being lambasted by the religious right for my personal choices, so cut off those callers before they even hit the air.”

  “We will,” Wyatt said.

  “You’d better, because I don’t give a rat’s ass about balanced reporting. The only person who gets a voice today is me. This is not a debate about morals or politics or—God forbid—some backhanded way to boost ratings for your damn show. I’m not here to defend jack.”

  “Kiddo, relax.” Wyatt laughed, sounding both exhausted and amused. “We initialed all your rules and signed the forms saying we agreed to them, didn’t we?” He shook his head. “You’re family. We’re not going to lie to your face.”

  A standoff ensued.

  “I still don’t trust you. You two would hang your grandmothers’ asses out to dry for higher ratings.”

  Wyatt pursed his lips, considering this. “That might be true, but we won’t do that to you. Any more than we already have, that is, however inadvertently.” He held up a hand to ward off any argument. “I know you don’t believe me, so you’ll have to just watch and see, because we don’t have any more time to argue.” Wyatt slid her headphones back on. “Now, take a drink of water. And a deep breath. Not at the same time, of course.”

  Cristy gave him a snarky fake smile. She adjusted the headphones then stole a glance out the plate-glass studio window into the private waiting area. Diego gave her a thumbs-up. In reply, she pulled a horrified face, praying he’d bust his way in and rescue her from this hell. He wouldn’t, of course. Just like Lola, Marisol, Wyatt, and even her faithful Simplicity regulars, Diego thought this stupid radio appearance was the best move she could make. Regardless, the simple fact that he had come along for moral support made things a little less horrible.

  Emphasis on a little.

  She still couldn’t quite see how subjecting herself to an hour of broadcast hell would solve all her problems. Then again, she couldn’t face another disrupted day at Simplicity, which meant she was fresh out of alternatives.

  Even if she wanted to back out, it was too late now. KHOT had been running promos for her appearance for two straight days, ever since she’d agreed to it on Wednesday. The advertisers would be furious if she walked. She wanted to teach Marisol a lesson, sure, but she didn’t want the lesson to cost her sister a job. Therein lay the difference between her and her sister: she always considered the ramifications.

  Red ON THE AIR lights flashed on above the studio doors, and Cristy’s throat clamped shut. “Ack.”

  “You’re okay,” Marisol whispered. “It’s just talking.”

  “Easy for you to say.”

  “Don’t sell yourself short, Cris.” She smiled. “You’ve got a mouth on you, too.”

  “I ask the questions,” Cristy rasped toward her sister.

  Marisol laid a finger against her lips and nodded.

  “But don’t leave me hanging if I get tongue-tied.”

  “I won’t,” Marisol whispered.

  “Swear it.”

  “I swear. Okay, Cris? Wyatt’s going to start things off, but whenever you feel ready to chime in or take charge, just do it. Don’t think about the listeners. We’re three people talking in a room, and one of them is your big sister who loves you.”

  Cristy’s heart squeezed. She actually felt grateful for Marisol’s presence. How freakin’ annoying that she could want to kill Mar and hug her at the same time. The whole whacked-out phenomenon of Sisterhood was overrated.

  From the glassed-in control booth the producer gave a countdown of ten with his fingers, then pointed at Wyatt, who immediately cued the familiar lead-in music.

  Wait! Her nerves went on red alert. Everything was happening way too fast. She wasn’t ready! The music ended abruptly, and just like that she found herself stuck inside the Marisol and Wily Wyatt show, like a raccoon in a trap. Wyatt set off on his trademark blah blah blather, but she scarcely heard him, much less retained any of his words. Her pulse pounded so loudly in her ears, she was sure others could hear it. And it might’ve been her imagination, but it sounded like a steady rhythm of stupid, stupid, stupid.

  Could blood talk? More importantly, could she?

  God—what if she couldn’t? Or if she accidentally blurted something horrid,
sort of like stress-induced Tourette’s syndrome? Or if she belched, like in the middle of a comment? Or choked on her own spit? All that stuff that made her loathe public speaking in high school? Sure, there was that alleged two-minute delay, but she couldn’t rely on that. Marisol and Wyatt had broken promises before, so she had to keep her guard up, rock solid. No matter what else happened, she simply must chill out enough to think through her words before she cracked open her mouth, even for a yes/no question.

  Think…speak. Think…speak. Think…speak.

  If she could make any sound at all, that is. Right at the moment, her throat felt tight enough to kill her. Boa constrictor tight. Neck-slammed-in-an-elevator-door tight. And on the other hand, assuming she could talk, what if her voice sounded like Minnie Mouse’s? She never had liked that social climbing rodent. Mickey should’ve kicked her squeaky ass to the curb long ago, but that was a whole different issue.

  She knew she hadn’t been blessed with Mar’s silky radio alto, and the stress wasn’t helping matters, either. Cristy’s breathing shallowed until stars floated before her eyes. She gripped the table to keep from falling straight to the floor.

  On the outside, she knew she probably looked like a woman sitting calmly, with ugly headphones clamped to her skull. Inside, she was frantic, frazzled, and verging on flat-out psychosis.

  What in the holy hell had she gotten herself into? She was an introvert! Introverts didn’t volunteer for this kind of insanity. She wasn’t a radio personality. Hell, she barely had a personality. She didn’t want to talk about her life or anyone else’s life, or anything!

  Hyperventilation kicked in, good and hard. Because—oh my God, she should’ve thought of this earlier—but which was worse? Being embarrassed by your sister’s radio show through no fault of your own, or embarrassing yourself on your sister’s radio show? If this went to hell, she’d have no one to blame but herself.

  The darkened, equipment-packed room swirled around her head. She felt like she was trapped on that horrific, barfinducing spinning teacup ride at Disneyland. In an instant all she could hear inside her head was that nightmarish “It’s a Small World” song over and over and over.

  As though tuned in to her panic, Marisol caught her attention. Never breaking stride with her broadcast banter, she grabbed a pen and scribbled on a sheet of paper, then held it up toward Cristy.

  List of names.

  Huh? Cristy reread the cryptic note and frowned at Marisol, shaking her head. Like, what the crap was that supposed to mean? Whatever happened to the popular, “You go, girl!” or “Break a leg,” something along those lines? Even a cue card or a jumping off point or a reminder to breathe. But “List of names”? That didn’t cheer her on or spark conversation. It just confused her, and confusion was the last thing she needed on top of her burgeoning hysteria.

  It’s a small world after alllllllll—Stop.

  Enough with the insanity. She needed to get ahold of herself. Practicing some yoga breathing, she forced herself to be in the moment, hideous as it was. She watched as Marisol and Wyatt chatted back and forth about the weather, celebrity gossip, and last night’s reality television, as though doing so were easy. Come to think of it, it looked easy. Neither of them was ever, like, “Uh, so anyway…I’m at a loss for words.”

  It was so weird. She had to admit, her sister’s smooth transition from off-the-air to on-the-air was impressive. Here she sat, shaking in her holey jeans, with her mind racing a million miles a minute. Meanwhile, Marisol never missed a beat, and nothing she uttered ever seemed forced. She grudgingly admitted her quick-witted sister was damned good at her job. No wonder Mar made the big bucks.

  Feeling slightly less crazed, Cristy reached out a shaky hand and grabbed her water glass, taking a long drink that she practically had to choke down.

  “Now, what we’ve all been waiting for.” Wyatt cued up a taped drumroll that ended with the crash of cymbals. “We’ve got a special guest with us today. Our very own Marisol’s kid sister, Cristy Avila, owner of the ever-popular Simplicity gathering place in West Highlands. Welcome, Cristy. Great to see you again, kiddo.”

  D-day. She did not want to sound like an idiot.

  “Thanks, Wyatt. Wish I could say the same, but you know. There are only about a million places I’d rather be than here,” she said with saccharine sweetness.

  Wyatt and Marisol both laughed, but Cristy felt it was definitely with her and not at her. She stretched her fingers and popped her knuckles beneath the table. Okay, talking to Wyatt just then hadn’t been so hard. No blurted swear words. No unexpected bodily functions. Maybe she could do this.

  “It’s true, folks. We kind of railroaded Cristy into being here, because we always strive to bring our listeners what they want,” Wyatt said.

  Oh, please. “Suck up,” Cristy fake-coughed behind her hand. Marisol laughed again. You know, this really did feel like three people in a room talking.

  “In any case,” Wyatt said, “you’re here, Cristy.”

  “I am,” she said ruefully. “It was either that or kill my sister. I didn’t think winding up in prison as Big Bertha’s bitch was worth it.” She flashed a wide-eyed glance at Marisol. “Shit, can I say bitch on the air? Oops, I just said shit, too.”

  “Twice. But we’re on the delay,” Marisol said, as amused as Wyatt was. “Don’t sweat it.”

  “We’re going to take your questions in a few minutes, folks, but first, Cristy, tell us why you’re here.”

  “Duh, Wyatt, you’ve only been running promos for two days straight. Do you think your listeners are dimwits?” This was getting easier by the minute. When in doubt, be a smartass.

  “Well, just to be clear—” He raised his eyebrows hopefully at Cristy. “—dare I say it?”

  Defeated, Cristy said, “It’s not like the whole universe doesn’t already know, thanks to my sister, the Mouth.”

  “For those of you who’ve been living under a rock this past week, Cristy spent her college years—”

  “Year, Wyatt. Get it right.” She held up an index finger. “One year. My final year of graduate school.”

  “Gotcha. We do want to keep our facts straight.”

  “You do? What’s with the sudden change?”

  “Very funny. Our comedienne, Cristy, spent one school year working for a phone sex line. Did I get that right?”

  “Yep.”

  “Which is the bombshell Marisol dropped on all of us during Monday’s broadcast.”

  “Tell everyone why you did it, Cristy,” said Marisol.

  “Why does anyone accept a crappy job? Money. Plus, it didn’t interfere with my heavy course load, since I only took calls at night. And I could work from home.”

  “Wait a minute. Callers had your home phone number?” Wyatt asked, incredulous.

  “No, of course not. That would be dangerous.” She gave Marisol the evil eye. “Incoming calls were intercepted by a computerized system, which would then forward them to our home phones. Anonymously, trust me.” She flashed another death glare at her sister. “Anonymity was the key, at least until my sister decided to use me as an example on your show.”

  “Guilty as charged,” Marisol said. “For the record, I have apologized.”

  “Uh, for the record, it’s not the first time she’s done something like this to me, so her apologies don’t carry much weight. Isn’t that right, Marisol?”

  “She’s right.”

  “And don’t give any excuses about good intentions, either.”

  Marisol gave a dramatic sigh. “The truth is, folks, I do tend to speak first and suffer the consequences later. Or, actually, Cristy suffers the consequences later.” She smiled encouragingly. “I’m sorry, Cristy, truly. I talk about my baby sister because I love her and I’m proud of her, but she’d rather I didn’t talk about her at all.” Then, to Cristy, “And, I maintain, you were the positive example during Monday’s show, not that it matters. This is your chance to set things straight.”

  “O
kay, enough of the sibling love fest before I puke,” Wyatt cut in. “Tell us how the phone sex thing worked.”

  “The guy’s got a one-track mind,” Cristy said, bugging her eyes at Marisol.

  “Don’t all guys?” Marisol asked.

  “Most, but I wouldn’t say all.” Cristy glanced out at Diego. He winked. “Just as I wouldn’t classify all sex workers as ‘sluts’ or ‘tramps,’ Wyatt.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah. I’ve already had my hand slapped for that one. By your sister and just about every women’s group out there. Not to mention my lovely wife—”

  “The saint?” Cristy said, hiking one eyebrow.

  “That she is.” Wyatt rolled his hand. “But about the phone sex…”

  She sighed. “I’ll tell you how it worked, but it’s a lot duller than you’d imagine. First, you have to pick a service, and there are a lot of choices with different things to offer.”

  “Really! I had no idea. Like what?”

  “For example, 809 numbers are located in the Dominican Republic, and they don’t charge a per-minute fee. You’d just pay regular long distance charges. That’s a pro, but the con for some callers is the fact that these lines are more like dating party lines. It all depends on what the caller’s looking for.”

  “I’m so out of the phone sex loop!” Wyatt said.

  “Which I’m sure your wife is happy about.” Cristy smirked at her sister. “The 900 numbers you can find in magazines. Some are good, some aren’t, and some will really rip you off. Are you bored yet, Wyatt?”

  “Not in the least. Keep going.”

  “Fine. Oops, did you hear that?”

  Wyatt perked. “What?”

  “I think it was your ratings dropping by the second.”

  “Very funny.”

  “Moving right along, 011 numbers are offshore services. Mostly off the coast of Africa. You’ll pay long distance rates, but there can be language barriers that make the call a waste of money. English-speaking callers should be aware of this.”

  “Check, avoid 011 numbers,” Wyatt said.