Two Sisters

by Jeffrey Anderson

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  “Get that out of here, Lee!” She pushed first Leah’s hand then the entire make-up bag away from her.

  Brooke! Leah said with her flashing eyes.

  “No way. It’s the real Brooke or no Brooke.”

  Neither girl wore make-up regularly. They both had clear, fair skin that tanned to a fine honey color in the summer and didn’t require augmentation or correction. But Leah had taught herself how to use make-up sparingly for special occasions, saw it more as an indicator of respect than an attempt at artifice. She’d been trying to impress this attitude on Brooke, but without success. Please, Leah asked. It’s the debutante ball!

  “I know where I’m going, Lee. Believe me, I know. And I’ll wear this stupid dress and these boiling pantyhose and let you curl my hair into Scarlett O’Hara’s vapid ringlets, but I’m not going to coat my skin with powder and lipstick!”

  Leah could’ve withstood this tirade reflected in the mirror except she recognized that Brooke’s final words were not audibly spoken but were mouthed with special visual emphasis and anger, a silent shout designed just for her, only for her. She grabbed her make-up kit and rushed out of the room.

  A little later Leah was applying a little light blush to her cheeks when the overhead light flashed once to signal Brooke’s entrance. She didn’t turn but waited till Brooke’s face appeared above her shoulder in the mirror.

  “I’m sorry,” Brooke said then lightly hugged Leah from behind, pressing her face to Leah silken blond hair just above where it had been gathered together in a gold barrette.

  Leah nodded acceptance then caught Brooke’s eye and pursed her lips—which were, and would remain, unadorned—to draw attention to Brooke’s, which had a clear, and tasteful sheen to them.

  Brooke laughed into the mirror. “Lip gloss!” she said. “It’s not near as thick as lipstick and it actually tastes good!”

  Leah smiled approval then signed, Matt will love it!

  Brooke’s face contorted. “Ewwww!” both girls cried before dissolving into paroxysms of laughter.

  Leah sat in the middle of the backseat of the Buick. She had on a sleeveless, thigh-length powder-blue linen dress that fit her emerging curves perfectly and struck a tasteful balance between her precocious grace and self-possession and her chronological age, just a few months shy of sixteen. Normally she hated sitting in the middle seat as it was impossible to follow two speakers simultaneously. She was left with the unappealing choice of facing one and ignoring the other or staring straight ahead and ignoring both. But tonight such a difficult choice wasn’t necessary—neither of her companions was speaking or showing any inclination to do so. She’d glance at Matt, behind Father, sitting stiffly upright in his tux and staring out the window, his long dark hair neatly combed over his ears and revealing some dim shadows that were meant to be sideburns. She recognized his insolence in the stiff set of his shoulders and confirmed that observation in the line of tightly pressed lips reflected in the door’s window. Then she’d glance at Brooke, slouched down on the seat so that the dress slid up and covered most of her chest, lightly toying with her hair and gazing off into space or at the back of Momma’s head.

  A thunderstorm broke just as they pulled into the parking lot of Memorial Hall, clearly preempting the mandatory photo ops in the accompanying gardens and giving rise to groans and growls that Leah didn’t have to look at to hear. They waited several minutes in the car for the worst of the torrent to pass, without anyone speaking and with the windows slowly fogging up in the thick and close air.

  Then suddenly Brooke screamed and threw open the door and ran across the flooded parking lot to the hall’s service entrance.

  Momma turned quickly and looked at Leah and nodded. Leah grabbed the tote bag holding Brooke’s accessories, including her platform heels (she was in sneakers now—bright red Chuck Taylors), and slid out the door into the cold rain. As she turned to close the door, she saw Matt laughing hysterically on the far side of the seat. She slammed the door with vehemence.

  She found Brooke sitting on a bench in the hallway leading to the men’s room. It was a desolate setting—a concrete floor, painted block walls, and fluorescent lights above—and empty at the moment. She’d seen a beehive of activity, all in white gowns, at the far end of the backstage area, where the ladies room and lounge was. But apparently all the guys were either waiting out the rain in their cars or fully assembled and patiently awaiting their dates in the gathering queue beside the stage. Damn those guys Leah thought, recalling Matt’s derisive laughter.

  Brooke sat slumped on the bench, her head down, looking all the world like a soggy wedding cake. Her hair hung damp about her shoulders and forward around her face, Leah’s careful curls all washed out. Her red sneakers were soaked, but far as Leah could tell the gown was not stained or damaged. She walked up and squatted in front of Brooke.

  Her sister looked up with a weariness Leah had never seen before. “Sorry, Lee. I thought my head would implode. I had to get out of there.”

  Leah nodded then got to work. She opened the tote bag and grabbed some tissues, used them to wipe away the rain, first from Brooke’s face then from her neck and shoulders. Then she found the comb, rather than the now useless brush, and combed out her wet brown hair, leaving it perfectly straight and giving her a “wet” look that was currently in style though mismatched for the occasion and the attire. Then she knelt and untied Brooke’s sneakers and slid them off her feet. The pantyhose were soaked but that wasn’t a problem—they’d dry quickly. The problem was that Brooke’s hose had a small pull at one ankle, a pull that would surely turn into an embarrassing run during the presentation.

  Brooke leaned over. “Aw, shit, Lee—I ruined your pretty hose!”

  Leah frowned then remembered that she had some fingernail polish—clear, the only color Momma would let her use—in her make-up kit. She sat on the bench and pulled the kit out of the tote bag, and found the nail polish in the bottom.

  But before she could stoop to daub the polish on the pull, Brooke picked at it. And the pull instantly transformed into an ugly run from her ankle up to her calf. Leah angrily held out the nail polish. You couldn’t wait just ten seconds? her eyes admonished.

  “Oh the hell with it, Lee.” Brooke stood up and reached up under the billowing gown and pulled the tight hose down to her feet in a single deft and furious motion. She then calmly stepped out of the hose, leaving a puddle of transparent white on the concrete floor, then grabbed her open-toed platform shoes out of the bag and slid them on her feet, buckling the white leather straps before Leah could interrupt or protest.

  Leah stared at Brooke’s natural colored feet in the white shoes. At least her feet were clean (unlike in the old days when they ran around barefoot during the summer, staining their feet with everything from grass to tar) and her toenails neatly trimmed. She glanced up at her sister.

  Brooke gave a self-satisfied nod. “The real Brooke or no Brooke.”

  Leah resigned herself to that inevitability—almost. She stood, gestured for Brooke to sit, then knelt before her sister, opened the nail polish, and—despite the dim light and dirty conditions—perfectly painted all ten of Brooke’s toenails in less than two minutes. She capped the polish, stood, and gestured toward Brooke then herself—the real Brooke, plus a little bit of Leah. She signed a little bit with her thumb and forefinger so close they seemed to be touching.

  Brooke nodded then looked over her dress at her shiny toenails. “How long to dry?”

  Five minutes, tops, Leah signed, then touched Brooke’s damp head—a lot quicker than your hair!

  They found Matt amongst the other escorts in the curtained off assembly area to the side of the stage.

  “Graceful exit, Cinderella,” Matt said as they approached.

  Brooke took a deep breath to return her brother’s wisecrack. But Leah gently squeezed her hand to halt her outburst, reminding her that she needed a more or less cooperative Matt for another half-hour or so, through
the presentation, the march down the garland bordered stairs, and the line up across the dance floor. Brooke swallowed her insult unspoken and offered an exaggerated demure smile and curtsy instead.

  Matt gave a smug nod in response and said, “I could get used to this.”

  Brooke started to raise her corsage wrist to smack him but Leah forced it back down. Then she brought the two of them together and signed—this is for Momma and Father. Her implication was clear: Don’t you dare embarrass our parents in front of the whole town! Then she turned and left without looking back, exiting around the end of the curtains to the dance floor and dining room beyond.

  She found Momma and Father standing beside the round table labeled as theirs about halfway back amongst the fifty or so reserved tables. They were talking to Dr. and Mrs. Houston, the men laughing and making big gestures, the women standing quite still and talking while barely moving their mouths. When Leah walked up Mrs. Houston said something she didn’t catch and squeezed her cheek. Dr. Houston put his big arm over her shoulder (he was well over six feet tall) and gave her a hug that was a tad too familiar. She nodded a polite thanks then slipped sideways to take her seat at the table, at the setting marked with her place card.

  The hall was set up much as it had been for graduation a few weeks