Once again, pizza night was paying its weekly visit to the Twiggs family. But tonight, Malia barely touched her topped-with-everything slice. She didn’t have time to eat, because she was so busy doing something she typically never got to do on pizza night (or, really, any night): She was speaking. Uninterrupted. About herself.
Ever since the news broke about the Seaside Sitters, Chelsea had gotten grounded, and Malia had stepped into a very unfamiliar place: the spotlight.
“It’s like, Kristy’s Great Idea was right there, just waiting to be my idea,” she said. Her parents nodded their heads vigorously. Chelsea rolled her eyes but didn’t say anything. “And what’s weird is, at the time, I didn’t know that I was good at babysitting. I didn’t know that I liked babysitting. Honestly, I had no idea that babysitting still existed outside of horror movies and apps for services that allow strangers to come watch your kids. But it turns out, I really love it!”
“It’s so nice to see you excel at something,” her mother said.
“And to see you so enthusiastic!” her dad added.
Chelsea made a sound like she was being strangled.
“Is something the matter, Chels?” asked their dad.
“Some pizza must have gotten caught in my throat,” she said, with a small shrug.
Once her parents had turned their attention back to their plates, Chelsea narrowed her eyes at Malia.
Not one to be intimidated, Malia took this as a good opportunity to drive the point home further. “It is rare, however, for someone my age to start a successful business,” said Malia. “There are plenty of teenagers who get part-time jobs or whatever, but how many twelve-year-old CEOs can you think of?”
“I really can’t think of any!” said her dad with a chuckle.
“Starting the club has really inspired me to think of other interesting avenues to pursue. My goal is to have a highly diversified résumé by the time I start applying to colleges.” Malia smiled sweetly in Chelsea’s direction. She probably didn’t think Malia knew words like “diversified.” But she did.
The conversation came to a lull. Malia’s dad smiled. Her mom took a sip of lemonade. Chelsea sulked.
At last, Chelsea spoke. “I’m full,” she said. “May I be excused?”
“Your sister is still eating,” said their mom.
Malia picked up her slice and took a bite. She chewed very, very slowly, smiling in Chelsea’s direction.
“On second thought, I’m also not feeling well,” Chelsea said.
“It’s fine, I’m done anyway,” Malia conceded.
Chelsea pulled her chair out from the table and quickly disappeared from the room.
Malia breathed deeply and made a mental note to enjoy this moment, and the sweet silence coming from Chelsea’s now-vacant side of the table. It was something Malia wasn’t used to hearing during family dinners: the sound of success.
Malia had a little ritual she liked to perform every night before bed. First, she liked to think of three things that had gone well that day. Usually, they were small things, like especially good cafeteria fries at lunchtime. (Since the Seaside takedown, though, coming up with three good things had been easier than usual.) Next, she liked to imagine what Connor Kelly was doing at that exact moment. (In truth, she liked to do this more often than just at bedtime.) Was he playing a video game? Was he brushing his teeth? Was he already asleep? Imagining the options, Malia climbed into bed and turned off the light.
She snuggled up next to Humphrey, her secret stuffed dog that she still cuddled with in order to fall asleep. None of her friends knew about Humphrey, and she wanted to keep it that way.
As she settled under the covers, Malia’s door creaked open a couple inches. She squinted through the darkness to see Chelsea’s face peering in, illuminated by light from the hallway.
“Brutus,” Chelsea hissed, so low that Malia could barely hear it.
“Excuse me?” Malia asked.
“Gaston.”
“Wait, what? Like the dude from Beauty and the Beast?”
“Cruella.”
“Oh my god. Chelsea, seriously.” Malia rolled her eyes.
“Scar.”
“Congratulations on your expansive knowledge of traitorous characters.”
“Peter Pettigrew!” Chelsea spat.
Finally, it was just too much. Both sisters started to giggle. It wasn’t exactly a cease-fire, but it was probably as close as they would come.
“Why is the upstairs hallway light still on?” their mom’s voice rang up the stairs. “Both of you should be in bed by now.”
And with that, Chelsea scurried away.