IT’S FRIDAY NIGHT, AND I’m in my room, studying. I have everything exactly the way I prefer when I’m working. My computer plays Beethoven from Spotify in hushed swells. I’ve organized papers and folders in neat piles on my long desk, and I’ve lit the ginseng ginger candle I got from the neighborhood independent bookstore. It’s this cocoon of calming productivity I create, the perfect environment for thinking clearly and shifting seamlessly from one task to the next.
Open on my desk, next to the candle, is my calculus textbook. I’m reviewing for the differential equations exam we have next week. In between problems, I reply to texts from Dylan, who’s in San Francisco, going to some concert with Grace Wu, her friend from yearbook. She knew better than to invite me.
I’m turning the page to find new review problems when there’s an earsplitting screech.
Wincing violently, I spin around. It’s the wavering shrill of something mechanical, and it’s coming from somewhere in the house. I wonder if the smoke detector is on the fritz. It disturbs the tranquility of my room, to say the least. It’s frankly unbearable, and I close my book and rush into the hallway.
The sound is coming from Jamie’s room. Plugging my ears with my fingers, I hurry down the hall, then throw open her door.
I find my sister sitting on her bed, strumming the shittiest-looking electric guitar I’ve ever seen. One knob is missing, the pegs for the strings are chipped, and countless dents and scratches mar the candy-apple red paint. With her other hand, Jamie’s fiddling with the fat cable running into the amp on the floor.
Irritation replaces whatever smoke-detector-related concern I momentarily had. “What are you doing?” I ask.
Jamie glances up. When she stops strumming, the harsh wail ceases. “Oh, hey, Alison. Isn’t it cool?” She waves her hand down the guitar. I think it looks more like garbage and sounds worse. Jamie is dressed with her usual carelessness, wearing a gray hoodie, her hair in a sloppy knot at the top of her head. “I’m going to learn how to play.”
She shifts the guitar, and feedback screams from the amp. I walk over and unplug the cable, yanking the metal head out with a little more force than is necessary. “Maybe learning can be a quieter activity,” I propose, marshaling my voice into patience. “Where did you even get this stuff?”
“I was walking to Starbucks and saw a sign for a garage sale.” Jamie crosses her legs on her comforter, and I get the feeling she wants me to sit next to her. “I just had to check it out.”
I push past Jamie’s very generous use of the phrase had to, not to mention my perplexity for her unstructured day. “I didn’t even know you were interested in playing guitar,” I say lightly.
“Neither did I!” Jamie replies. “But when I saw it, this whole vision of me on stage in a band flashed before my eyes. It was totally a sign. Besides, I used to love violin.”
“You mean when you played in middle school?” I remember being dragged to those middle-school orchestra concerts as a kid, as well as the two hours a week Jamie would agree to practice at home. Not fond acoustical memories. Back then, our parents forced Jamie to pick up an instrument—something they’d given up by the time it was my turn. In high school, Jamie dropped orchestra in favor of the Chronicle, knowing it would look better on her college apps.
“The strings are different, but the logic is similar. I think I can pick it up pretty quickly.” She plucks one of the strings, then another, twisting the knobs at the head like she’s tuning them.
I feel the minutes passing, knowing I have calculus waiting in my room, and yet I can’t help pressing the subject. “So you’re going to teach yourself guitar and find a band?” Having retreated toward the doorway, I pause, unconsciously toeing the little pile of New Yorker issues on the carpet. “That’s the new plan?”
“It might be.” Jamie shrugs. “Hey, do you want to learn piano?”
I finally lose hold on my incredulity. “Yeah, in all my spare time I’m just going to learn piano to be in the band you decided to form, like, fifteen minutes ago.”
Jamie’s lips flit up. “I’m picking up your disparaging sarcasm loud and clear, Alison,” she says sweetly. “But I won’t be deterred. We’re going to hang out.” She points a playful finger in my direction, then resumes plucking the strings of the guitar.
I don’t reply, not knowing how. What’s infuriating about Jamie is how intelligent she is, despite the new slacker sensibility she’s slumped into. She went to Columbia and graduated with high honors in philosophy while working on the newspaper. She uses words like disparaging and deterred. I remember the Jamie who had goals and plans and dreams founded on firmer stuff than garage-sale pickings. She’s hard to reconcile with the older sister in front of me who just wants to hang out.
“Aren’t you at all eager to get out of our parents’ house?” The question jumps out at me.
“Why? Should I be?” While her voice remains light, for once I catch an undercurrent to her easygoing friendliness. She doesn’t sound upset. It’s more like she’s challenging me. Daring her little sister to tell her she knows better.
I know it’s not my place. Jamie’s her own person, and I have no right to judge her or direct her on how to lead her life. Even if I find her choices entirely baffling. What’s more, I have enough to keep on top of in my own life. “No,” I say. “Just curious. Good luck with the guitar.”
I leave her room, wracking my memory. I’m trying to recall if I ever knew this version of Jamie when she lived here before college. When I was in elementary school, Jamie was definitely larger than life, vivacious, with plenty of friends and interests. I remember her running the Fairview literary magazine and submitting poetry to state contests, biting her nails before Ivy League decisions, canvasing for our representatives in elections for Congress. The memories I have don’t include this freewheeling nothingness.
It’s frightening, in a way. I return to my room, closing the door and reopening my calculus book. My memories of Jamie in high school don’t differ much from what my own high school days look like, filled with projects and pursuits. If it’s possible for Jamie’s life to implode into Netflix and neighborhood walks, it’s possible for mine to, despite my every effort. I don’t want to work this hard to be mature in high school only to end up a perpetual teenager.
I shut my door just in time to hear my dad walk into Jamie’s room. I hear laughing, then he must plug the amp back in, because a moment later, the guitar screeches to life.