I usually slept as late as Mum would let me on Sundays, but I’d woken before sunrise, my head exploding with questions. Even a year ago I might’ve been able to ask Larrie about the rumours, but now things between us were so stressed that just the thought of trying to bring it up made the muscles in my neck tense in anticipation of the screaming match that would inevitably follow.
I searched my memory for any signs that Larrie might be a “woman-identifying woman”, as Patchouli would say. Sure, she’d cut her hair short, but, as she tried to explain when Mum went off about it, that was just a practical measure for swimming season. And yes, she’d stopped wearing the ultra-girly stuff Mum liked, but there’s a difference between not wanting to look like you’ve stepped out of a Laura Ashley catalogue and using your clothes to make a statement about your sexuality. After all, she’d worn a minidress to Mitch’s party last week.
Then there was the nagging question of Beth. I just couldn’t picture it. I mean, if Larrie was gay, surely she’d either be with some ruggedly handsome woman, like k.d. lang, or a drop-dead gorgeous lipstick lesbian, like Portia de Rossi? The thought of her going out with Beth was about as believable as Angelina Jolie hooking up with Napoleon Dynamite. It was true that the two of them spent hours and hours in Larrie’s bedroom, but that was because they were ubernerd study buddies. Besides, until she split up with Mitch, Larrie hadn’t been without a boyfriend for more than a week since she hit puberty.
But if Maz was right and Larrie knew that people were talking about her, why wasn’t she stopping them? All she’d have had to do was go out with one of the umpteen guys who asked her out all the time and that’d put an end to it.
Not that I cared if Larrie preferred girls, but it was like finding out someone wasn’t who you thought they were. Like the cute guy in the horror film who you think is going to save the babysitter from the evil thing outside, but then he slices her up instead. (Without the blood and guts and evil, obviously.) And unlike everyone who was taken in by her Princess Perfect persona, I was pretty sure I knew exactly what Larrie was like.
No matter how I looked at it, it didn’t make sense.
No one was around when I dragged myself out of bed at midday. Mum had left a note saying she and Dad had a brunch date, and Larrie’s bedroom was empty, which meant she was probably at Beth’s.
I made myself a sandwich and logged on to Celebrity Meltdown for some welcome distraction. Surely somewhere in Tinseltown someone was hearing worse rumours about their siblings than I was.
A chat window popped up before I could even read the headlines.
MazzyStar: You ok?
Al-oha: Me? I’m fabulous! Terrific! Never better!
MazzyStar: Sorry, bad call.
Al-oha: I’ve been thinking about it all day and it doesn’t add up.
MazzyStar: ?
Al-oha: Larrie and Beth. There’s no way they’re a couple.
MazzyStar: Then why the rumours?
Al-oha: Mitch.
MazzyStar: ?
Al-oha: It’s got to be his way of getting revenge. Think about it: everyone in the school loves Larrie, except the guy she doesn’t love any more. It’s a classic case of the jilted lover.
MazzyStar: But how does it make Mitch look better that Larrie’s with Beth? Wouldn’t he want to keep it to himself if he’s put her off guys all together?
Al-oha: Hmmm, good point. Mitch’s ego could never admit he’d come second to a girl, especially not in the snogging department. Okay, Nancy Drew, who do you think it is?
MazzyStar: How about Richie Horne? He’s in line for the Science trophy if Larrie bombs out in her exams, so he’s got incentive …
I couldn’t imagine anyone going to such extremes for the sake of a stupid school prize, but I didn’t have any better ideas.
Al-oha: Whoever it is, if I find them, they’ll pay for stuffing everything up just when things were starting to improve for me at school.
MazzyStar: Perhaps it hasn’t spread that far.
Al-oha: Maz, you already told me it’s all over Whitlam!
MazzyStar: Okay, well who cares if Larrie IS gay? Like Patchouli always says, love doesn’t recognise gender-based sexual constructs.
Al-oha: IF Larrie’s gay (which she’s not). And Patchouli’s not the one they’ll be calling Larrie-the-lezzo’s little sister!!!
“We’re home,” said Mum, sticking her head round my bedroom door.
I slammed my laptop closed even though there was no way she could read the screen from that distance. For a moment I was worried that I’d dobbed myself in by my reaction, but Mum just wrinkled her nose. “If you break that computer, you’ll pay for the next one yourself.”
She knocked on Larrie’s door and sighed when there was no response.
I tried to convince Dad to let me eat a ham and tomato toastie at my desk for dinner, on the grounds that I still had so much homework to do, but Mum chucked one of her all-I-do-is-slave-for-this-family tantrums. (Which was clearly not true, given that my name appeared twice as often on the chore roster as hers did.) Larrie was excused from the family meal because she and Beth were having a History study marathon. To be honest, I was relieved not to have to sit across the table from her, pretending I didn’t know what people were saying. Not that Larrie’s absence stopped the entire dinner conversation revolving around her.
“I’m worried about Larissa,” said Mum. “She’s been even moodier than usual this week.”
If only you knew how much there was to be worried about, I thought. If Mum found out that people were talking about Larrie for any reason other than to praise and adore her, I wasn’t sure what she’d do. Luckily for Mum, the possibility of Larrie’s private business being bandied about – whether it was fact or fiction – was not on her radar of reasons to be concerned about her firstborn.
“Leave her be, Colette. She’s studying hard, that’s all. You know how conscientious she is about her schoolwork.”
“I’ve been studying hard too,” I said, hoping they’d take the hint. “I have to work out our family’s genetic profile.”
Mum and Dad both turned to stare at me, as if they’d forgotten I was there.
“One Science assignment hardly compares to university entrance exams, Allison,” said Mum. “Frankly, you’re not making things any easier around here by sulking and picking fights with your sister.”
“Me?” I spluttered. “I’m not the one–”
“We’re not having this discussion again,” interrupted Dad before I could tell them that Larrie’s reputation at school was circling the drain. “We all know Larrie’s being a bit full-on at the moment, but can’t you cut her a little slack? It’s only for a couple more weeks.”
I knew if I told them about the rumours after receiving a lecture, they’d think I was making it up out of spite, so I kept my mouth shut and cleared the table. As I headed upstairs to finish my homework, I heard Mum say she was going to book Larrie in for a massage before her exams. Like she needed any more pandering to.
The more I thought about Mum dismissing my assignment, the angrier I was. I’d show her – and Ms Morales – that I was every bit as capable as Larrie. I may not have been able to get my sister to sit down and answer the questions on the worksheet, but surely I knew her well enough by now to make a pretty decent guess.
I got out the list of characteristics and began to fill in the columns. Hair and eye colour were easy since we’re both blond with green eyes, but I paused at “widow’s peak” – since Larrie cut her hair she had a fringe, and I couldn’t remember what her hairline looked like without it. I needed my photo album to refresh my memory. Mum had given me and Larrie identical ones for Christmas the year I finished primary school, so that we each had a piece of our childhoods. I pulled it out from under the bed where I’d shoved it after a fight with Larrie about which of us had worn the pink cardigan with yellow buttons, and which had worn the yellow cardie with pink buttons the Christmas I turned four. (The photographic evidence showed she was correct.)
Flicking through the pages was like going back in time. Starting from the first photo, where I’m in my bassinette and Larrie’s kneeling beside me and kissing my forehead, to the year Larrie made us both T-shirts that said “Sisters rule” in puffy paint. Then Larrie started high school, and the matching T-shirts changed to a Regional Junior Toastmaster sash (her) and a second-place ribbon for the sack race (me), and the differences between us became more and more obvious with each passing year. Last year’s Christmas portrait could’ve come straight from www.awkwardfamilyphotos.com – we were standing so far apart we’re almost out of frame; I’m scowling and Larrie’s smile’s so fake only a parent would fall for it.
Who could have predicted that the little girls with the identical smiles would end up so different? I blew my nose and put the assignment aside. I’d finish it when I wasn’t so tired.
Al Miller is on a sentimental journey.