In the dream, we’re at a picnic. Just the two of us—Sheila and me. This never happened in real life, but it feels real enough. She has her hair down and streaming in the wind, wild and lovely and swirling in her face the way she hates but that looks really awesome, especially to me with my forever quarter-inch buzz cut. I’m holding her hair clips hostage and jumping up and down. “Damn it, Kermie,” she says. “Freaking give them to me.”
“No.” I hold them behind my back. “Pick a hand.”
Clearly, I’m in my magic phase. I can’t see myself in the dream, but I must be nine or ten.
The blanket beneath us is Sheila’s childhood bedspread, covered with cartoon turtles who apparently dance. She got rid of it when she went into high school and wanted to act all grown-up, so it ended up in a wad in the basement. Now the turtles dance beneath us, slow smooth steps that are meant to be a samba.
My own bedspread was of a similar fashion, except greener instead of purplish, with frogs instead of turtles. The irony was not lost on me or Sheila. Only Mom, who picked them out.
“Gimme!” Sheila dives at me, but misses. Her hair becomes a swirling nest for dancing frogs and turtles. She sits up and glares at me.
I sing at her, still jumping: “You’re gonna be a heartbreaker.”
Uncle Justin used to say that about her. “Your sister’s gonna be a heartbreaker. Just like your mom was at that age. All the boys were after her.” Ew, gross. Who wants to think about Mom as a teenager with boys?
“I can make them reappear,” I shout.
“Give them back.”
“Ready? One, two…” I pump my fist. “Three!” My hand opens as if to throw the hair clips at her, but they’ve disappeared.
Not disappeared—reappeared, on the sides and top of Sheila’s head, holding back her hair in exactly the way she likes.
Sheila smiles at me. “Kermie, how did you do that?”
Maybe I smile, or maybe the world simply widens, like a grin. “Magic.”