Emma
Like lots of only children, Emma had gone through a phase of wanting a sibling. Specifically a sister. And impossibly, she kept asking for an older sister. Maggie had carefully explained, without going into too much detail, that that wasn’t the way things worked. Emma hadn’t been happy about that. She’d seen the difference in her friends’ homes: the babies crying, the toddlers grabbing at necklaces, biting fingers. But the older kids were useful. They doubled the toys, doubled the clothes, halved the blame. So a few years later, when Emma finally understood the biology of what her mother had been trying to tell her, she started a small campaign for them to adopt, or at least borrow, an older girl. She tried to be subtle yet forceful. She left Big Brothers Big Sisters literature around the house. Emma casually mentioned famous actors and singers who had been adopted. Her parents tolerated the behavior but didn’t overreact. It’s possible they laughed at her alone at night in the privacy of the kitchen, when they sometimes shared a snack when Frank came home from his shift. But it wasn’t until high school that Emma overheard the truth from Maggie’s sister, Aunt Kate. They were at a confirmation for one of Kate’s children, and in the kitchen, Kate had told another woman how hard these celebrations were for her sister. There had been miscarriages, half a dozen, maybe more, before they’d simply given up on the idea. Maggie’s body and mind couldn’t take any more, and she took birth control pills, church be damned. The friend had nodded and said she didn’t blame her. “I’d like to see how the pope holds up after six miscarriages,” she’d said.
Emma had stood in the doorway, stunned. How had she been so insensitive, so unaware? How her mom must have been in pain, real pain, so many times and she had never noticed. Her mom, who noticed every sigh, every groan. Who kissed her forehead, checking for fever at the slightest flush in her cheeks, who smoothed every stray hair on her head. Her mom who noticed everything. Emma, who noticed nothing.
She thought of all these things as she tore through Fiona’s half of the room. Opening drawers, rifling through clothes, looking for…what, exactly? Mementoes? Love letters from the men? That was ridiculous. No one kept those things anymore. Or did they? She had no sisters, so she didn’t really know what girls held on to and what they threw away. What was normal? What wasn’t?
In addition to these deficits, Emma wasn’t very good at being deceitful, at sneaking, at hiding. She had no small witness, no companion who could turn on her. And that was probably the reason she’d forgotten to lock the door. So she didn’t hear the cue of a key turning. She missed the soft sweep of an unlocked door opening and the tiptoe of Fiona walking down to her room, high heels in her hand, because at last, her feet were killing her.
“What the fuck are you doing?” Fiona said calmly, a little too calmly, from the doorway.
“I…lost my necklace,” Emma said dumbly.
“And you thought I would steal your necklace?”
Fiona touched her own neck as she said it, which was adorned by an elaborate gold bib, studded with colorful stones that picked up the aqua of her dress.
Emma’s only necklaces were a cross and a small pearl pendant.
“No, I thought it got mixed in. By accident.”
“Uh huh. Sure. You know, Emma, if you want to borrow my clothes for a special occasion or something, you could have tried asking instead of stealing.”
“I’m not stealing.” Emma felt her skin going pink, hot.
“Oh, you’re not? So then you’re one of those girls who gets off on other girls’ underwear?”
“No.”
“Well, you could have asked. If that’s your thing, then that’s your thing. I’m not judging you. Not like you constantly judge me.”
“I don’t judge you.”
“Please. All your condescending innocent questions at night. Not all of us grow up with silver spoons in our mouths like Taylor. Some of us need to earn money.”
“I’m not, I mean—”
“There’s no shame in needing to earn money, Emma.”
“I never said there was.”
“And just because I don’t want to wash people’s fucking hair all day only to end up so poor, I need a scholarship for my daughter—”
“Wait,” Emma said. “Are you kidding me right now? Now who’s being judgmental?”
“Well, at least I’m not a thief. What would your mommy think about you stealing? You planning to sell something on eBay, huh, thief?”
The shove to her shoulder caught her by surprise. Fiona was surprisingly strong, and Emma nearly fell back against the bed. The look on Fiona’s face was different than she’d ever seen, contorted.
“Fiona, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have touched your dresser. I should have asked. I—”
“Woulda shoulda coulda. Well, it’s too late now. You broke the dorm code. And you have to pay the price.”
Fiona picked up the phone and started to text.
“No, please, I’m sorry. Please don’t call the RA. I—”
Fiona laughed and shook her head like she was a dog, shaking off unwanted water. Quickly, easily, instinctively.
“Oh, Emma,” she said. “I would never trust our dipshit RA with this information. I am summoning a more appropriate tribunal to try to decide what to do.”
“Tribunal?”
“Oh, I’m sorry. I meant your other roommates. I didn’t mean to use such a big word. I guess Jason hasn’t taught you that one yet?”