Often between ourselves and those nearest and dearest to us there exists a reserve which it is very hard to overcome.
—Little Women
When I snuck back into the house, the only light came from under the microwave, shining onto the empty stove. Halfway across the kitchen floor, the scent of pizza rolls clued me in that someone else had been here recently.
I flipped on the overhead light and almost choked on my tongue. A ghost was sitting at the table, staring at me. After a few seconds I realized it was Meg in one of her white sheet masks, looking like a disembodied skull. My heart started beating again.
“What are you, nocturnal now, Ghost Face?”
“Looks like I’m not the only one creeping around at night.” She bit into a pizza roll, carefully maneuvering it through the mouth flap in the mask first. “You and David finally got your shit together. Congrats, I guess.”
“I wasn’t with David.”
“You don’t have to lie. It’s not like it’s a big surprise. I’m actually impressed you dragged him out after dark.”
“I was with Hudson.”
Meg’s nose wrinkled, as best as I could tell through a layer of cotton. “I thought he left.”
“Not until tomorrow.”
“One for the road, huh? Classy.”
Ouch. I had no idea whether my sister had always been this brutal or had picked it up from her friends. “You’re not exactly in a position to judge.”
“Like that ever stopped you from criticizing me. Guess I shouldn’t have bothered feeling bad about the David thing.”
I was still scrambling for a comeback when the timer on her phone went off. Meg was so deeply focused on peeling off her face mask, I was pretty sure she’d forgotten I was there. She raised her hands like a TV doctor getting ready to operate and then lovingly massaged the last droplets of moisture onto her neck and forehead. The limp wad of fabric hit the table with a damp thud.
That snapped me out of my trance. “This isn’t about David.”
“Sure. Because you definitely weren’t crushing on each other behind my back.”
“He doesn’t think about me that way.”
“Whatever, Jo. Figure out your own crap. I have enough problems.” She picked up a piece of pizza roll with the pad of her thumb and popped it into her mouth. I was pretty sure it had been touching the used-up face mask, but that wasn’t the most disturbing part.
“You know we have real pizza in the refrigerator.”
“I don’t like cold pizza.”
“You could have reheated it.” I gestured at the toaster oven she’d used to cook the pizza rolls.
“Leftovers are disgusting.”
“Seriously, Meg? What are you, a princess?” Who was too good for leftover pizza? I must have missed the warning signs that my older sister was becoming an entitled nightmare. Probably because Amy used up all the I’m the worst bandwidth.
“I’m sick of worrying about money all the time. I want to buy stuff like a normal person, without counting every stupid penny.” She spoke the words to her plate, like she was having this conversation with her pizza rolls instead of me. “I never get to do what I want.”
“What are you even talking about?” As far as I could tell, Meg’s only burning ambition was to slather herself in goo.
“You don’t know everything about me, Jo.”
The ha whooshed out of me like I’d been punched. Talk about an understatement. For the first time in ages, I really looked at my sister instead of seeing the Meg I expected her to be: pretty and sleepy and out of touch. She had bags under her eyes and a reddish cluster of pimples on her chin, and her hair was greasy at the roots. On top of which she was eating off-brand pizza rolls by herself in the middle of the night, which didn’t scream living my best life.
“Why don’t you tell me what’s going on, Mistress of the Dark? Unless it’s something criminal, in which case, save it for your parole officer.”
“Very funny. You wouldn’t be laughing if your future was ruined.”
Oh. I tried to shift gears to a more sympathetic attitude, but it wasn’t like I’d had a lot of practice. “Can’t you get your GED or something?”
“I’m not talking about high school. I want to be an aesthetician.”
“Really?” I knew she liked taking care of herself, but other people?
“Yes, Jo. I give Mom and Amy facials all time.”
That was . . . surprising. And a paper cut to my insides. Part of me had always suspected that the three of them celebrated when I was gone, like Finally we can be happy without Jo spoiling our fun!
“You’re always running,” Meg said, correctly interpreting my Why don’t I know about this? expression. The implication was that I fled screaming while she chased me with a spray bottle and hot towels, when in fact no one had ever asked me if I wanted a facial. (Whatever that was.) Probably I would have said no, because it sounded like a waste of time and money and I didn’t trust Meg to poke around my face, but that didn’t keep me from feeling left out.
“Not that you care, but it’s not going to happen now anyway.”
“Because you got in trouble?”
This earned me an eye roll. “Yes, Jo. The most important qualification for doing pore extractions is your disciplinary record from high school.”
“Is it . . . really expensive?” And was that why Meg had started stealing?
“It takes a thousand hours to get certified.” She stared into my eyes, apparently waiting for my head to crack like an egg from the shock. I could tell this revelation had gotten a bigger response in the past, most likely from people named Ashley.
“Out of curiosity, how long do you think that is?” Knowing Meg, she’d assumed a smile and a cute outfit would be enough to get her what she wanted. Anything more demanding might as well be a one-armed hike up Everest, with a piano on her back.
“No one wants a facial from an old crone, okay, Jo? Trust me.”
“And that’s why you bought all that crap?” I was struggling to make the deductive leap from beauty-school wannabe to petty thief.
“I don’t know. Why were you getting busy with Hudson in the middle of the night?”
“Making out with a guy is not the same as stealing your mom’s credit card, sociopath.”
“Whatever, Jo.” She shoved her plate away. “I’m always going to be the bad guy to you because I went out with your precious David. Which is really unfair, considering you were never going to date him.”
“That’s not—you don’t know,” I sputtered, at a loss for how to defend myself.
“Did you even consider how much I hate driving?”
For someone who barely moved, Meg could be extremely hard to keep up with. “What does that have to do with it?”
“He lives right next door to us. And he has a truck. Not a great ride, but better than ours.”
“You went out with David because you needed a chauffeur?”
Meg shrugged. “Ashley thinks he’s nerd-cute.”
“You used him and objectified him? That’s great.”
“Not my fault you missed your chance. This is so typical of you, Jo.”
I shook my head like I disagreed, but inside all I could think was, What chance? And Did I really miss it?
“You complain nonstop, but you don’t have the balls to do anything about it. ‘Poor me, I hate my job.’ Why don’t you just quit if you’re so miserable? It’s the same thing, over and over. Mom lays a guilt trip on you, and you fall right back in line. Just like the book.”
She wouldn’t be saying that if she’d seen me in the car with Hudson. The March girls probably thought a hand job meant embroidering napkins. But I wasn’t going to brag about how far I’d gone with him because (a) it was private and (b) I wasn’t feeling proud, exactly.
Which didn’t mean I was ashamed, like this was the 1800s and I was a fallen woman now that I’d done more than waltz with a dude. Maybe it was because I hadn’t planned to get physical with Hudson, or maybe I was just tired. Whatever the reason, I felt a little flat inside. And I really wanted to wash my hands.
Meg sniffed at my lack of response. “Andrea was right about you.”
“What did she say?” And when had the two of them talked? I’d never noticed Andrea paying particular attention to either of my sisters. It was one of the things I’d liked about her.
Meg’s bottom lip jutted, and I knew I wouldn’t get any more out of her. She’d always been like that: soft on the outside, but incredibly hard to move—like a king-size mattress.
“Well, at least I don’t pretend nothing ever bothers me and then buy a bunch of stupid shit we can’t afford. How is that taking a stand? Look at me, I screwed over my own mother! Oooh, I’m so brave. Now I’m going to mess up this cake!”
“It was my cake!”
“No, it was for all of us!” We were hiss-yelling at each other, not so carried away that we wanted to wake up Mom.
Meg leaned across the table. “I don’t have to share or go without or give things away to a poor family with too many kids.”
“Nobody’s asking you to—”
“We’re poor too! Doesn’t anybody realize that?” She closed her eyes, nostrils flaring. “Mom’s always saying we’re partners in the business, so I gave myself a raise.”
The fact that Mom used the terms salary and allowance interchangeably was a sore point for me, but I refused to be sidetracked. “How is that fair when you do less around here than any of us?”
“I’m the oldest. I have different needs. It’s like when Beth gets to go on that beach vacation.”
“You mean when Jo takes her to the seaside because Beth is dying and they hope it might cure her?”
“Whatever! Can we stop talking about freaking Little Women for one minute!”
It was like we’d switched roles. Or for once we were both reading from the same script. I wasn’t sure I wanted to sympathize with Meg; it felt too much like admitting David was right. Before I could sort out my feelings, she pushed back her chair. I assumed she was about to slither out of the room, but she headed for the refrigerator instead.
“You won’t have to worry about me much longer,” Meg said as she poured herself a giant glass of milk.
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” There had been too many visits from school counselors over the years for me to overlook what health-class videos referred to as “a cry for help.” I pried the glass out of her hand and set it aside. “It’s going to be okay, Meg. You know Mom never stays mad for long.”
Tentatively, like I was netting a butterfly, I wrapped my arms around her.
“Ugh, get off me, Jo.” She elbowed me in the ribs.
Surprise knocked me back a step, despite the lack of force. Meg had always been the weakest of the three of us, due to a combination of being small-boned and never exercising.
“I just want you to know I’m here for you. If you need to talk.”
“Oh brother. You know who you sound like right now? Amy.”
I didn’t know whether she meant the Amy sleeping upstairs or Book Amy, but I was offended either way. “You don’t have to be mean. I’m trying to help you.”
“Then stop acting like such a drama queen. I’m not going to off myself.” She stuck a finger in her mouth, like my concern for her mental health was gag-worthy. “You can keep living that martyr lifestyle. I won’t get in your way.”
“Do martyrs have booty calls?” It would have been a more effective comeback if I hadn’t been talking to an empty kitchen.