After my fun filled Friday of drinking alone and thoroughly dominating the remote control, Saturday involved a short road trip with one sister to visit the other in college.
I picked up Katsisch and forced her to listen to "Dirty Diana" on repeat, intent on teaching her all the lyrics by the end of the ninety minute car ride because the last time I saw Yellavitch she didn't believe me that it was an actual song, and I was committed to making Yellavitch feel stupid for not knowing something.
My sisters are like, Crazy Brilliant. To a grand, beleaguering degree. And then, no matter the topic, our conversations are never light or respectful. Whatever we say to each other is dubious and corrupt, and everyone is stupid. And sneaky. We weren't sisters that confided in each other. In general, we're not the type of people that really confide in anyone, and probably because as sisters, we're full of nothing but ridicule and fierce reactions. Because none of us trust anyone, let alone each other.
In comparison to the two of them, who are both younger than me, I'm the sweet, simple sister. I have no idea what kind of crafty-person savage-logic is twisting around in their heads.
For example, take this brutal conversation:
I walk up to Yellavitch. "I like your hair."
She squints suspiciously. "Why do you all of a sudden care about my hair?"
"I just like it today." I shrug and smile.
The air feels fuzzy, like someone just turned up the volume on everything: the wind, cars driving down outside, the click of the zipper on my sweatshirt. My sister's voice. "You have never given a shit about my hair before," she laughs in that haughty, aggressive way that always pisses me off. "What the hell do you want?"
Sigh. "I want you to know I like your hair."
"Do you realize that if the only compliments you ever pay to me are in regards to my appearance, I'm going to associate positive reactions with my looks and looks alone?"
Stormclouds are swiftly gathering in the distance through the window, and I can't help feeling like she's making it happen with her brain.
She's all snide and coiled. "Why couldn't you say, 'I like how you're speaking today, your rhetoric is exceptional?' Would it be so hard," she swoops her arm for effect, and the wind groans against the door and my mind is panicky, because now I am convinced that my sister is like a fucking Weather Witch, "to stop conforming to the compliments that are properly prescribed by society and instead focus on aspects of me that are far more important than my fucking hair?" Thunder. Wind. Clouds. Thunder. Zipper. Clacking. She points. "See? It's people like you--you are the reason we place so much--"
"You know what?" I interrupt before she can lay some crazy weather curse on me. "Fuck your fucking hair. You should just give up and shave it all off, because you look like the back end of a shitting goat." Inner thought process as I turn and leave the room: Crap, I should have said Teen Wolf. DAMMIT. Say it anyway. Say it. SAY IT. So I smuggly turn, and add, "Or Teen Wolf." And then I turn back around, because I'm proud of myself.
"WHAT? Oh my god, that makes no sense whatsoever. That would have been so much better of an insult if you hadn't said that," Yellavitch laughs, like this is the most triumphant moment of her life. More lightening. Thunder. "You really can't do anything right."
And that is what it's like being around me and my sisters. Always. So yes, when I know my sister is wrong about "Dirty Diana," because it's an allegoric precurser to Almost Famous, I am pointing it out and digging in with all the firepower I have.
And by "firepower" I mean "my other sister."