Page 171 of Rock Bottom Girl

I needed a sign. A big, bright neon sign telling me what to do.

73

Marley

Zinnia arrived in a cloud of Chanel No. 5, a smart pencil skirt, and a black cashmere turtleneck carting matching luggage. Her luxury SUV ate up my parents’ entire driveway. And her three kids bolted from it as if it were on fire. They were still in their school uniforms. Even her youngest, Rose, who was four, went to a fancy private day care that taught its charges how to count in Spanish, French, and German.

At eight, Edith was the oldest. She was the violin maestro. Maestra? Chandler was the middle child and only boy. From what I could gather, he was much more interested in being a normal kid with video games and junk food than a future Ivy Leaguer.

My parents charged forward, wrapping their grandchildren in too-tight hugs, planting too many kisses on their faces.

I bypassed the fray and hugged Zinnia, who was unloading the kids’ Louis Vuitton from the hatch.

“Where’s Ralph?” I asked, peering in the SUV expecting to see Zinnia’s husband on a conference call in the passenger seat. He spent a lot of time excusing himself from our family to take important calls.

Zinnia dropped a child-size backpack on the ground. “He couldn’t get away,” she said, busying herself by arranging the kids’ fancy, healthy snacks in the insulated picnic basket she carted everywhere.

Have hummus, will travel.

She paused and gave me the once-over. I knew it was stupid and childish. But I’d made an extra effort with my appearance tonight. I didn’t want to feel like a wallflower next to my gorgeous, exotic, educated sister. I didn’t want to just fade into the background.

I’d styled my hair in loose waves around my face and watched four YouTube makeup tutorials before I attempted my first smoky eye. I didn’t want her to know that I was trying. So I’d gone with nicely fitted jeans and a boatneck evergreen sweater.

“You look great,” she said finally.

I squealed internally at the compliment. It didn’t sound like it came from a place of pity.

“Thanks. Will he be here for Thanksgiving?” I asked, hefting two kid-sized suitcases.

She reached up and pressed the button to close the hatch. “I’m not sure. He’s really very busy.” I knew that tone. The professional, apologetic sound of it. I dropped the subject.

“Mom! Grandma said we can have spaghetti for dinner,” Chandler yelled from the front yard.

“Isn’t that lovely?” Zinnia said in the same tone. I could practically hear her rearranging her children’s macros to account for the extra carbs. “Then maybe I can make our famous zucchini noodles,” she said with forced cheer.

I watched my parents hug Zinnia and welcome her into the house. No matter how old we were or how successful or important we were, Mom and Dad welcomed us home like we were queens. It was something I could always count on.

* * *

“Zinnia,I’m so excited you came early,” Mom said, pouring another glass of wine while my sister spiralized the crap out of an organic zucchini.

I gave the sauce another stir and sipped from my own glass.

“You can go to Marley’s game tomorrow,” Dad chirped.

Zinnia looked a little shell-shocked.

“Oh, uh. You don’t have to go to the game. It’s cold. And pretty far away.”

I was far more confident than I’d been this summer. However, that didn’t mean I was ready for Zinnia to examine my meager successes that paled in comparison to her own. I was always afraid that she would dole out pity congratulations. It would ruin what tenuous sisterly bond we shared.

Ten minutes in her presence, and I could already feel my self-esteem chipping away.

“I’d love to go,” Zinnia said, smiling over her perfect vegetable noodles. I had a pot of boiling water ready to go for actual pasta just in case zucchini noodles tasted like garbage.

“I’ll see if Mrs. Lauver can stay with the kids. You can ride with Dad and me,” Mom said, clapping her hands together.

It was our second game in districts. We’d made it through the first round with a nail-biting yet satisfying win over the Huntersburg Bees, who had murdered us earlier in the season. The quarter-final game was tomorrow. I’d already been nervous. But knowing the perfect Zinnia would be watching from the stands was more terrifying than if my entire fan section was made up of Coach Vince, Amie Jo, and Lisabeth with throwing knives.