Page 53 of The Favorite Sister

A few months after I heard my first voice, I did pay to run a background check on her. At seventeen, I did gather the courage to drive my baby blue BMW to my biological mother’s residence in a banal middle-class suburb of Philadelphia. As I parked my car across the street from the townhome where my mother lived with mygrandmother, on a circle preposterously named Kensington Court, a boy about my age happened to be walking by my window. He looked like he had just come from some sort of sports practice, the smell of grass and dirt and sweat clinging to him, alluringly. I was quick to call out to him.

The boy stopped. He looked at my car, eyebrows cocked in appreciation, before registering me and doubling back in surprise. I don’t think he expected to find someone like me behind the wheel.

“I’m looking for somebody,” I said. I read my mother’s name, written in blue pen at the top of the MapQuest webpage printout. I’m prehistoric, remember.

The boy made an indeterminable face. He had pretty, curled eyelashes and a strong jaw; the combination of hard and soft was extremely appealing. There were no boys like him in the magazines my friends and I read, but if there were, I would have cut out his picture and taped it to the wall, over the tear of Leonardo DiCaprio dragging down his lower lip with his thumb. I never got the Leo lust, but as a matter of survival, I performed it.

“I have her address as fifty-four Kensington Court. But this is Kensington Court and there is no fifty-four.”

“This is Kensington Square,” the boy explained. “Kensington Court is over there.” He pointed.

“That’s confusing!” I laughed. He wassocute. “Thanks.” I started to roll up my window, but he took a step forward, motioning for me to lower it again.

“Wait,” he said. “That woman you’re looking for? Sheila Lott?”

I nodded.

“You know she killed herself, right?”

My vision went spotty. I gripped the steering wheel tighter, like the stress balls they give you when you donate blood. “When?” I managed, thunderstruck.

“Few months ago.” He shrugged, like the specifics weren’t important. “Something like that.”

“Do you, um... do you know why?”

He actually laughed a little. “Who knows. She was a little, you know...” He wound his finger next to his ear. Like Vince would later do whenever I asked him why he took his phone into the bathroom with him to shower.Stop being crazy, he’d laugh.

“Got it,” I said, weakly. “Thank you.” I pressed the gas pedal and the engine blustered. I’d forgotten that I was still in park. I yanked the gear stick intoget the fuck out of hereand lowered my foot.

And so that perfectly average and helpful boy, who was admittedly a little insensitive in his language around suicide, became A.J., even though he never laid a hand on me. Even though I never saw him again.

Vince snatches my wrist and draws me close. “I can destroy you if I want,” he says, not very loudly, but the cavernous Air France departures terminal amplifies the threat. His eyes dart over my shoulder, bulging, and he releases me at once. I turn to see Brett, Kelly, and a girl with Didi braids rolling some truly disgraceful nylon luggage our way. Lisa and Marc trail a few steps behind, Marc gripping the little handheld camera by the stabilizer like a pitchfork.

“Bonjour!” Brett does a little skip. “Bonjour, amis et—” She stops with a gasp when she gets close enough to see my splotchy face. “Steph. Are you okay?”

I wipe my wet chin on my shoulder. “I’m fine.”

“Youlookfine,” she laughs, because she can never be fucking serious, not even when itisserious.

“Stay the fuck out of it, Brett,” Vince snarls. “You’ll regret it if you don’t.”

Lisa gasps, positively delighted.

Brett lowers her head and presses her lips together, which is smart. Cowardly, but smart. Kelly steps in front of Layla like a soundproof shield, as though Brett Courtney’s niece has never heard anyone say “fuck” before.

“Well,” Vince says, with demented cheer, “have amagicaltrip, everyone!”He takes off, my suitcase clattering smoothly behind him, his knuckles white on the handle.

“Nice guy,” Brett quips, but there is a wobble in her voice. I feel queasy when I look at Lisa and find her studying Brett with ruthless curiosity.Does she suspect?

Brett turns to Layla and forces a smile. “We should get in line to check in, Layls.”

I gesture to the sign before us that says “Air France First-Class Check-In.” “We are in line to check in.”

“Layla and I are flying coach,” Brett says, chest puffed. She directs a quick, sanctimonious glance Kelly’s way.

“We’re donating the difference in a first-class ticket to the Imazighen women,” Layla says. The little do-gooding bitch extends her hand. “We’ve met before but I’m not sure if you remember me. I’m Layla. I’m a big fan of your work.”

Oh! Howadorablycreepy. How scientifically miraculous! I did not know that doctors had succeeded in transplanting the brains of thirty-year-old women into the skulls of twelve-year-old children. I take this Girl Boss Borg’s hand with unease, finding some comfort in the fact that next to her leggy niece, Brett looks like Shrek with nicer hair. Layla is tall and thin, yes, but this—this?—is the “runway model” I’ve been hearing about for the last few months? She has a fresh whitehead on her chin and an old angry one on her cheek and not a stitch of makeup to soften the blow. And for this, she gets to hear she is beautiful. Get me a cane to shake grouchily into the air, because in my day, not even actually being beautiful was enough.

I squeeze Layla’s hand until she grimaces, thinking,You have no idea about pain, girly. You have no idea what I’ve been through to get here You don’t want to know what I’ll do to stay.