Page 60 of The Favorite Sister

Stephanie reaches for an olive. At a slow, thunderous volume, she repeats herself, “I said, she’s beenraisedso well.”

Kelly purses her lips, disbelievingly. I’m pretty sure Steph saidtrained—not raised—too.

“What are you drinking?” Steph helps herself to a sip of my wine. “Mmm.” She rubs her lips together. She points at it and barks at the waiter stationed in the corner, “Get me a glass of that.”

Stephanie reaches for a piece of naan. Instead of tearing off a bite-sized piece, she folds it and shoves the whole thing into her mouth like a taco. “Mmm,” she says. “Thank you for not eating carbs, Laur. This isheavenly.” She reaches for another piece of naan, though her jaw is still working like a baseball player’s on chewing tobacco.

“I eat carbs,” Lauren protests with a laugh.

Stephanie spells out, “L.O.L.” I can see all the food in her mouth when she pronounces the “O.” She glances around the table, her eyes wide and unfocused, herbs tacked to the thick coat of gloss on her lips. “How was everybody’sday?”

The question is mockingly curious, clearly not meant to be answered, and we fall silent, unsure of how to handle this Joan Crawford–shellacked Stephanie before us.

I clear my throat and take a stab. “Well. Lauren and I rode the new bikes down to the Jewish—”

Stephanie interrupts me. “Lauren partook inphysicalactivity that was not—?” She glances at Layla, clasps her lower lip in her teeth and performs a slow, sexy body roll, crooning, throatily, “Bow-chick-a-wow-wow.”

I open my mouth to object. Stephanie shoots me a look that makes me close it.

“Subtle,” Kelly snaps.

“This is an adult trip,” Stephanie says, matter-of-factly. “If you didn’t want your daughter exposed to adult language, you shouldn’t have brought her.”

Layla looks fairly heartbroken. I reach for her hand on the floor.

“I’m glad you’re here, little mama.” Lauren winks at Layla. Lauren may be a drunk pitbull but at least she’s kind to kids. Turning to Stephanie, she responds, “And for your information, I don’t mind partaking in physical activity when the piece of equipment is, like, the Hermés bag of the fitness world.”

“What a ringing endorsement!” Stephanie cries, her tone swinging from nasty to bubbly faster than I can think,how many milligrams is she on?The waiter returns with her wine. “Sir,” she addresses him formally as he sets the glass in front of her, “could you go into thebasement or storage unit or mummy tomb or whatever and look for our bikes? You’ll know they’re our bikes because they’re SPOKE bikes. They are the most beautiful bikes in the whole wide world. They came in first place at the Omaha county bike beauty pageant in ’09. They beat out Christy Nicklebocker and she motorboated all of the judges, including the three-hundred-and-seven-pound church lady who is related to her through marriage.”

The waiter turns to me, dumbstruck. “Madam?” he asks.

Everyone is looking at me, waiting for me to do something, to say something. “Just a joke.” I laugh haltingly to the waiter, offering him the plate of food Layla put together for Stephanie and Lauren, so that he has an excuse to take it and leave the table. I have to keep nodding at him as he backs away,you can go, it’s okay.

“I’ll make sure you’re the first to ride one tomorrow,” I say to Stephanie, desperate to placate her.Just hold out on going completely crazy until the trip is over. “When we get to Aguergour.”

“When we get to A-grrr-gorrrr,” Stephanie repeats with ridiculing concentration. “A-grrr-gorrrr.”

“Yeah,” I say, pretending like she isn’t making fun of me. “It’ll be better anyway. We’ll have more room to see what the bikes can really do in the country.”

Layla sighs longingly, turning to my sister with big, pleading eyes. “If I promise to stay under a certain speed limit, can I try them?”

“Layla,” Kelly says in her scary mom voice, “what did I say?”

Stephanie works a back molar with her tongue, dislodging a lump of wet food, her eyes darting from Layla to Kelly, Layla to Kelly. “My mother never let me do anything either,” she says, her gaze settling on Layla.

“Excuse me,” Kelly laughs, testily, “but she is in Morocco.”

Stephanie rises to all fours, trying to untangle her legs from her caftan to get into a more comfortable position, but for a moment, I think she might spring across the table and attack Layla. “I hid everything from her,” Stephanie continues, leering at Layla likea lecherous old man. “You’ll learn how to do it too. You’ll have to because your mother will never truly understand what life is like for you. You’ll become little negro Nancy Drew.” She giggles, queerly. “I should do a children’s series. Negro Nancy Drew.”

“Hey!” I say, more startled than angry. I have never heard that kind of language from Stephanie before.

“Don’t use that word about my daughter,” Kelly says, voice quivering with indignation.

Layla grumbles, looking absolutely humiliated. “Mom.”

Stephanie only laughs. “You don’t get to tell me anything about that word, Miss Teen Mom.”

I gesture desperately at the riad’s butler, who has been waiting on the sidelines for a moment to intervene.Now is the time, the wave of my hand says.Now. Now. Now.