Katelyn walks calmly upstairs into her bedroom and doesn‟t slam the door. A high school senior with escape to Keene State just around the corner, she‟s too old for sulky flashes of temper. Besides, she‟s not going to Emily the satisfaction of…
She takes the stairs two at a time, back down into the living room, and stands in front of the TV, between Emily and Hannah Montana.
“You couldn‟t take care of it?‟
Emily shrugs. “What?‟ It‟s half-hearted. They’ve had this dance before; Emily must know what‟s coming.
“The laundry, genius.‟
“I forgot.‟
“You forgot.‟ Katelyn shakes her head mournfully, as if scolding a puppy who has left a puddle on the floor. Then her expression hardens. “One thing. All I need you to do is one little thing, and you blow it off for Miley frickin’ Cyrus.‟
“I said I forgot,” Emily says hotly, as if it will sound more convincing a second time, instead of infuriating. “And besides, you’re ruining it.‟ Emily shifts along the couch to see the TV, and Katelyn grabs the remote and clicks off the screen.
Katelyn says, “It’s garbage. You watch garbage; you’re full of garbage.‟ She mimes a microphone with the TV remote. “You wanna be a pop star? You gonna sing a song for me?‟
Emily sniffs, purses her lips. “Why you being so mean?‟
“I need to look right for Carlotta’s, my shift starts in a half-hour, and my clothes are dripping wet. What’s so hard to understand? Are you retarded?”
Emily stands up. She wrinkles her nose, as if there’s a bad smell in the room. “You’re just a waitress,” she says, because she’s nine years old, because she’s not saving for college, because today’s Hannah Montana is a re-run anyway and maybe she’s got the time to rumble.
Katelyn flashes her sister a cold smile, puts her hand on her shoulder. “Emmy. Dear, sweet little Emmy.”
Nine years between them, it’s an empathy-gap way too wide. Katelyn looks down at Emily, in her white blouse and plaid jumper, white knee socks and black Mary Janes. Good as gold, and beyond lame.
Emily looks up, cautiously. “You can‟t do anything to me. I‟ll tell Mom.”
“Little sister,” Katelyn says softly, sickly sweet, “I love you. I would never ‘do anything’ to you.” She pauses, as if weighing up her options. “But you must know that sometimes, just sometimes, I really want to bash your face in.”
Emily‟s eyes fill with tears, on cue; she has a future in daytime soaps, once she loses the braces, once she loses the coating of geek shes soaked in. She whispers, “I’m telling Mom.‟
And she will, no doubt. Too busy watching Hannah Montana to switch a load of laundry from the washer to the dryer; never too busy to snitch on her big, bad sister.