Then I Met My Sister

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“Your mom.”

Gibs nods toward the audience and I follow his gaze.

Mom is sitting next to Leah Rollins’ mother in the middle of the packed auditorium. They chat discreetly, leaning toward each other and holding Chapel Heights High School Honors Day programs over their mouths. Mom clings to the fantasy that Leah Rollins and I are still best friends (Leah cut me loose in ninth grade), and is no doubt telling Leah’s mother that we girls just have to get together soon.

As she inspects our eleventh-grade class, seated on the stage for this portion of the program, Mom’s eye catches mine. She waves, her cupped hand held close to her chest as her manicured fingertips flutter.

Gibs has met Mom only a couple of times, but she’s easy to spot in a crowd: trim figure, tailored suit, sleek blond hair, bright blue eyes, fake bronzed tan. At age fifty-seven, she’s older than most of my classmates’ parents, but her high-maintenance grooming habits have served her well. The only thing that makes her look old is her expression. Her eyes are anxious, her smile tight.

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