Where We Stand

6 | Where We Stand

Chapter 6

My hideout is a huge plastic pipe painted in rainbow colors. I'm alone in the children's playground across Hawkings Street, drenched in rain. My breaths come out in little blooms of fog and my fingers can't stop shaking but anything is better than going back home. I sit in my hideout until the rain ceases, until my shaking stops and my breathing evens out. Three times I exhale and then I wipe my tears away and call one of my favorite people in the world, one who is a continent away, in King's College, studying Business Management and well on her way to becoming a corporate magnate.

"Hello, my little sister," Laila says. "Hey, hold on." There's a shuffling of feet and then—"I'LL GUT YOU, YOU SCURVY MONGREL!"

Laila lets out a warrior's cry before I hear what sounds like an epic sword fight. I'm pretty sure the insult wasn't aimed at me. God, I miss her. I don't even bat an eyelid when the clashing of swords turns a notch higher and the insults become more ridiculous. Only my sister would be crazy enough to get her own version of Pirates of the Caribbean.

"Sorry," she says into the speaker when she's back on the line. "So what's up?"

"What are you now, a pirate?"

"Ethan got me into fencing! The classes are so much fun. I had to learn footwork and techniques and all these French terms like allez, coulé and flèche."

I'm pretty sure fencing isn't supposed to be as noisy as what I heard on the line but I digress. "When did you start?"

"This semester. Did you know there are three types of fencing weapons?"

I start to shake my head before I realize how stupid I look because she can't see me. "I know the foil is among them."

"Yep," Laila says, popping the p sound. "Foil, epee and sabre."

"Uh-huh. And who is this Ethan guy? You never mentioned him before. Wait, let me guess, he's—"

"Hot, young and rich!" we say at the same time.

I'd like to say Laila's association with hot, young and rich guys is based exclusively on luck but the truth is that girl has some wicked social talent.

"Here's a little advice, Sunshine," she has told me many times. "To get rich, you have to hang out with the millionaires. Influence is power."

And she has lived by that one little advice all her life, followed it reverently, perhaps the only trait inherited from our mother. I think of all the times she has dragged me to the sports club, trying (in vain) to teach me how to play tennis but all I succeeded at was hitting the trees beyond the court. She tried to get me into sailing too and golfing and the charity galas, the art galleries and the business conferences. Slowly, day by day, she weaved her own network, forged it from her fiery ambition, her sweet charm and her genial smile. Her friends became my friends because I was her sister and influence is power.

I've gained many favors through her connections. Like free coffee at ChocoBelle simply because my sister worked there during her senior year and that made me part of the ChocoBelle family by default. A one-year discounted membership at the yacht club courtesy of Laila being the emcee for the yearly tournament. Monthly free pedicures at the beauty spa because Mrs. Marsh, the owner, insists Laila saved her love life when she helped change her wardrobe style. A two-day stay at the resort in the mountains. A photography internship in a college. A thrilling night at some VIP club in London when I went over to my sister's over the holidays.

"I miss you," I tell her now.

"Hmph! You only miss my trademark vanilla cookies."

I've long admired my sister for being an "exuberant experimentalist" (her words, not mine) in the kitchen but she has a long history of overly spicy soup, shriveled donuts, burnt bread, cracked brownies and bland sandwiches. Once she made flapjacks and added mixed berries but the result was as Dad had unabashedly put it, akin to bird poop in appearance. Her famous vanilla cookies always turn out flat and as hard as a rock though they are oddly delicious.

"Not as much as I miss you."

"Whatever. You eat anything."

"Says the girl who ate an ant in twelfth grade out of a dare." I'm surprised by the soft chuckle that splits free of my mouth, like a weight has been lifted off my shoulders.

Laila makes some gagging sounds. "Don't even remind me. That goes down the list of It-Did-Not-Happen."

"I seem to remember you went through that Star Wars phase during that same year. You know, I still don't get what's so fascinating about Leia. Didn't you used to wear frisbees on your head just to get that crazy hairdo? And let's not forget that Me Yoda T-shirt."

"Shut up, Nana." Laila sighs. Aside from Dad and Megan, she's the only one authorized to call me by my embarrassing nickname. It's not flattering being called a granny when you're barely eighteen. "You're kidding right? Leia's a femme fatale, a princess, a leader and a feminist. What part of that doesn't sound badass?"

"You're such a closet geek."

"You're such a weirdo with your serial killer walls and hippie clothes."

In my room, the widest wall is dedicated to my photographs. I'd plastered a map of our area and above it, pinned scenic prints, vibrant portraits, night photos and various phrases and quotes I'd collected over the years.

"It's more like the Wall of Inspiration," I say, "and don't make me tell Dad about your skimpy collection."

"Fine. You win, traitor," Laila replies.

We stop talking and some part of me remembers that I can't hide here forever. Thinking of home brings back flashes of the argument I had with Mom. My hand closes into a fist, nails biting into my palm.

You look...filthy.

"You okay?" Laila asks, a note of concern in her voice.

I want to tell her about the argument but the thought of reliving it makes me feel sick. She will tell Dad about what happened and then our parents would go through a fight, widening the rift between them. I'd never want that for my family. So I swallow the hurt and the sadness, bury it deep within me like a puddle of goo stuffed into a bottle.

"Yeah, I'm fine," I say. "Actually, I got myself into a tiny bit of trouble."

"The last time you said, "tiny bit of trouble", it was earthshattering, gargantuan, tumultuous—"

"Community service."

"Huh? Is that some new code for you kids?"

I snort. "No, you octogenarian. I have to do community service because of some stupid prank at school."

My sister laughs her witchy laugh which she only does when she's either goading or being evil. "Tell me all about it."

And so I do. Each revelation unties a knot deep within my chest, freeing me little by little from the clutches of my misery. I tell her about the rats and the mass panic. Laila thinks, to my horror, it's ingenious. I tell her about Charlotte and the unfair accusation, the meeting with Mrs. Davis, Carlos' apology on my balcony and my industrious cleaning session in Block B-13. When she asks about Mom's reaction, I tell her I got the usual scolding. She doesn't sound convinced so I distract her by challenging her to guess the activities I am to undertake. She guesses the second community service without trouble but I refuse to reveal the rest of the activities.

"Just you wait," she says with determination. "You'll owe me a lifetime of Oreos when I get the others right."

"Only if you get them all right."

"Challenge accepted!"

"Don't you dare team up with Megan on this. If I find out you two are in cohorts, I'll have you flogged in public."

Laila's response is another witchy laugh.

The playground has grown darker, the shadows from the trees much longer. Thick tufts of clouds mask the sun but I know night will fall soon. I crawl out of my hiding spot, say hasty goodbyes to my sister and disconnect the line. As I leave the playground, I feel a sense of lightness settle over me.

Tomorrow will bring hope and possibilities. 

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A little late but here's a new update! It's unedited since it's 2am and the mosquitoes are terrorizing me so I will have it checked tomorrow. Thank you so much for your support in the last chapter <3