The Storm

7

Exulansis.

Exulansis is defined as the tendency to give up on talking about experiences because people are unable to relate to it. I was beginning to reach this point. A point where I wanted to simply stop talking about my problems and thoughts, especially to my mother and sister. They try to understand — and I greatly appreciate it — but they could never really understand what I go through.

That evening, Mama was thrilled to be meeting Ricky and Amy at dinner. Things like this didn't happen often. Not for me, anyways. Riley was the social one. She'd invite her entire team for a banquet at the end of every season, and I'd isolate myself in the sunroom of our old home with a tall stack of books and headphones until they were all gone.

This time, I didn't have that option.

Mama spent hours rummaging through my closet to make sure that I looked my best for our guests. She enjoyed moments like these. She liked to dress us up, like life-sized American Girl dolls, whenever she could. Whether it be for church or a holiday, or even just a simple get together that involved people from outside of our household. Of course, I already had a tendency to dress like your average well-dressed, teenaged introvert — large sweaters, skinny jeans and the variety of converse and flats — and Mama was always satisfied with my appearance. Of course, I was expected to trade my jeans for a pleated skirt. Naturally, I complied. 

Riley, on the other hand, was a different story.

She wore only athletic apparel, much to Mama's dismay. Spandex and Nike's were more than prominent in her closet. We were all gathered in Riley's bedroom as Mama searched for anything that my sister could wear for the dinner.

"Mom, we shouldn't have to dress up for this," Riley protested. "It's not that big of a deal. It's just a dinner with our friends."

"Riley Faith Campbell," Mama warned, "you hush now. I want you looking your best." When she found absolutely nothing useful in my sister's closet, she grabbed Riley by the hand and yanked her off of the bed. "I know just what you need," she declared excitedly. She pulled my sister out of the room, and I followed out of curiosity.

"Mom, no!" I heard Riley cry out from Mama's bedroom. When I peeked into the room, I had to clamp my hand over my mouth to suppress any laughter. Mama was holding out a frilly dress — pastel yellow, strapless, skin-tight. "There's no way I'm wearing that!"

"Oh, come on, Riley!" Mama begged. "It would look so pretty on you! Do this for me, Riles, will you?" My sister huffed and gave in to our mother's whining. Mama grinned and clapped her hands excitedly as Riley began stripping herself of her tracksuit, which still stank of sweat. Once Riley was in the dress, Mama ambushed her with a decent number of perfume spritzes. She then grabbed Riley by the arms and moved her so that she was standing in front of a full-length mirror. "Well, now," she smiled, then turned to me. "Doesn't your sister look nice?"

She did. Riley looked incredible, just as beautiful as Mama. I know I say that a lot, but it was true. Both were absolutely drop dead gorgeous. The dress hugged Riley's figure well, vaguely reminding me of a pinup. It  sparked a sudden rush of envy, making my stomach knot itself. Instead of admitting any of this, I said, "She looks like a baby prostitute. Better yet, you look like Ana Chappelle."

"Oh, gag me," Riley groaned. "I'd much sooner lose my right hand than want to look like that sl—"

"Girls!" Mama scolded, but she looked at Riley in the mirror again. "Maybe your sister is right. It does look a little... promiscuous... We can fix that, sure ​enough. All you need is a nice pair of shoes and a fine necklace. That's all." She rummaged through her closet and pulled out a pair of white stilettos. I suppose that was a benefit of having Mama. There was nothing that she didn't have the perfect outfit for.