Then I Met My Sister by Christine Hurley Deriso

the recliner, swiveling in Dad’s direction. His eyes stay glued on the computer screen for another moment or two, but I guess it’s pretty hard to concentrate when someone is staring at the back of your head, so he slowly turns to face me.
    “Hi,” I say.
    His hand bobs in the air. “Hi.”
    “Can you tell me something?” I ask.
    “Sure.”
    “Tell me something about Shannon.”
    His green eyes crinkle. “Something about Shannon …”
    “Right. Something I don’t already know.”
    To my astonishment, he doesn’t stall. Instead, he peers skyward, taps his chin, and says, “Hmmmm … something you don’t already know …”
    “Right,” I say.
    He smiles. “I used to call her Kerfluffle.”
    I smile to mask a stab of envy. Dad’s never had a nickname for me.
    “Where did that come from?” I ask, trying to sound breezy.
    He shakes his head, still smiling. “Who knows. I remember I lost her in the park once—well, I thought she was lost, but actually she was hiding—and I was dashing around calling, ‘Shannon! Shannon!’ Finally, I called, ‘Kerfluffle!’ and she popped her head out from behind a tree and said, ‘That’s the name I was waiting to hear!’”
We laugh lightly.
    “She used to make me play Barbies with her,” Dad continues, his eyes soft. “She’d have some dialogue worked out in her head, and she’d get frustrated when I didn’t follow the script. She’d say, ‘Where do you want to go today, Ken?’ and I’d say, ‘The movies?’ She’d whisper, ‘The mall.’ Like we couldn’t have Barbie and Ken overhearing the stage directions. So I’d say, ‘The mall sounds good.’”
    My smile is genuine now. Dad looks ten years younger.
    “Did you and Shannon ever go to the mall together?” I ask.
    He wrinkles his nose. “I wasn’t much for shopping. That was something she and Mom would do together, like you and Mom do … well, like you and Mom would do, if you liked shopping. I guess you take after me, that way.”
    I lean closer and settle my chin on my hand. “How did Shannon take after you?”
    He peers past me. “In no way whatsoever. She was everything I wasn’t: bubbly, extroverted, witty, talented …” He clears his throat. “Of course, you’re all those things, too,” he says.
    My back arches and I fold my arms across my chest. “You don’t have to say that.” I sound icier than I’d intended. Oh God. I sound like Mom.
    Dad stares at his fingers. Dammit . I actually had him talking and now he’s shutting down.
    “Chinese, anyone?”
    Dad and I look up, alarmed. Mom has just breezed into the room without us noticing.
    “I picked up moo goo gai pan on my way home from work,” she says, rifling through the mail. “It’s in the kitchen.”
    Dad looks at me apologetically. He knows I want him to keep talking, but he’s so damned relieved he doesn’t have to.
    Mom looks up from the mail to survey my jeans and T-shirt. “You went to work dressed that way?” she asks, curling her lip.
    “She looks fine,” Dad says, surprising both Mom and me.
    Mom raises an eyebrow at him, then turns her attention back to me. “I talked to Ms. Beacham today.”
    “Mmmmmm.”
    “Your counselor,” Mom qualifies.
    I don’t say anything, but I guess my expression says duh, because Mom turns snappish.
    “Don’t have that attitude with me, young lady.”
    I contain the urge to roll my eyes as she pauses to let the words sink in.
    “ Anyway ,” she finally continues, “I called her because your SAT scores were in my email this morning.”
    I furrow my brow. “ Your email?”
    “Yes, my email, Summer. It’s my test, after all. I paid for it.”
    “Well, how did you do?”
    Even Dad chuckles slightly at that one, but Mom’s withering glance stops him cold.
    “Actually, you did quite wonderfully,” Mom says, but her tone is accusatory. “You scored in the seventieth percentile nationwide in math, which you’re always claiming is your worst subject. And the