Sisters in the Wind(35)
* * *
I’d been with the Sterlings for a month before noticing the extra attention that Steven, the other Sterling sibling, paid to me. Or, rather, to my chest. Steven was a high school senior, and I guessed he was also what Devery would’ve called a “horndog.”
I’d laughed when she’d first used the descriptor. She’d been so nonchalant about it. There were horndogs everywhere, according to Devery.
But the boys in high school who looked at my chest didn’t stare the way Steven Sterling did. They were curious and furtive. They’d at least feign embarrassment if I caught them in the act. Steven glared at my breasts as if their fullness made him angry.
Avoiding Steven was my first line of defense.
I paused before entering any space where he might be. Closing my eyes, I’d listen for clues to determine who was present. My ears became as finely tuned as antennae. I learned how each member of the Sterling family breathed and moved. Mrs. Sterling took measured ballerina steps when her husband was home; her stride was longer in his absence. Steven breathed deeply through his nose, as if always seething about something.
My sense of smell also improved when I closed my eyes. I detected Mr. Sterling’s leather-and-patchouli aftershave and his evening cigar even before he lit it. Stacy smelled of strawberry shampoo and crayons that lingered like nicotine on a smoker’s fingertips. Steven wore a body spray that did little to mask his odor of bleach and boiling cabbages.
Unfortunately, my second and third defense strategies relied upon others. A significant design flaw, I would come to learn. Plans that depended upon other people were unpredictable and inherently risky.
* * *
Stacy Sterling wasn’t someone I wanted to bond with. I missed Devery and Miss Lonnie. My plan was to keep to myself, be polite, and do well in school. I didn’t need another sister.
But Stacy reminded me of my younger self. She was a sweet, obedient kid. She idolized her dad and sought his approval above all others’. There was no mention of friends, from her or her family. The nine-year-old was content to be at home, living in a safe bubble.
Since the elementary and secondary schools were in different wings of the same building, Stacy and I would do homework in the school library while we waited for Steven to finish socializing with friends before he drove us home. The upper half of the library walls were plastered with inspirational posters: motivational quotes, generic anti-bullying banners, celebrities endorsing the power of reading. I didn’t pay much attention to any of them until one day when I happened to glance at Stacy across the table. Above her head, a poster of a sailboat on choppy waters read A SHIP IN A HARBOR IS SAFE, BUT THAT’S NOT WHAT SHIPS ARE BUILT FOR.
Stacy was as unprepared for a world beyond the harbor as I’d been. My dad had focused on keeping me safe. I was sheltered until he wasn’t around anymore. Then I was tossed into a hurricane in a tiny sailboat, without nautical skills or navigational tools.
That evening, after her television time with her mother, I retrieved one of my birthday books and knocked quietly on Stacy’s bedroom door. She startled like a hiccup. Her hazel green eyes widened before she broke into a smile.
“You don’t have to knock. Steven never does.”
“Well, he should. It’s your space.” Even Bridget had knocked, to let me know when our microwaved fettuccine Alfredo was ready. I motioned toward the purple beanbag chair. “May I sit there?”
Giggling, she launched off her bed to sit at my feet. I planned on lending her my copy of A Little Princess by Frances Hodgson Burnett. Her eager expression gave me another idea.
“Would you like me to read a story to you?” I hastily added, “It’s okay if you don’t want me to. Or if you’d rather I just leave the book with you.”
“Please read it!” She practically levitated with excitement.
I opened the well-worn hardcover and grazed my thumb over the title page. The copyright page was opposite and caught my eye.
“This is a story called A Little Princess, and it was published in 1905—”
Stacy interrupted. “A hundred years ago?”
“Yes, exactly,” I said.
A memory surfaced of my dad instructing me to raise my hand if I had a question so he could find a logical place to pause the story.
I told Stacy, “If you have a question, just blurt it out. Okay?”
When she nodded, her chin-length hair swished like yellow fringe.
With that, I began an evening routine. One chapter per night. Stacy didn’t interrupt often, but I would halt instantly and make sure she was satisfied before resuming the story. At the end of the chapter, I asked questions, like my dad had done. What did she think would happen next? How was she similar to Sara Crewe and how were they very different girls?
I also added a question of my own.
“Did Captain Crewe adequately prepare Sara to survive in the world without him?”
* * *
I couldn’t understand why Steven Sterling was popular at the small high school we attended. His sandy-blond hair was buzzed military-style in contrast to the shaggy hairstyles most guys favored. He dressed and acted like a politician, wearing a suit and tie to school each day and shaking hands with fellow students as if they were his constituents. Instead of a backpack, he carried a briefcase. His personality was like day-old oatmeal. His stench—bleach and cabbage soup—was worse after gym, which he had every other day.