She’s right there in front of me, real enough to touch. Not a hallucination. But I can’t shake the image of her in the cafeteria and at the beach bonfire and alone in her room erasing her history with Ben.
“I—what?” I say, feeling slightly dizzy.
I must sway or something, because she comes closer. Her expression changes from annoyed to worried. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I just…I don’t know. That was the weirdest thing—”
“We should go inside,” she says.
“I forgot to eat lunch,” I say as she guides me into the apartment. “And then I rode really fast to get home.”
She helps me over to the couch. “Maybe I should call Mom,” she says.
That snaps me out of my daze. “No, don’t,” I say. “I don’t want her to get worried. I just got a little woozy for a second.”
She sits next to me and takes my hand. “Let me see your eyes,” she says, sounding a little like Mom when she’s in nurse mode.
I can’t remember the last time we were this close physically. Looking at her face is a lot like looking at mine. We have the same warm brown complexion, the same high round cheeks, and the same full pink lips. Somehow, though, those features come together more dramatically on her. She looks like a supermodel. I look like the supermodel’s pretty-but-less-attractive sister.
She turns my face from side to side. I have no idea what she’s looking for.
We’ve never been the best-friends-forever kind of sisters, but we used to be closer than we are now. She honed most of her makeup skills by practicing on my face. I used to supply her with new romances to read （she loves them almost as much as I did） and bands to listen to. Back when I was still dating Dwayne—my first and only boyfriend—we even went on a couple of double dates.
She squeezes my hand and looks like she’s about to say something, but Ben interrupts. “Yo, D, I gotta go. I have that thing.”
Is that thing cheating on my sister with your ex-girlfriend? I want to ask. Which is a ridiculous thing to want to ask, because he hasn’t cheated on her. At least, I don’t know if he has.
I pull my hand from Danica’s and stand up. “I’m really fine.”
She skips over to him and they slip out the door together.
I lean back into the couch cushions and rub my temples, still freaked out. Was it a hallucination? Can you get those from being too hungry and too tired and too emotional? Or maybe it was one of those vivid dreams you get sometimes just as you’re waking up?
I’ve always had a good imagination, but that was more than good. It was cinematic.
My stomach reminds me that I’m hungry.
Danica comes into the kitchen just as I’m about to eat one of the brownies.
“If you want, some of us are going to the beach tonight for a bonfire,” she says.
I almost drop the brownie. “You’re going to the beach tonight?” The image of her stumbling through the sand looking for Ben and then finding him with someone else flashes through my mind. “Is Ben going with you?” I ask.
“Of course.” She narrows her eyes at me. “What’s the matter? Oh, let me guess, you don’t like him.”
“I didn’t say that—”
“But that’s what you mean.”
That’s not at all what I meant, but I don’t know how to explain what I did mean. How do I tell her I had a strange vision and I’m afraid she’s going to get her heart broken tonight?
“Whatever,” she says. She spins away from me and takes off upstairs.
* * *
——
Later that night, I’m lying on the couch with my laptop and communing with the course catalog for NYU （New York University, where I’m going to college in the fall） when Danica walks into the apartment. Her mascara is smudged, like she’s been crying.
I close my laptop and sit up. “What’s wrong?” I ask, even though I have an awful, creeping feeling that I already know.
“Nothing,” she says, and heads straight for the stairs.
I follow her up to her room. “Can I come in?”
“I guess,” she says. It’s not exactly a welcome, but at least she didn’t tell me to go away.
I haven’t been in her room much since we moved to this apartment. It looks like her old one, just smaller. The walls are almost completely covered with vintage magazine covers and photos of her and her friends. At our house, her walls were purple, but since this is a rental we have to leave the walls white. The rest of the room is artfully messy. Bits of fabric and sketchbooks filled with her fashion designs are everywhere. Her crafting desk is cluttered with sketches and spools of thread and drawing supplies. The sewing machine is half-covered by fabric. The only thing not covered with other things is her vanity. It’s one of those old-school ones with a huge circular mirror surrounded by clear round bulbs.