I’ve been writing so much about I bet you think we have a Flowers in the Attic thing going on or something. I’m even beginning to think that. But honestly, I’m just writing about him because he’s a pretty great evil sidekick.
I was home this past weekend, which was fun times for everyone but my other brother Pickle, whom Blara and I terrorized so much that he’ll only interact with us if we are silent and watching a movie. He’s the only normal person in my family.
and Blara talk on the phone for an average of 1 hour a day. They are best friends, and it’s honestly very sweet. In fact, I get a little jealous. I think that likes me too, even though he frequently tells me that I’m an idiot.
Some say is a bona fide genius, and he certainly won’t dispute it. We had a conversation this weekend where he told me that he’s already better than me at everything I’ve ever tried. Then I locked him in the dog’s cage and left the house (I’m kidding Mom…we only did that kind of stuff when he was younger).
He took the train back with me to Manhattan on Saturday, so that he could have lunch with Blara. They had plans to go see the FBI building in lower Manhattan, and then to return home to Chappaqua. I wasn’t invited, because I’m apparently too annoying, but I enjoyed my 45 minutes alone with anyway.
Speaking to is like talking to someone who’s a little bit older than you, very wise, and extremely condescending. We launched into an interesting conversation about high school popularity in the United States vs. the rest of the world. Then we talked about the relative merits and de-merits of Piper Perabo, who he recently got over (teen dream crush). Then we talked about an ex-boyfriend who wouldn’t talk to me (fortunately for me, I have so many of these that no one has any idea who I’m referring to). considered the ways in which we could re-establish contact, and then made this fair point: “I guess it’s too late to pretend like you’re pregnant.”
We arrived to find Blara missing from the rendezvous point, so we went to the food court in Grand Central to grab lunch while we waited for her to arrive. I don’t know where got it from, but he’s the absolute perfect gentleman. I attempted to pay for lunch, which was two slices of pizza at Two Boots, and he held up his hand. “I got it,” he told me, offering the $20 bill my father had given him to the cash register.
Blara finally showed up, almost 45 minutes late. We met her in front of the Magnolia booth. “I want a cupcake before we leave,” I said to , who had already proven himself to be more generous than 80% of the boyfriends I’ve ever had. He reached for his wallet. “You’re too fat for cupcakes!” Blara yelled at me. And then she kicked me in the shins.
We got on the train downtown, which was filled with a Saturday afternoon mish mash of wackadoos. In the corner, a gigantically obese man wearing a doorag was working his way through a bag of pork rinds. We gawked for a while, all three of us, and then launched into a conversation about how Blara could frighten her co-worker, who lives in Staten Island and sincerely believes in vampires.
“Chain her to her desk with handcuffs, and then leave her there for an hour,” offered. “No one will know.”
We got off the train, only to be confronted by a man who looked like a Puerto Rican dressed up like a Native American for a costume party. He held a mirror notebook in front of his face, which he shifted whenever someone tried to look in his eyes, like it was a fan and he was a geisha at a mating ceremony. He shifted nervously up and down the platform, muttering to himself. If I darted back and forth quickly enough, I could catch glimpses of his face, which looked like it had been the victim of a chemical peel gone awry.
“Let’s follow that guy and make him paranoid,” Blara said, and we did, all three of us, laughing our heads off. We darted out behind him onto Canal Street, where we lost him in the crowd.
We continued on our way to the correctional facility in the heart of Chinatown, where I promised we would find the best bubble tea in Manhattan, along with the site where Blara had once stolen two mini turtles out of a fishtank on the street, without breaking a stride, which had resulted in us being chased down the street by a Chinese storeowner.
Along the way, we found a rack of rings for $1, which Blara and I both admired. “I’ll get you each one,” Stuprendan said, pulling out his wallet. “Early birthday present.”
(Note: Stuprendan is flush with cash from his summer job, which was running a soccer camp for my baby sisters and my younger cousin Brian. He line item invoiced my mother every week, and insisted on being paid in cash).
By the time we finally found the Bubble Tea place, on Mott Street, relations between Blara and I had started to disintegrate. “This is why I hate you,” she told me matter of factly as we wove up and down the streets of Chinatown, looking for the storefront, which initially escaped my notice. “You’re a f—ing bitch.”
didn’t say anything. He’s smart, so he knows how to steer clear when Blara and I start fighting. “Your hair looks completely bleached,” I said.
“When I make clothing for you, I have to make it plus-sized because your ass is so big,” she responded.
I have to say, the nice thing about Blara and I is that we can say whatever we want to each other, completely freak other people out, and then be totally normal like 3 minutes later. That’s what sisters are for! Um…
We went inside to pick out our Bubble Tea flavors. At the cash register, again reached for his wallet.
”,” I said, patting his head, finally assuming my role of big sister. “You don’t have to pay for everything.”
“Don’t worry,” he responded. “I’ll invoice Dad for the extra expenses when I get home.”