Amy doesn’t know if she has a sister. She has a mother and a father, a best friend named Leah, and a pink room. Amy loves pink. Every day, she wears something pink to all-day school. Her mom teases her in the mornings by asking which sweater she wants to wear, which pants, which socks. To every question, Amy yells, “Pink! My pink sweater, my pink socks. Pink, pink, pink!” Almost everything she has is pink.

Amy’s father says she has a sister.

“Your sister, Jessie,” he tells Amy, showing her the picture he takes down from the bookcase. A big girl, almost a teenager. In the picture Jessie wears black, no pink, and she doesn’t smile.

Leah says Amy doesn’t have a sister.

“You’re an only child,” she says to Amy, kind of like teasing and kind of like jealous. Leah has sisters out the wazoo, she says. Amy likes the sound of that but she knows she could never say it herself. Wazoo isn’t a polite word, she’s pretty sure.

Leah’s two older sisters talk on the phone all the time and are always nagging Leah’s mom to take them to the mall, and her little twin sisters cry a lot and leave trails of Cheerios all through the house. After a play date at Leah’s, Amy has to agree that maybe she really doesn’t have a sister herself.

Then her dad tells her something she can’t wait to tell Leah.

“My sister,” she says proudly, talking right out loud even though the class is supposed to be working quietly on their math worksheets, “My sister, Jessie, is coming for a visit.”

“Sisters don’t come on visits,” Leah says firmly before the teacher hushes them.

Before the visit, Amy’s mom cleans and moves everything in the house even though most of it she ends up moving right back again. The fourth kitchen chair has been broken forever. It stands at the end of the counter. Old newspapers sit there waiting to be recycled but people never do. Amy’s mom has four new kitchen chairs delivered.

“You could have bought one,” Amy’s dad says, but Amy’s mom says no, she doesn’t want Jessie’s to be different.

Amy’s mother buys new blue and white striped sheets and a bedspread for the sofa bed in the guest room. Besides the sofa bed, the guest room has Amy’s father’s computer and Amy’s father’s exercise bike that he never rides on any more. Amy’s mother’s winter clothes hang on the exercise bike and lie on the sofa bed. Amy’s mother cleans everything up and puts the new blue and white sheets and bedspread on the sofa bed.

“There,” she says. “A nice girl’s room, like yours.”

Amy’s room has pink and white striped sheets and a pink checked bedspread and curtains that match. It has fluffy stuffed animals on the white wicker bed and a fluffy white rug like a pretend bear on the floor. Amy loves to lie on her stomach on her rug-bear and read Curious George all by herself. She keeps Curious George and her other books in a little pink iron bookcase by the door. Amy doesn’t think that the guest room, with its old brown sofa and the computer on the folding table under the window, looks like her room at all.

Amy’s mom and dad argue about who will go to the airport to pick up Jessie.

“We should all go. We should go as a family,” Amy’s dad says.

“She hasn’t seen you in five years. You’ll have the whole ride back together.”

Amy’s father looks unhappy at that. “I’ll take the baby with me, let her see her sister.”

Amy’s stomach does flipflops at the idea of going all the way to the airport and seeing her sister get off a plane. Amy’s wearing her favorite pink seersucker sundress and her new pink sandals and she can picture herself waiting in the crowd at the airport like she’s seen people do on TV, waving flowers as her father lifts her up and her sister walks towards them.

“No,” her mother says. “Amy and I will stay home and get everything ready.”

Everything is ready as far as Amy can see, but her mom walks back and forth through the house, picking things up and putting things down, going to the guest room door over and over again as if she hopes when she looks in this time something will be different.

Amy’s dad comes back from the airport extra loud and cheerful like he is when Amy’s mom is mad at him. He makes so much noise that he almost covers up the spaces where other people aren’t talking.

“Eileen! Amy! We’re home! Jessie’s here!” He’s yelling even though they are right in the living room, waiting. Amy puts down her book right away and goes to look at her sister, but her father is all alone in the hall.

“Here we all are.” Her father opens and shuts the hall closet door a few times even though he doesn’t have anything to hang up. Amy looks out the front door. The car is parked in front of the house and a girl is sitting in the front seat, not moving. She has blonde hair that sticks up all over, and she is looking straight ahead, not at Amy.

After a minute, the girl gets out of the car and gives herself a shake that makes her hair stand up more than ever. She is wearing a black leather jacket, black pants that flare at the bottom, and big black boots with high heels all the way to the toes. She is tall and skinny like a model in a fashion show on TV, and like them she doesn’t smile. She is definitely a teenager. The girl opens the back door of the car and starts tugging at a big black bag.

“I’ll get it. I told you I’d get it,” Amy’s father says, pushing past Amy and heading for the car. “Come on in and say hello to your family. I’ll get your stuff later.”

The girl says nothing but continues to tug at the bag. It plops out onto the sidewalk, arriving just as Amy’s dad does. It barely misses his feet. He hoists it up on his shoulder, pretends to stagger, fooling around. The girl—Jessie, Amy reminds herself—isn’t watching. She walks up the path to the house by herself and comes inside.

“I wanted my stuff,” she says, not looking at Amy or her mom.

Somehow, after a lot more noise from Amy’s dad, and a part where everyone tries not to trip over Jessie’s bag that he’s dumped down in the little front hall, everyone is in the living room. Jessie sits on the couch and Amy sits across from her.

Amy’s dad is standing behind Jessie, looking unhappy because he keeps offering to hang up Jessie’s jacket and she keeps saying no, thank you. She has her hands in the pockets, the collar turned up. She’s huddled on the couch like she’s cold, even though it is June and Amy is perfectly warm in her sundress and her new pink sandals.

Amy’s mom is standing behind Amy, looking unhappy because Jessie doesn’t want a sandwich or a coke or even a glass of water.

“No, thank you,” Jessie keeps saying very quietly. She’s looking straight ahead of her at the glass coffee table that Amy’s mom says she has to dust every day because Amy leaves so many little fingerprints all over it. Amy wonders if Jessie is looking at some fingerprints her mom forgot to wipe off.

“How about some soup?” Amy’s mom says to Jessie. Amy thinks that’s a good idea; Jessie looks cold enough for soup or even for the tea with honey and lemon that Amy only gets when she has a sore throat or a chill. Jessie says no, thank you, again. She just keeps looking at the table.

“You need to get settled in,” Amy’s dad says. “Amy, take your sister upstairs and show her her room. Eileen here fixed it all up for you,” he adds, and Jessie, who has been looking at Amy for the first time, looks back down at the coffee table.

“Why don’t you give me your jacket? I’ll hang it up for you,” he says, following them into the hall, and this time Jessie shrugs it off and hands it to him. She’s wearing a very short shirt that shows the pale middle of her all the way around. She should get a tan, Amy thinks, remembering how evenly brown and pretty her mother is by the end of the summer. As Jessie turns towards her, Amy catches a flash of silver from that white middle.

“Ooooh, look,” she starts to say, but Jessie shoots her a look that shuts her up fast. One of the rules about sisters, she knows from Leah’s house, is not to be a tattletale. Amy’s never had anyone to tell on before. This is her first chance to act like a sister and she takes it, but she thinks Jessie better take that earring out of her bellybutton for the summer or wear longer shirts. Dad is going to notice that pretty fast whether Amy tells or not.

Jessie must think the same thing because as soon as they get up to the guest room she starts digging around in her bag without even looking at the blue and white bedspread or the little vase of flowers Amy’s mom has put on the three-drawer filing cabinet next to the sofa bed.   She pulls out a long black t-shirt, says “excuse me,” and turns her back to Amy. Amy knows it is okay to look at backs, at least the tops of backs, when people are changing. Jessie is wearing a bra with the littlest straps Amy has ever seen. The strap across the back is almost as tiny as the straps that go over her shoulders. The material is black but Amy can see Jessie’s pale skin right through the middle of it.

Jessie turns towards Amy and winces as she pulls her shirt down over her stomach.

“Can’t you take it off?” Amy whispers.

“The ring? No, I just got it done, it has to stay in for a month,” Jessie says. It is the longest thing Amy has heard her say so far. “Don’t tell, okay? Not, um, your dad, or your mom either, okay?”

Amy has never kept a secret from her mother in her whole life except at Christmas, but she promises without any hesitation. “I’m not a tattletale,” she says.

“Good,” Jessie says, and smiles at Amy for the first time, a small, quick, pink smile. Amy smiles back. Now Jessie knows what Amy decided downstairs. They are sisters.

For the next few days, Jessie stays in her room most of the time, lying on the bed with her walkman on her ears. Amy goes in to visit her when her dad tells her to—“Go check on your sister,” he says—or just on her own. She has to go right over to the bed and wave her hand in front of Jessie’s eyes if her eyes are open, or pat her gently when they aren’t.

Hi, Jessie,” she always says, once she has her attention.

“Hi squirt.” Jessie always calls her peanut or squirt, never Amy. Amy doesn’t mind.

She asks Jessie lots of questions. If the questions are interesting, Jessie will talk to her for a while. If they aren’t, Jessie puts the walkman back on and Amy goes away for a while and tries again later. Even Curious George is not as interesting as a new sister in the guest room.

“Who’s that?” Amy asks, pointing to the pictures on the filing cabinet next to the bed. The flowers, drying out now, are on the table by the computer.

“That’s Pam.” Jessie picks up a picture in a purple plastic frame. Jessie and another girl are pushing their faces together, close to the camera, smiling as hard as they possibly can. Amy learns that Pam is Jessie’s best friend. She also learns that Pam lives around the corner from Jessie, that she has no curfew, that she likes coffee yogurt, macramé ankle bracelets, and swimming. Pam has a rose tattooed on her left wrist. She likes Friday the Thirteenth movies but Jessie thinks Halloween movies are better. Jessie can talk about Pam all day.

Another picture comes and goes from the top of the filing cabinet: Jessie and a woman with a long braid of gray hair. The woman is smiling in the picture and she has an arm around Jessie but Jessie is hardly smiling at all. They are outside and a mountain is in the background. Jessie must keep the picture in her big black bag when she doesn’t have it out.

Sometimes Jessie lets Amy hear some of her music, a quick listen through the headphones, then she takes them right back. It reminds Amy of when her father gives her little sips of his beer, and like the beer Jessie’s music is something grownup she should like but doesn’t.   Lots of noise and men yelling. When Jessie gets bored with talking and goes back to her music, Amy doesn’t blast her tape of Disney hits while she plays with her paper dolls, like she used to. She doesn’t want Jessie to hear her baby music.

The first few days, Amy’s mom and dad offer Jessie trips: does she want to go to the zoo, to the beach, to New York, to Philadelphia? The aquarium in Camden, or the one in Baltimore? It seems like Jessie just wants to stay in her room. Amy thinks that’s a shame. She would love to go to the zoo or the beach or the Franklin Institute in Philadelphia where you can walk through a giant human heart.

“Leave her alone,” Amy’s dad says finally. “She’s adjusting in her own way.” He says he was going to take some vacation time but if they’re not going to go anywhere, there’s no point, so after the weekend he goes back to work. Amy’s mom seems mad. Amy wonders if maybe she wanted to go to Philadelphia too.

Jessie doesn’t come downstairs for meals until after Amy’s mom calls, and then Amy’s dad calls, and then Amy’s dad puts one foot in the bottom step and calls in an annoyed voice. When Amy’s dad comes home from work and calls Jessie for dinner, Amy waits and goes downstairs with her. Every night, Amy’s dad grabs Jessie and gives her a big, kind of sideways hug and kisses the side of her head. “How’s my big girl?” he says. Then he grabs Amy and picks her way up: “How’s my little girl?” He kisses her too.

Jessie hardly eats anything. Amy watches her mom get upset and then mad, watching Jessie pick, pick, pick at her food, watching her push it around the plate with her fork. Amy isn’t allowed to push her food around with her fork, even food like peas that is hard to pick up without pushing it a little. In the first few days, Jessie picks at meatloaf and spaghetti; she pushes chicken and salad around with her fork. She pushes at hamburgers with the very ends of her blue-painted fingers. No one says anything to Jessie about picking or pushing, but Amy can tell that her mom is getting mad. She probably thinks Jessie doesn’t like her cooking. Amy tries to help.

“Jessie doesn’t eat much,” she remarks to her mom one day after breakfast. “I guess that’s why she’s so skinny. She was really skinny when she came,” she adds, so her mom gets the point.

“Yeah,” her mother says, even though she doesn’t let Amy say yeah because it’s slang. “She sure doesn’t eat much.”

“Teenagers,” Amy says like Leah does about her sisters, and her mom laughs.

By the end of the week, Amy’s mother gives up.

“I give up,” she tells Amy. She doesn’t say what she’s giving up on, but she’s standing in front of the refrigerator with the door open. She shuts the fridge and picks up the phone and calls Amy’s dad.

“Please stop and pick up a pizza,” she says. She doesn’t say “I give up” again, but Amy hears it in her voice. “What do you mean? The usual, a large with the works, no anchovies. Oh. Yeah,” she says again. “Okay.”

She puts her hand over the phone like she always reminds Amy to do.

“Go upstairs, hon, and ask Jessie what she likes on her pizza.” She never says “your sister,” like Amy’s dad does all the time.

Amy pushes open the door of Jessie’s room and taps her gently on the shoulder.

“What?” Jessie says. She looks sleepy and puffy.

“They’re wondering what you want on your pizza.” Amy doesn’t think “they” is a very polite thing to call her parents, but she doesn’t know exactly what to call them to Jessie. Even names seem complicated now that she has a sister.

“Nothing,” Jessie says.

“Nothing?” Amy can hardly believe her ears. “You don’t like pizza?”

“I like pizza. I eat pizza all the time at home.” Jessie picks up the picture in the purple frame. “Pam and I eat pizza for lunch and after school and when we sleep over at each other’s houses. We love pizza. Plain pizza. Nothing on it.”

She lies down again and puts the walkman back on. Amy notices the tape inside is not even moving.

When Amy’s mom hears Amy’s report she looks up at the ceiling for a minute like nothing can surprise her any more.

“One of the usual,” she says. “And one small plain.”

When Amy’s dad brings the pizza home, Jessie eats like she hasn’t seen food for a month. She’s eaten three slices of pizza before anyone else has even finished one. Amy can’t understand it. She loves everything on pizza. She’d even like to try anchovies, even though her parents say they’re terrible. Even if they are terrible, Amy would like to find out for herself. Amy’s mom and dad are looking at Jessie eating and eating, and then looking at each other. Amy is looking at that plain, boring, cheese-and-tomato pizza.

“Want a bite?”

Amy says yes, hops down and goes around the table, bites off the point of the fresh slice Jessie is holding out to her. Plain pizza. Not terrible, but not interesting, either. She chews, feeling her parents watching her. Is she still one of them, or has she gone over to the plain-pizza, teenager side? She swallows and goes back to her seat.

“Very good,” she says politely, pulling a piece of pepperoni off her own slice and eating it.

Over the weekend, Amy tackles her mother about the sister question. They’re on their way to the mall, just the two of them. Amy’s mom asked Jessie to come too but she said no.

“My big girl’s going to spend the day with her old dad,” Amy’s dad says, but Jessie is back up in her room by the time they leave, and her dad is on the couch watching a tennis game.

“Is Jessie my sister? Why haven’t I seen her before? Why doesn’t she live with us? Why does she call you Eileen?” Amy has so many questions she can’t wait for an answer before she asks the next one.

“It’s a long story,” her mom says. She takes a deep breath. “Dad and Jessie’s mother were married a long time ago but they weren’t happy together. They lived in Oregon, where Jessie lives now. Then Dad met me and we fell in love and got married and had you.” She pauses. Amy doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t think that was a very long story. In fact it seemed kind of rushed, like her mom was nervous or something. She waits, hoping for more. “Dad had to move to New Jersey for work so he couldn’t see much of Jessie. He went out there a few times but the last few years it’s been so busy…” She sighs. “He always took care of Jessie, though.”

Amy doesn’t know how you can take care of someone without seeing her, but she decides to ask a different question, one that she thinks got missed the first time.

“Is Jessie my sister?”

“She’s really your half-sister, but don’t say half in front of your father. He wants you to feel close, like real sisters. It’s called half because you have the same father but not the same mothers, so half your parents are the same.” When Amy doesn’t say anything, her mom goes on. “It can’t feel much like a sister to you, with the difference in your ages and her living so far away. But you can try to be a friend to Jessie, if not a sister.”

Why not a sister? Amy wonders. Sisters aren’t the same ages anyway, unless they’re twins. She can’t tell if her mom is saying she and Jessie are really sisters or not. She can’t tell if her mom is saying it’s okay to want Jessie to be her sister or not.

“I know this whole thing has been hard on you, sweetie, and you’ve been very good. I’ll see if Leah’s mother can take you for a day next week, and maybe Jessie will go to the beach with us one day.”

“So Jessie lives with her mother?” Amy knows she’s nagging a little, but she wants to get all this straight.

“Jessie lives with her mother in Oregon. They haven’t been getting along too well and her mother thought she should come here for the summer. Your dad agreed,” Amy’s mom says, looking straight ahead at the road.

“Sometime can I go to Oregon to visit Jessie and her mom?”

“No,” Amy’s mom says very firmly. “You will not be going to Oregon to visit anyone.”

Amy can tell her mother isn’t going to answer any more questions right now so she thinks and thinks about what she’s heard. They’re both quiet almost all the way to the mall.   Then her mom answers an extra question, one Amy asked but then forgot about.

“She doesn’t call me Eileen,” her mom says. “She doesn’t call me anything at all.”

At the mall Amy’s mom heads automatically for the girls’ department of their favorite store. She looks at anything pink—pink shorts, pink t-shirts—but for the first time Amy looks around for something else. There isn’t anything black in her size. She settles on a pair of navy blue shorts and a navy blue and white striped t-shirt. Her mom is surprised but she says fine, fine. The blue things look odd, like somebody else’s clothes, in the pile of pink and white by the cash register.

Upstairs, Amy’s mom wants to go to the juniors’ department before lunch. She looks and looks. She must look at everything in the whole department twice. Amy doesn’t mind. She watches the teenagers shopping with their moms or in little groups of two or three. Most of them have long, fluffy hair and wear bright colors. A few of them have short shirts that show their middles but she doesn’t see anyone with an earring in her bellybutton like Jessie has. They’re pretty, but Amy decides she likes her own sister better. She’s more interesting-looking.

Amy’s mom finally makes up her mind on a baby blue t-shirt.

“For Jessie. It will be perfect with her eyes.”

The t-shirt is very pretty. It has a wide neck and little white daisies scattered across the front. It doesn’t look like any of Jessie’s shirts.

“I don’t think Jessie wears blue.”

“I didn’t think you wore blue either. She’ll like it,” Amy’s mom says, but Amy still isn’t sure.

Then Amy’s mom takes her to McDonald’s in the mall and tells her again that she is “being very good about this whole thing.” After that they go home.

Amy’s mom gives Jessie the t-shirt as soon as they get home.

“Look what Amy and I picked out for you,” she says as soon as Jessie comes downstairs. “I wish you had come with us. I didn’t want to get too much without you, but we thought this was perfect, didn’t we, Amy?”

Amy doesn’t say anything. She is watching Jessie open the bag and take out the shirt, touching it with the ends of her fingers like it’s a hamburger.

“Thank you.”

Amy notices her mom is right: Jessie doesn’t say Eileen. Jessie folds up the shirt very neatly and puts it back in the bag. She puts the bag on the coffee table.

“Thank you very much.”

Nothing could be more polite than that, Amy thinks, but her mom doesn’t say “you’re welcome” and she looks mad. Jessie doesn’t take the shirt upstairs with her that day or the day after, and every time Amy’s mom looks at the bag lying on the coffee table, she presses her lips together like she does when she’s mad at Amy and doesn’t want to yell. Finally, Amy takes the bag upstairs one afternoon while her mom’s in the kitchen. She tiptoes into the guestroom and puts the bag on the table by the window, behind the vase. The flowers are all dried up and dropping their petals now. She doesn’t even look at the bed to see if Jessie is watching.

The next week Amy’s mom remembers about the play date she promised to set up with Leah. She makes Jessie come too.

“We’re all going to drop Amy off,” she says. Ever since the t-shirt she’s telling Jessie what to do, not asking her what she wants all the time like Amy’s dad still does. It’s very quiet in the car and Amy’s glad when they get to Leah’s.

“Come in and meet Leah’s family,” Amy’s mom tells Jessie. “There are two girls about your age.”

“They’re fifteen and sixteen,” Amy adds. She knows Jessie is fourteen.

Jessie looks out the window. “I’ll wait here.”

Amy’s mom grabs Amy’s hand and marches her up the path to the door. When the door opens she asks Leah’s mom, “Are Stephanie and Danielle around? Jessie’s in the car and I thought they would like to meet her.”

Amy thinks her mom and Leah’s mom must have had a talk about Jessie on the phone because Leah’s mom seems to know all about her.

“Girls,” she yells up the stairs. “Come down and meet Amy’s sister.”

“Is that the sister?” Leah asks, looking out the door at Jessie, still sitting in the front seat of the car. “She looks kind of weird.”

“My sister is not weird,” Amy says right back to her. “My sister is from Oregon.”

“Go out to the car and say hello,” Leah’s mom tells Danielle and Stephanie. They look at Jessie and then at each other like they think she’s weird, too.

Amy watches the two big girls walk towards the car. They look very big and bright and Jessie seems to shrink and fade by comparison, like the black and white comics in the paper during the week look next to the big, bright-colored ones you get on Sunday.

Stephanie and Danielle come back in a few minutes.

“We said hi,” they announce, and go into the kitchen where Amy can here them laughing and fooling around.

“Well.” Amy’s mom and Leah’s mom look at each other. Amy’s mom shrugs and kisses Amy. “Be good, pumpkin. I’ll pick you up at five.”

Amy has a good time with Leah but she keeps wondering how her mom and Jessie are doing without her. She talks to Leah about Jessie a lot and tries to make it clear that her sister is interesting, not weird.

“Do your sisters have, um, anything pierced?” she asks when they come in from riding bikes. She really wants to tell Leah about the earring Jessie has in her bellybutton.

“Like their ears? Sure. There was the biggest fight and then Stephanie got her ears pierced, and then when Danielle asked it was no problem at all. I’m next. My mom says I can get mine pierced when I’m thirteen.”

Amy decides not to tell Leah about Jessie’s bellybutton after all.

When Amy gets home her mom says she has to go straight upstairs and get out of those filthy clothes before dinner. Amy doesn’t think dirt on the knees of your jeans is really the same as filthy clothes. Dirty knees should be expected after a play date, especially if you ride bikes. When she goes in to say hi to Jessie on her way to her room, Jessie is in the bathroom. After she changes she remembers to wash her hands (she knows her mom would say she should have done that first), but Jessie is still in the bathroom. Another teenager thing. Leah says her older sisters are always in the bathroom, sometimes separately, sometimes together. Amy goes downstairs and washes her hands in the powder room.

“You should have done that before you changed,” her mom says, standing in the doorway. “You put on your nice clean clothes with dirty hands.”

“Jessie was in the bathroom.” Amy says.

“Still?” Without waiting for an answer, Amy’s mom goes upstairs and knocks on the bathroom door.

Jessie?” she calls. “Jessie, it’s Eileen. Are you okay?”

Jessie flushes. “I’m fine.”

“Open the door.”

Nothing happens.

“Open the door this minute.”

The don’t-fool-around voice works.   Jessie opens the bathroom door but she doesn’t come out.

“What?” she says, and she doesn’t sound polite. Amy’s mom is sniffing the air and making a disgusted face. Amy doesn’t think that’s too polite either, but then her mom says, “Smoking! I thought I smelled smoke.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.” Amy’s mom opens the door wider and marches into the bathroom. Jessie comes out and stands behind Amy. “Why is this window open? It wasn’t open this morning. And look! Just look at this!”

Amy pokes her head in and sees a match floating in the clear water in the toilet.

“Amy, you get out of here!”

Amy retreats back to the hall. She only looked because her mother said to.

Amy’s mom keeps telling Jessie she was smoking, and Jessie keeps shaking her head. No, no, she wasn’t. Finally Amy’s mom sends Jessie to her room. Then she sends Amy to her room. Amy still doesn’t know what she did wrong, exactly, but when her mom is this mad her room is the best place to be anyway.

After a while, and a lot of spraying—it sounds like her mom is cleaning the whole bathroom top to bottom and from her room Amy can smell all the extra air freshener she’s squirting—Amy’s mom goes back downstairs.

“Can I come in?” Jessie is in the doorway of Amy’s room for the very first time.

“Sure. Sure, come on in.”

“What are those?”

Amy has been stuffing her paper dolls back in the shoebox where she keeps them. She hands the box to Jessie.

“Paper dolls, huh? I remember these.” Jessie is looking at them all, the thick ones with fronts and backs from the fancy book Amy’s grandmother gave her for her birthday, the ones Amy cut out and colored herself, the in-between ones from regular books Amy’s mom buys at the grocery store.

“Gimme a piece of paper,” Jessie says. She folds it into a fan and then– without even drawing lines, Amy marvels– she cuts a half-silhouette of a girl and unfolds a string of five identical doll shapes.

“I left their heads big so we could give them different hair,” Jessie says. After some discussion and a few snips, two have long curls, two have straight hair to the bottoms of their ears like Amy, and one has Jessie-spikes all over.

“Let’s color them,” Amy suggests. They take turns but Jessie lets Amy go first so she gets to do three. When they’re done, two are wearing pink and two are wearing black and the last one, the one with the spiky hair, is wearing a black skirt and a pink-and-black striped shirt and high black boots. She’s Amy’s favorite.

When Amy’s dad comes home Jessie has to go downstairs. Amy can hear the deep tones of her father’s disappointed voice, but when they all sit down to dinner Jessie seems happier than Amy’s ever seen her. Everybody but Jessie is eating hamburgers and corn on the cob and salad. Jessie is eating frozen pizza she cooked herself in the microwave. Even when Jessie doesn’t eat what they’re having, Amy’s dad says she has to come down for dinner. With your family, he always says. Tonight, even though she got yelled at, Jessie seems more like part of the family. She even laughs at some of Dad’s old jokes that Amy has heard a million times.

When Amy’s mom passes him the basket with the hamburger rolls, he says, “Bread, bread, the actor cried, and the curtain came down with a roll.”

Whenever he puts ketchup on anything he asks Amy and Jessie if they know the ketchup poem: “Shake, shake, the ketchup bottle/First a little, then a lottle.” Tonight Jessie laughs. Amy wonders if maybe her dad didn’t know those jokes when Jessie was little.

After dinner she follows Jessie upstairs. Maybe Jessie will want to play more with the paper dolls. Or maybe she’d rather play something else. Amy won’t mind, whatever Jessie picks, but Jessie goes into the guest room and sits down on the bed, pulling something out of her pocket.

“Look, peanut,” she says happily. “Dad brought the mail in with him. I got a letter from Pam.”

“Oh,” Amy says. “That’s good.” She wonders if it is impolite to ask what’s in the letter. Pam has pink stationery with circus elephants walking trunk to tail across the top of each page. It doesn’t look go with the way Amy pictures Pam. It looks more like something Amy herself would pick.

“How is she?” she asks finally.

Jessie looks up like she’s surprised Amy is still there.

“She’s fine. It’s just about her summer and stuff. Listen, squirt, I gotta finish this and then I gotta write back. I’ll see you later, okay?”

Amy can take a hint, so she goes back in her room and looks at the string of paper dolls. She tacks them up on her bulletin board, next to her school picture. Then she goes downstairs. Her parents are in the living room. Her father pulls her onto his lap even though he’s watching the news and she’s getting too big for him to see around very easily.

“How’s my little girl?” he asks, settling her back against him and rubbing his sandpapery cheek against hers.

The next day, Jessie says she wants to take her letter down to the mailbox at the entrance to their development.

“Your father can take it to work and mail it there,” Amy’s mom tells her. “His office is by the main post office. Your letter will get there faster.”

Jessie doesn’t say anything, but she doesn’t give her father the letter, either. She’s up unusually early, actually sitting at the table and pushing some cereal around in a bowl while the rest of them eat breakfast. After breakfast she puts on her jacket, even though it’s mid-June and warm out.

“Can I go too?” Amy begs. Her mom is getting ready to say no, she can tell. “I want to go for a walk, and then maybe we can go on the swings.”

“I’ll take her,” Jessie says, and Amy’s mom says yes like she is too surprised to say anything else.

“Take your jacket. And be careful on the swings.”

Amy likes walking with Jessie. If she wants to stop and look at a flower or a bug, she can stop. If she wants to run a little she can run. Jessie doesn’t hold her hand or tell her to keep up or make her walk on the inside so if a car drives up on the sidewalk it will hit her and not Amy. There aren’t a lot of cars driving in their development during the day when everyone’s at work, but Amy’s mom likes to be careful anyway.

When they get to the mailbox Jessie reads everything on it before she puts her letter inside.

“What’s it say?”

“Just when the mailman picks up the letters inside. One o’clock, it says. About three hours.” She squints at the sky like it will tell her exactly how long it is until one o’clock. “Pam should have my letter on Thursday.”

After Jessie finally gives up her letter to the mailbox, they go over to the little playground on the other side of the entrance. Nobody else is there; Amy and Jessie have the place to themselves. Amy loves the feeling of swinging. Today, with no one to push her she works hard, leaning way back and pumping her knees to go way up. She goes higher than her mom ever lets her, but after a while she decides the fun of swinging is all at the beginning. Now that she’s going way, way up in front and way, way up in back without even trying, it’s kind of boring. She slows down for conversation.

Jessie is sitting on one of the swings, twisting a little, dragging the toes of her boots in the groove that becomes a puddle in the rain.

Jessie looks at her.

“Don’t say anything, okay?” She pulls a green and white box out of her jacket pocket. She takes out a cigarette and a small black plastic lighter.

“I’m not a tattletale.”

“I know you’re not, squirt.” Jessie lights the cigarette. “Where is everybody?”

Amy looks around.

“There’s not that many kids in the neighborhood. Maybe more come down here on the weekend.” She realizes that everyone else is doing something this summer: going on vacations, or to day camp, or at least to the beach for the day. Last year she went to day camp for two weeks and this year she was supposed to go for longer, but then her dad said it wasn’t worth it.

“We’ll be doing day trips and stuff with Jessie.”

Amy doesn’t mind. Day camp wasn’t terrible, but she likes being with her sister better.

“This place is dead. Dead, dead, dead,” Jessie announces. She’s only smoked a little bit of her cigarette, taking fast little puffs and blowing them out again right away. Amy has never seen anyone smoke like that before. Jessie stubs the cigarette out carefully on the metal pole of the swing set and puts the unsmoked half back in the box.

“I think it’s nice here,” Amy says. They stay like that for a long time, twisting a little on their swings, looking up at the sky. The blue seems to reach right down to the grass.

After that, they go down to the swings for a while almost every morning. Jessie smokes a little every day. Amy can smell the cigarette smoke on her and sometimes she thinks her mom must too but she doesn’t say anything. Even though Jessie never smokes more than half a cigarette at a time, pretty soon the green and white box is empty.

“I’m out,” she tells Amy. “Now what’m I supposed to do?”

Amy likes being asked for advice, so she doesn’t say the first thing that comes into her head: why not quit smoking, everyone knows it’s bad for you. Instead, she tries to think about her sister’s problem from her point of view. She tries to be helpful.                                                                         “You could go to the store and get more.”

“Sure. Out here in the sticks where I can’t go anyplace on my own. At home, me and Pam go downtown whenever we want, we just go…wherever. You think she’s,” jerking her head back towards the house, “going to take me to get cigs?”

Amy doesn’t know what to say.

“I hate it here,” Jessie says after a while. “I hate it, I hate it. I can’t go anywhere or do anything. I hate this place.”

Amy feels bad. She knows they haven’t gone anywhere much this summer, but she thought Jessie was happy going to the swings with her every day, just like she was happy going there with Jessie. All this time she’s been happy just to be with her sister, and her sister wasn’t happy at all.

“Okay,” she says, getting off the swing. “We’ll go to the deli-mart.”

Jessie just looks at her. Amy has to explain that there’s a store, not a real grocery store but a little store with newspapers and milk and cigarettes and ice cream, across the highway from the entrance to their development and a little way down the road.

“How far?”

Amy doesn’t really know for sure, but she enjoys answering like a grownup giving directions.

“Maybe half a mile or so on the right. You can’t miss it,” she adds, like her dad does when he gives people directions to their house. Her mom says people always get lost following his directions.

“Let’s go,” she says.

“I haven’t got any money on me.” Jessie gets off the swing and stretches. “I’ve got money in my bag, though. We’ll go tomorrow.”

That night, after she goes to bed, Amy isn’t so sure about the plan any more. She doesn’t think her mom would let them go to the store by themselves if they asked. She certainly wouldn’t let them go buy cigarettes. Maybe it will rain tomorrow, Amy decides. Maybe Jessie will forget about going to buy cigarettes. She doesn’t really seem to like smoking all that much anyway.

Unfortunately, the next day is hot and sunny. As soon as they get to the playground it’s clear Jessie hasn’t forgotten.

“C’mon, let’s go to this deli-mart place,” she says.

“Why don’t I wait for you right here?”

“You can’t stay here by yourself. You could get kidnapped. There’s maniacs all over these days,” Jessie says. She sounds just like Amy’s mother. Amy looks around at the jungle gym and the slide, startled, as if men with masks and guns might be hiding under there right now. “Anyway, your mom would kill me. Let’s go.”

They set out. Jessie holds Amy’s hand crossing the highway and looks both ways. The traffic is quiet. Amy wants to pull her hand away and remind Jessie that she’s the guide here, not a little sister tagging along. Pretty soon Jessie lets go of her. The day is warm and sticky. Amy thinks Jessie must be awfully hot in her leather jacket. They walk on the sidewalk until it ends and then they walk on the shoulder of the road. The black tar on the shoulder is so hot and smelly it gives Amy a headache. When the shoulder ends they walk on cracked stone and long grass the rest of the way. The store seems a lot further away when they’re walking than it does when Amy uses it as her almost-home landmark from the car.

By the time they see the deli-mart up ahead, Amy has a blister and her nose feels sunburned.

Jessie tells her to pick out a popsicle, and takes it up to the lady at the counter.

“And a pack of Newports, please.” Amy can tell she’s nervous, but the lady slides the new green and white box across the counter and picks up Jessie’s money without even looking at her.

Amy and Jessie take turns licking the popsicle, and the way home goes faster than the walk to the store did. They’re almost home before Jessie takes the box of cigarettes out of her pocket. She examines it closely, taps first the top and then the bottom on the heel of her hand, examines it again. She finds the end of the little gold plastic strip that tears so neatly all around the box. She pulls the short piece of plastic wrapper off the top of the box and the bigger piece off the bottom. Then she goes through the whole tapping thing again.

“Come on, Jessie.” Amy is hopping from one foot to the other. “This is where we cross.”

Jessie has finally opened the box and now she’s fiddling with the foil inside. She looks up.

“Amy! Watch out!”

Amy jumps back as a big truck goes by.   The next second Jessie grabs her hand and drags her back from the edge of the road. It wasn’t really that close, she tells herself, but her heart is doing flipflops in her chest anyway because she didn’t see it, she wasn’t paying attention.

She jumps again when a car pulls up very, very close to them. It takes a second to realize that it’s her mom’s car, and that her mom is getting out. Amy can see by her face that going to the store for cigarettes is even worse than she imagined.

Amy’s mom picks her up and holds her very tight. She puts Amy in the back seat of the car and buckles her seatbelt for her like she’s a baby.

“Get in the car,” she says without even looking at Jessie.

When they get home Jessie goes straight up to her room without a word. Amy’s mom makes Amy stay in the living room while she makes a phone call from the kitchen. Amy can’t hear the conversation but her mom hangs up the phone very hard and then calls Amy in.

“Sit.” Amy sits at the table and her mom stands over her. “I want the whole story of what the two of you were up to today, and I want it now.”

Amy nods and tries to start but she isn’t sure how.

“Jessie wanted to go to the store,” she begins, and stops.

“For cigarettes.”

She nods. Her mom knows the worst thing and she didn’t have to tell. After that the rest of the story is easy.

“How many times have I told you never, ever, to cross the highway on your own?”

“I wasn’t on my own. Jessie crossed me. She held my hand.”

“She wasn’t holding it when I saw you. And that truck….”

Amy hangs her head. She remembers now that she knew all along that they probably weren’t supposed to go to the store by themselves.

“It’s not your fault,” her mother says. “I don’t blame you. But you have to use better judgment. Older people can do bad, stupid things too, and you have to know not to go along with them.”

Amy knows her mom is talking about Jessie, even though she told her it was her idea to go to the deli-mart. Her mom hugs her.

“We couldn’t stand it if anything happened to you.”

Amy hugs her mom back but she still feels miserable. She hasn’t been good today, and she hasn’t been a good sister either. She goes up to her room and lies down. Miserable throbs all over her like the sun on her skin. When her mom comes in to put lotion on her nose she pretends to be asleep.

Amy’s dad comes home soon after that. He’s home early but he doesn’t call Amy and Jessie to come down so he can yell at them about the morning. Instead, he and Amy’s mom go into the living room and it sounds like they’re yelling at each other.

“Could have been killed,” she hears her mother saying, over and over, and once, “incorrigible, uncontrollable.” Her father’s voice isn’t loud enough for her to hear what he’s saying, and finally it sounds like he stops talking but her mom’s voice goes on. Then her dad goes into the kitchen and it sounds like he’s on the phone for a long time, a long call and then a shorter one. Finally he comes to the bottom of the stairs and calls Jessie and Amy to come down.

Amy is relieved that pretty soon the yelling will be over with and things can go back to normal. She isn’t really listening to her father, because he seems to be saying all the things her mom already said.

“…expected you both to use better judgment, but um, especially you, Jessie….”

Amy’s mom is nodding with her lips pressed together and she looks at Jessie the whole time.

“…talked it over with your mother, and with Eileen here, of course, and she agrees it’s best for your visit to end now. You’ll be going home tomorrow, the arrangements are all made…”

Amy starts crying. Big hot tears slide down her face and make her chin itch. Her throat feels like there’s something sharp inside it and she can’t talk but she shakes her head no, no.

“…sorry this turned out this way…your own doing…irresponsible….” Amy’s dad is still talking to Jessie, but her mom notices Amy crying and picks her up.

“Overexcited.” She carries Amy up to her room. Amy looks over her mother’s shoulder at Jessie. Through her tears her sister is just a blur, as if she’s already far away.

Amy’s mom puts her to bed and brings her a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and a glass of milk on a tray like she does when Amy’s sick.

“This whole thing has been too much for you,” she says, stroking Amy’s hair. “Tomorrow everything will be back to normal.”

Amy can tell her mom isn’t mad at her any more, but she still feels terrible. Back to normal means back to how things were before Jessie came, before she had a sister.

Amy gets up early the next morning and goes into Jessie’s room. Jessie is pushing a few things into her big black bag.

“I saved you something, squirt,” she says. “Close your eyes.”

Amy feels something cool and hard in her hands.

“Okay, open ‘em.”

She’s holding the picture of Jessie and Pam in the purple frame. She hugs Jessie and Jessie hugs her back. She can feel Jessie’s hard, spiky hair, and the soft back of her neck.

“It’s okay, peanut,” Jessie tells her. She lets go of Amy and wipes Amy’s eyes with a tissue, then Amy wipes Jessie’s eyes with a tissue.

“Maybe you can write me a letter.”

“Yeah,” Jessie says. “Maybe.”

They go downstairs together. Amy’s dad puts Jessie’s bag in the trunk, no fooling around this time.

“Say goodbye to your sister,” he tells Amy.

“Bye.”

“Bye, squirt.” Jessie walks straight out of the house without saying anything to Amy’s mom. Amy watches the car pull away in case Jessie waves, but she doesn’t. Then she goes up to her room.

Carefully, she takes the picture out of the purple frame and pins it to her bulletin board under the string of paper dolls. She wishes she had a picture of her and Jessie on the swings, or that Jessie had gone with them to the mall so they could have had their picture taken together in one of the little photo booths: Amy and Jessie, Jessie and Amy, a whole string of pictures. After a while, she pins her school picture over the picture of Pam. If she squints a little, she can pretend it’s a picture of two sisters, their cheeks pressed together, smiling as hard as they can possibly smile.

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