Wild Child

Ch. 1: Emma's Seventeenth

My sister left home on my seventeenth birthday.

It was early, so early, the moon still in the sky, not yet faded away into the dark. She was on the foot of my bed, saying my name, brushing my hair back from my forehead. I blinked, taking in her swishy outfit, a flowing hippie skirt that trailed along her ankles, and layers of soft cotton encasing her torso. Her face was already done up in makeup, just enough eyeliner and mascara to bring life to the mint green that mirrored my own, and faint pink lipstick. Callie was a master of disguises, costumes, and loved to switch her style from one day to the next.

Today she was a hippie, natural and flowy and at peace. Just yesterday, she'd been rockabilly, her sandy hair swirled up in big pin curls, a red bandana wrapped around her head, with a white tank top and cuffed up jeans. She had that kind of face, so open and pretty, but without much distinction, nothing that clearly said, "I am this." It's what made it so easy for her to switch styles, to try new personalities on. And now, apparently, she was going for the biggest change of all.

"I'm going away for awhile," she said by way of explanation, still playing with my hair- thicker than hers, curly like our dad's, and a constant source of wistful envy from her. "I'll see you at Thanksgiving, though, okay?"

While alarmed, I can't say I was altogether surprised. It was very Callie-like to pull a stunt like this. "Where will you go?" I said simply, catching her hand in mine. For all our differences, there was a bond there, sisterly if you will, that kept us tethered together, a basic understanding of our differences that made them work.

"I'm not sure yet." It was illogical, almost exasperating, to hear she was leaving with no clear idea of where she'd even sleep that night. But it was also so like her, so typical Callie, that I couldn't find it in me to be mad. Callie had always been that way- a gypsy, a wanderer, wild child, hippie, rebel. A million different names, different titles, that basically described this biggest characteristic about her- restlessness.

"I'll miss you," I said solemnly.

She pulled me in close, the warm of her skin reassuring somehow as she ran her hands up and down my back before leaning back to peer at me.

"I'll miss you too, little sis." She kissed my forehead then, not an altogether unheard of gesture from her, but one that was rare, for all her touchy feely ways. She only kissed my forehead when she knew she wouldn't see me for quite some time.

It was June seventeenth. As I watched my big sister make her way soundlessly back down the hall and out of sight, I knew I wouldn't be seeing her for awhile. I knew she might not even be back by Thanksgiving. But I also knew, in the way that she and I had always seemed to understand each other, that I would see her again. Maybe by Christmas, maybe before. Maybe not until my next birthday. But I also knew that she would come back to me different, maybe in a persona I hadn't ever seen before. And so, 3 hours later, when my mom's wailing cry floated up the stairs to my room, having found my sister's farewell note, I burrowed deeper into the covers, hiding. Biding my time, hoping that for just another few minutes, I could pretend everything was alright.