Sister Location: Our Circus Act

Chapter 1: Amy And Alfred's Life

•/•/•-Amy's POV-•/•/•

"Oh, hello, Alfred!"
"Good afternoon, Mrs. Merton!" I stopped removing the thick book from my bag, hearing the conversation downstairs. "Is Amy there? We're supposed to do our group study."
"Yes. Do wait a moment." That soft voice was followed by a bellowing, "Cirrus! Your friend's down here!"
"Coming!" I replied, zipping my bag close. I ran out the door, not bothering to use the stairs while I slid down the banister. It was a fun option, too. This house gets boring at times.
"Cirrus!" Mommy said, tone raised. "You're a mess! Is that how you treat a guest?"
"It's okay, ma'am, really—" Alfred began, but trailed off when Mommy gave him a death stare.
I let out the longest sigh on record, marching over to the restroom under the stairs. Believe me, it's bigger than it really sounds.
I looked at myself in the full-body mirror. Huh. I didn't find anything out of place. My light brown hair was a bit messy in this fishtail, but that was normal. Wrinkly red shirt. Wrinkly scarlet knee skirt. Orange sandals. I found nothing wrong.
So I just grabbed a random headband off a rack near the mirror and put it on, for the sake of argument.
"Al!" I said the moment I got out, rushing to the door not too far. Alfred, who was nearly a full foot smaller than me, was leaning on the wall, hugging a baby blue paper bag. It seemed to be full of books.
"Hi Amy." He removed his shoes then pointed at the books, while Mommy bustled off, closing the main door and disappearing behind the arch to the kitchen. I guess she didn't realize nothing changed much with how I looked.
"So, we should—"
"Why does your mom call you Cirrus? You a cloud?" He tilted his head to the side.
I rolled my eyes. "Cirrus Bellamy C. Merton. Sense?"
"Yeah, maybe. And, Amy . . ." Alfred pointed at my head.
I glided my palm over my head. Two fluffy bumps tickled it. I felt my face scrunch up. "It's those silly purple cat ears, huh?"
"You didn't realize you wore it?" he said, blue eyes wide, making me leave him there and stomp back to the restroom. I looked at myself at the mirror, told myself how silly I looked, and dropped it on the rack, walking off with my hair messier than before. I hope Mommy doesn't notice.
"We'll start with the project at once. Let's just get this stupid thing done." I looked all over, moving only my eyes. "Don't tell my parents that."
"Meh," he said, shrugging. "Where will we be working?"
"My room. I have a study there. Come on!"
"Um, wait." I stopped walking when he grabbed my arm. Then he whispered, "It's a bit embarrassing, but can I use your restroom? Urgent!"
I shrugged. "Knock yourself off. It's right under the staircase."
"Thanks!" He ran off, letting the books fall and drop on the stairs.
"Amy! What in the world was that?"
"Nothing, Mommy!" I said back, on my haunches while I put everything back in the paper bag. When I browsed through the book, I knew Alfred outdid himself this time. Simple Square Roots. Don't Pop My Personal Bubble! » Area and Surface Area. Math Is Strange: PEMDAS. Math Is Strange: Back to the Fractions. Epic Rap Battles: 2D Judy vs. Polly Head-Ons vs. Herbie Linear.
I put everything back in the bag in just a few lifts of my hands. World record! And at that same moment Alfred went up the stairs, breathing heavily, and before I can ask why he said, "Boy, I rushed! I thought I was taking too long."
"But you weren't!" I patted his back, handed the paper bag, and went up the staircase, hearing him follow behind me. Then I pushed open the middle door, which I left open earlier, and rushed to the single red bed, where my other books were put in a pile. I snapped on the stand fan beside it, letting it turn its head around while blowing out air.
"So, what was the project again?"
I took out a green notebook from the purple backpack in the corner, turning it to the most recent page. "Objective: Create a math symposium plan for the grade six students. As skilled mathematicians, your group has been tasked to create a symposium to teach the older levels advanced knowledge! Your task is to create a symposium plan with a reasonable sequence of topics and a short summary of each topic. But first, your own grade five math concepts, otherwise known as the decimals and conversion table, must be applied to be able to find out some calculations for the event place the symposium is to be held in."
Alfred sat on the bed, removing his white jacket and folding it on his lap. "We're not really going to host an event for sixth graders, are we? And when's the deadline again?"
I shook my head. "The event place teacher gave us doesn't exist. It's just an imaginary place." I pulled out all the other books in my bag, stacking them once more on the bed. "The deadline's two weeks from now."
"Okay, that explains." He bobbed his head up and down. "So, you're following Shakespeare's words? Better an hour early than a minute too late?"
"Yup." I sat on the bed. "Whatever play that came from. Now. I'll work on the first parts of the symposium, and you begin converting. Go over there." I pointed at the brown study at the corner
"Okay." Alfred walked over, notebook and pen in hand while I handed the paper with the word problems.
I knelt by my bag, rummaging through papers and notebooks. Where could that pencil case be in this time? I swear the moment I'll find it I'll—
Oh, here it is at the pocket. I'm awesome.
I took out a black pen and a pad of intermediate paper, plopping on the bed. I placed a thick book on my lap, using it as a table while I pressed the bottom of my pen, sticking the nib out with the push of a button. I began to write our names—
"Amy, can you check if I answered right?"
And I didn't even touch my pen on the paper yet! Still, I stood up and walked over, brushing away a can of colored pencils since he was close to nudging it. It also brushed away a stack of drawings, not wanting him to see it, even if it was already hidden in the dark behind the lamp.
"Well?"
I looked at his ever neat solution, then at the sheet of word problems. "The venue is square, nine dekameters on each side . . . renovation problems yada yada . . . complaints on how the venue will be too small . . . each chair occupies eight square decimeters . . . estimated people, ninety . . . . Yeah. Your answer is pretty much correct."
"What's a square decimeter again?" Only then did I realize he looked nervous, shifting his light blue eyes from side to side. "Just making sure."
"Gimme a sec." He moved aside when I opened the drawer. My pretty little pink calculator was inside. I used it to briefly compute, and when I compared it with his answers, I nodded. "Your answers are correct. Basically, saying eight square decimeters is just like saying there are eight squares, each measuring one decimeter on each side."
I went back to the bed and picked up the pen with my left hand. Contrary to popular belief, not all left-handed people are artistic and right-handed ones logical. It can turn out the opposite. For instance, Alfred Arts Einstein will probably laugh if he somehow sees those drawings I was hiding earlier; they were so amateur, and that was even after hours of practice. Alfred, right-handed as he was, was a drawing whiz, and literally finished our Chibi Your Self project in arts class in three minutes. Strangely, my left-handed self was on the logical side. And that is how I ended up with this. I really would rather do the computations, but Alfred wasn't good at summaries and outlines, so I had to do it, even if it means I have to check on his work all the time, too. It's a funny thing to think of, really.
I skimmed through the books, since I really just had to find out the summary of each topic. It took me a while reading everything, since there were many books and pages and I often stayed on one topic too long because I got distracted. Math's interesting. Especially that Euler's formula. I just about began writing when something bright hurt my eyes, making me look away. What was that?
Oops! Just the window. I looked beside the bed and saw the window still open, revealing the bright sunset. The sky was orange and the rays that hurt my eyes were, too. It was shining on my paper directly.
I continued to look out the window for a while. "The sunset's always so pretty. Right, Al?"
"Yeah," he said. I don't think he's paying that much attention.
Still, I kept talking, mostly because I just wanted to make myself think he's listening. Talking to yourself is oddly satisfying. "Daddy never lets me even go outside so I can really see the sunset. My window's so small. He says it's too dangerous around these hours."
"Uh-huh."
Just that moment, the ray stopped shining through. I close the windows, then the curtains. Daddy told me to always do that. I don't really understand what's so dangerous. Yes, maybe she was gone. But that didn't happen at home.
"Hey, look at this!" While I turned on the main room lights I heard Alfred chuckle. "The problem here stars a girl named Chloe!"
"Really?" Quickly I rushed behind him, reading a word problem where some person named Chloe had to find out how many dekameters the place was away from her house, so she has an idea on what mode of transportation she'll use. A bunch of different distances, like from Chloe's house to the market then from the market to an arcade, were given. "Nah, can't be my Chloe. Even if it was just one dekameter away Chloe would pick to go by motorcycle."
"Yeah, she loved those." Alfred continued to solve on his paper. "If she was here, how do you think she'd react to the word problem?"
"She wouldn't even react!" For some reason, I felt a laugh force its way out. "She'd say she's in sixth grade and doesn't have time for this!" And then the laughter forcing its way out ceased, replaced by a dark silence. "But by now she'd probably be in ninth grade."
Alfred stopped writing. Shoot. I hope he didn't think this was another drama. "Sorry I brought it up. I mean, I just remember now what happened some months—"
I was too late hoping. I felt something well up behind my—fudge, I hope it's not tears. "It's okay. We pretty much moved on."
Alfred looked at me for a long while, before nodding, continuing to write. I, meanwhile, took out a small compact mirror from the drawer of my nightstand, looking into it.
Glossy light green eyes met me. They weren't supposed to be so glossy! I rubbed both with my fist, then looked at the mirror again, satisfied to see it wasn't so shiny anymore. While I was at it, I decided to rearrange my hair, too. The fishtail was way messier than before, which was normal if your hair was just exactly two inches above your shoulders. I hate styling short hair! You can often just do a bun and a ponytail.
Then I thought up a way to make it a bit more exciting, rather than the usual bun and pony. I took another black band from the drawer of my nightstand, a purple comb, and began to divide my hair between the left and right. I stroke my comb up and fastened each half with an elastic band on top.
Two pigtails! It seemed a bit fresh on me, like it was just yesterday when my . . . my sister did it . . . for me at the zoo. "Chloe's right," I muttered to myself, putting back the compact mirror. "The pigtails don't look too childish on me at all!"
With that I continued to work on the symposium. I almost completely forgot about what Alfred and I discussed earlier about Chloe, but then he had me thinking. Had we really moved on?
Had I really moved on?
I guess the answer was a huge, loopy no. Because up to this day, I blame myself for leaving her alone. That day was so innocent. I shouldn't blame myself. But I do. Repeatedly.
We were doing nothing wrong! Chloe and I were just playing with Mommy's old guitar in Uncle Ian's living room, which we found at his attic. Chloe and I love going to attics, because our own house doesn't have one. We rarely go to Uncle Ian's, but today it was Chloe's birthday. I laughed at Chloe's terrible playing. Then Chloe went put,saying she just wanted to walk around the yard a bit, since our three little cousins were noisy. Then we heard a scream, and that was the end.
Chloe's body was found a few months ago. It was still fresh. I didn't want to think of the gory details, but her limbs bloody and chopped off and her face hardly recognizable kept coming in. The police confirmed from DNA tests on her blood that this was her, and it was hard to believe.
The memory hurt my brain. I tried to shake it off, sticking to the present, trying to tell myself I had to finish this project first. But Chloe . . . I could just remember her black hair and the blue highlights she had in it when we went to Uncle Ian's, then her light brown eyes . . .
Something dripped on my paper. I was surprised. I can't be crying, can I?