Cross Roads

Chapter One: Criminal

— Chapter One: The Night I Decide to Become a Criminal —

I am sitting on the couch, a half-gallon of chocolate ice cream all to myself, watching an Indiana Jones marathon.  There is a ladle in one hand, the remote in the other.  I have my favorite rainbow woolen blanket wrapped tightly around me and I am more than comfortable.  I am prepared to enjoy my first night off in weeks.

And then the front door swings open and my older sister comes running inside.

I jump, ice cream missing my mouth to land on my boob.  I stare at it, wondering if I should toss it – this T-shirt is on the old and slightly dirty side – or if I should just give into my caveman desires and eat it anyways.

Instincts on preservation – of the dessert, of course – kick in, in the end, and I slurp up the ice cream.

My sister rounds the couch, sinking down beside me.  She takes the tub from my lap, snatches the ladle from my hand, and digs in.  I stare, dumbfounded, instantly knowing that something is wrong.  My sister, no matter how depressed she is feeling, no matter how horrible her cramps are during her period, never indulges in such unhealthy foods.  She is a health-nut, hitting the gym five times a week, eating salads as meals, taking constant care of herself.

She is now eating ice cream, one of the forbidden foods.

I know that something is up; seriously wrong.

She is crying, tears falling down her cheeks and dripping into the tub.  She sobs and eats, tears and snot mixing with the ice cream.  It is disgusting watching her eat.

It is also saddening, watching as the ice cream I bought for myself in anticipation of this one night is slowly disappearing into someone else’s gut.  The frozen sugar was to be meant for me and me alone!

I sit there and watch.  The ice cream melts in the tub and on the ladle, making a very fine moustache for my sister.  It drips onto her shirt but she doesn’t care – another red flag for her.  She puts effort and pride in her appearance – hence the constant visits to the gym – and especially in her clothes.  Under normal circumstances, the second she got food on her clothes she would whip out her Tide-to-Go pen and set to work on removing any possible stains.  The ice cream falls and she completely ignores it.

She continues to eat my most sacred treat.

There is most definitely something wrong with her.

“Are you okay?” I finally ask her, ignoring the obvious fact that, no, she is not alright.

She explodes, flinging the ladle out and spraying me with spit and ice cream.  I flinch and jump away, disgusted.  She doesn’t notice, and goes into a sobbing explanation for her attitude.

The only problem is that her mouth is full, she is sobbing, and she is a complete mess.

She is speaking in Cry-ese, a language of which I am not even close to being fluent.

I have no possible way of understanding a word she says.  All I hear are a bunch of whines and squeaks, mumbles and cries.  She decides to be Italian, too, speaking with her hands and flinging more gross-ness onto me.

My poor gay blanket will never be the same.

I wait a full five minutes listening to her share her story.  When her lip quivers and she returns to the tub I say, in the nicest tone I can possibly manage, “Okay, Anabelle, I need you to put down my ice cream, swallow your food, and then repeat that.  In English.  Alright?”

She whines, lips drooping to the point of drool falling out.  She tosses the ladle into the tub, sets it aside and swallows what remains in her mouth.  She lifts her feet onto the cushion, hugs them tightly to her chest.  Anabelle is silent, staring and crying and refusing to make eye contact.