Yolk(107)

“With you?” She sits back on the sofa.

“Sure,” I falter. “Or you could just have it. For your period or whatever.”

“Spark that shit.” June points over at the stove.

I light it carefully, making sure the dried-out paper doesn’t completely catch, and hand it to her first. “I don’t know how old this shit is,” I warn, walking back into the kitchen to grab a plate.

“There’s an ashtray in my sock drawer.” I don’t all the way believe her until my hand lands on a hard corner. Sure enough, there is. And, shockingly, it’s a Supreme ashtray.

I hand it to her.

“Old weed, new weed. I wouldn’t know the difference. I was always too scared to try. Like, I’m paranoid enough as it is.”

She holds the joint tentatively to her lips. She takes a baby puff and holds her breath. She exhales carefully, eyeing the smoke as if to check that it’s working. “You know, I didn’t mean to say, ‘With you?’ earlier. Like, as if I didn’t want to smoke with you. I was more surprised that you’d want to smoke with me.”

“Can I ask you something?” The weed is pleasingly scratchy in my throat.

June nods as I hand it back. “Sure.”

“Why didn’t you want to hang out with me when I moved here?”

“Um.” June plants the joint in the ashtray with such force that embers fly. “Excuse me, I called you twice when you came. I had to buy you a bed just to get you to talk to me.”

“But you never want to hang out. You called out of obligation and I’m grateful for the bed, but it’s like, that’s such an older sister duty move. That’s basically to look good to Mom.”

June reels back, an incredulous look on her face. “Oh my God. Lastborns are the worst. That is not why anything! Oh!” She stabs the sky triumphantly. “You hid from me.”

“What? When?” Fuck, I already know what’s she’s going to say.

“Union Square subway, by the 4/5/6. Maybe a year ago.” She shoulders into me and laughs. “You’re so fucking stupid.”

I try to keep a straight face but can’t. The weed keeps dissolving all the edges of my feelings.

“You, like, leapt.” She jerks up dramatically with little bunny hands in front of her. “Behind a trash can or something. I saw you. I was late to a meeting and so annoyed, but I should have stopped just to embarrass you in front of all the cool New York commuters.”

“It was a harp. I hid behind a guy with a harp.”

“That shit hurt my feelings,” she says, still smiling but less so.

I can’t believe she saw me.

“I’m sorry,” I tell her and mean it. “I’m sorry for all of it. I’m sorry that you couldn’t rely on me when mom was gone. I’m sorry I was such an asshole to you in school. I’m sorry that I didn’t help you when everyone was being a dick about your period.”

She shrugs. “You had your own shit.” June clears her throat. “Siri, play the Romeo and Juliet soundtrack,” she calls out. The Des’ree song comes on. It’s perfect. I recall the fish tank scene in the movie. Baby-faced Leo in his chain mail and Claire with her half-pony and raver-girl angel wings gazing longingly at each other, separated by glass. It’s so weird to me that June’s never seen this movie and how I have no idea what she pictures when this song comes on.

“It’s amazing that either of us made it out of there when I think about it.” June picks up the joint and relights it at the stove. “We both suffered,” she croaks, walking back. June hands it over, eyes narrowed. “I was such a nerd. And you…” A plume of smoke obscures her face. “Were such a chink slut.”

I laugh—truly laugh—when she says that, and she cracks up so hard she starts coughing.

“You know, I bought one of those Japanese paint markers and covered it over before I left.” She holds her fist in the air and mimes a box. “Made a big-ass square and blacked it out.”

There’s a knot of pressure at my sternum. “Really?”

“You didn’t see it?”

I shake my head. “I never went back into that stall.”

“Wait,” she turns to me suddenly. “So, you did fuck Patrick?”

“What?”

“Sorry, it’s just where my brain went when we were talking about what a gigantic slut you are.”

“Oh my God.”

“Did you tell him about everything? About what’s going on with me?”

“God, no.” I shake my head solemnly. “I would never.”

“Okay.” Her face relaxes. “It would just be weird if he knew and Mom and Dad didn’t.”

“Of course. It’s not my story to tell.”

“It is, though, I guess.” She yawns. “Partially.”

“I didn’t say anything,” I assure her.

“Okay, so what does his body look like? Can you count his ribs from the front, or is he, like, stealth jacked?”

“I’m not fucking telling you.”

She beams. “But you like him?”

“I like him.”

“Fantastic. Now get me a glass of water.”