Yolk(3)

The last time I saw her, I hid. She’d been transferring for the uptown 4 at Union Square. Her nose was buried in her phone and she was wearing a slate-gray businesswoman’s dress to the knees, looking like someone I’d never be friends with.

It’s only then that I realize: My sister is looking for me.

With my back pressed against the wall, I wait for her to reach me like a Venus flytrap. I steal a glance back to my table. Rae and Jeremy are both on their phones.

She startles when I grab her. “What are you doing here?” I whisper angrily, pulling her behind the hostess section and pinning her, hiding us both. She knows better than to lie. This isn’t her part of town. I quickly assess her appearance. She’s dressed all wrong. The baseball cap on her head reads DARPANA MUTUAL. The putty-colored trench I recognize, but under it is a strange orange shirt, swishy silver workout pants, and ultramarine rubber clogs.

“Why aren’t you in class?” she demands, shaking me off her arm and pulling away. I scoff. It’s so classic. Of course this is the first thing she says to me in almost a year.

“Why aren’t you at work?” I counter. “And what are you wearing?” I haven’t seen her out of a suit in years. Honestly—and this is fucked up—she’s dressed like a rural Chinese person on holiday. I take a step away from her. I want to make clear to anyone observing that we are not together. That this is an intrusion.

“I’ve been calling,” she says. I feel her eyes land judgily on the glass in my hand. I take a long sip, holding her gaze.

“I left, like, three voicemails,” she continues.

“I didn’t see them,” I lie. All of the messages were “Call me.”

“You’re so unreliable.”

“So, you stalked me?”

“I wouldn’t call it stalking,” she says. I need to stop geotagging everything. I forget that my sister’s even on IG. The last thing I saw on her grid was from Halloween, where she’s dressed as a Yu-Gi-Oh! character. It stressed me out so much, I muted her.

She crosses her arms archly. “You know, you could have just gone to San Antonio Community College if you’re hell-bent on being some lush,” she finishes.

I’m tempted to smack her, but we’re mushed against the wall by a party of four inching past us.

“Seriously, what the fuck?” I whisper angrily. “What are you doing here?” For a second we’re back in high school. My adrenaline’s spiked. I slide my left foot back for stability.

But instead of pushing or shoving, she takes a deep breath and refuses my eye.

My heart judders.

“Fuck, is it Mom?” I ask. She’s dead. I’m totally convinced of it. It’s the only thing that would make my sister come see me like this.

“No,” she says. “But we have to talk.”

“So, talk, fuck.” My indignation sounds performative even to me. I realize I’m drunk. The glass in my hand is suddenly empty.

“How are you?” she asks conversationally, doing this little brow-knitting concerned thing.

“You can’t be serious.” Truth is, she’s really beginning to frighten me. This isn’t who we are to each other.

“Fine,” she says quickly. “But I don’t want to tell you here.” She reaches for me. I recoil so fast, her nails scrape my bare forearm. I raise it between us, glaring accusingly even though it doesn’t hurt. We stand there, the radiant resentment between us throbbing.

“My friends are waiting for me,” I counter, practically in singsong. It’s old hat that I goad my sister this way. Flaunting my comparative popularity. I dislike myself as I do it.

“Look,” she says. “It’s not Mom, but it’s important. Text me when you’re done. I’ll send a car.”

“Fine,” I tell her.

Jeremy barely glances at me as I sit down. “How is it privilege if it’s a lottery? Nobody asks to be white. Especially nowadays.” It genuinely pains me to rejoin this conversation. “It’s a class issue, not a race issue. That’s the scam. Why is it practically illegal for cis, het, white men to have any cultural relevance anymore?”

“You know,” Rae says, gaze trained on her phone. “I think we can take the J train over.”

I grab my coat and bag. “I just have to…” As I head toward the front, the bathroom door swings open. The dappled glass pane that reads TOILETTE almost hits me in the face. I let myself in and twist the lock shut. It’s tiny. A single commode and a gemlike sink in the corner. The coffin-sized room features floral wallpaper and the kind of European flusher where you pull down the knob on a chain.

I collect bathrooms in the city. I like knowing where they are. The LGBT center in Chelsea with the Keith Haring mural on the second floor. Whole Foods on Bowery in the back of the food court with a passcode on any receipt. The tiled floral beauty of the New Museum stairwell, where you can catch video installations for free. Dank Irish dive bars all over the East Village also make for safe refuge, and they’re always open. The real winners are in hotels and certain clubs. The ones that feature stall doors that go from the floor all the way up to the ceilings, those are best for secrets.

I pee and check my phone for a while. Just enough to make June wait.

When I glance back at the table, it’s empty.