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“Something’s going on with you.”
“It’s my sister’s sixteenth birthday. She’s practically flown the coop.”
“What coop?” Daisy asks. “The coop you don’t live in anymore?”
“The coop of our family. She’s so grown up.”
Daisy sighs. “It doesn’t seem like it’s been sixteen years.” A pause. “Are you sure this isn’t stress about the wedding?”
“Your wedding?”
Daisy’s black eyes meet mine, assessing. “Yes, mine. If it’s too much stress?—”
“You’re not too much stress.” I give her the flintiest look I can.
Daisy stares back at me.
This is a conversation we’ve had many times. When you have a best friend slash cousin slash sister with a brain slash eye slash seizure condition, that defines a lot in life. My parents and uncles never framed Daisy’s condition as limiting, and no one ever asked me to limit myself for Daisy, but I knew from a young age that she would rather hurt herself than ask me to change my plans for her. So I changed them without her having to ask. I learned to go inside early and suggest things we could do in relative darkness when it seemed like she was having a hard day, and I didn’t mind.
“That doesn’t mean it isn’t stressful,” she says. “It could be getting to you.”
“It’s not. Planning your wedding is an honor, and I’ll be mortally offended if you hire someone else.”
“Fine, but?—”
“Artemis?” Calliope calls. “Can you come here for a second?” Daisy and I hurry to Calliope’s chair. The stylist hovers nearby, looking over her work. “What do you think?”
My sister’s warm tone says there’s something wrong, and I don’t want to tell the stylist. She hates telling people what to do.
Her hair is only half-done, but it looks good. A quick scan tells me exactly what Artemis is worried about.
“This piece here. When we get to the end, do you think?—?”
The stylist steps in to explain how it’ll come together, and Artemis relaxes.
Thanks, she mouths in the mirror.
We stay with Calliope. Daisy strikes up a conversation about what’s going on in school and the comparative attractiveness of various celebrities, grinning at Calliope in the mirror. My mind wanders to Apollo and his last-minute meeting and the angle of the sun in the window. The party is nigh.
I’m drawn back into the conversation by Calliope saying, in a strained voice:
“—conical?”
“What?” Daisy answers. “Conical?”
“There was a part that had a…conical shape.” Artemis is beet red in the mirror. The stylist keeps her eyes studiously on her work.
“I suppose,” Daisy says. “That depending on certain…alterations, there could be a kind of conical shape at the…far. End.”
“But not the inner end?” Calliope chokes.
They are clearly talking about dicks. I don’t have the self-control to join the conversation without laughing.
“Where did you see this…example? Of the form?”
“Not in person!” Calliope squeaks. “It was artwork.”
In the confused, nearly hysterical silence, the stylist disguises a laugh as a cough.
