Page 10 of Play Nice

Dad clears his throat and says, “Leda.”

“She won’t listen to us,” Leda says. “You have to tell her.”

“You can’t tell me not to go, Dad,” I say. “None of you can. Besides, you’re overreacting. I can handle weirdos. I live in New York City. I work in fashion.”

“We should just let it go. Let her go,” Daphne says, sawing into her chicken. “The more we try to talk her out of it, the more she’s gonna want to do it.”

“What can I say? I’m a rebel.”

“We just worry about you being there by yourself,” Amy says so Dad doesn’t have to. “The people. The narratives…”

“Then I’ll bring someone. A chaperone,” I say, turning my head slowly, until I face directly across from me. “Tommy.”

Tension drops in like an anvil, hard and swift and graceless. Sir Thomas Robert Kowalski turns about as red as a stop sign.

“What do you say? How would you like to finally meet our mother?”

—

Everyone comes around on the idea except for Leda, who pouts through the rest of dinner until Dad announces that he’s taking us to Dreamies, a soda shop on Main Street that’s been a family staple for years. It’s impossible to be upset at Dreamies, with all its old-world charm—black-and-white tile floors, tin ceilings, sepia-toned photos on the walls, chrome-and-red-vinyl chairs, banana splits the size of an infant.

Leda, Daphne, and I get a banana split, three spoons. We each take a cherry, holding them up by the stems to cheers. It’s the only time Leda ever indulges, so Daphne and I allow her to eat all the strawberry without complaint, though it’s our collective favorite flavor. Chocolate and vanilla just aren’t as special.

Dad and Amy share a float, and Tommy is lactose intolerant, so he just gets a Coke. They sit at another table, speak in hushed tones, likely discussing the funeral.

“He doesn’t know what he’s in for,” Daphne says. “Poor guy.”

“It’s cruel, Clio,” Leda says. “You shouldn’t subject him to it.”

“He’s seen worse at his job. Real-life horrors. He can deal with a bunch of fake psychics and self-proclaimed witches,” I say, mining for hot fudge.

Leda doesn’t argue because she knows I’m right.

“The banana is the least desirable part of the banana split. Don’t you think?” I ask, attempting to change the subject.

“It’s necessary,” Daphne says. “You’d miss it if it were gone.”

“I would never miss a banana,” I say. “Ever.”

“I think you would,” Daphne says. “I think you absolutely would.”

“What are you two even talking about?” Leda asks, scooping up some whipped cream and offering it to Daphne, who eats it off her spoon.

“Why do we keep getting banana splits if you don’t like the banana?” Daffy asks. “Why not just get a strawberry sundae?”

I gasp.

“We always split a banana split,” Leda says.

“Always,” I say.

“It’s tradition,” Leda says.

“Sister tradition.”

“Okay, all right,” Daphne says, holding her hands up in surrender. “Point taken.”

There’s a lull, a moment of silence. Space for me to start a fire in.