Page 7 of Play Nice

“Heard you were getting wasted,” I say.

They both turn to me, startled, as if awoken from a deep sleep. Daphne jumps up to hug me.

“We’re not drunk,” Leda says, defensive.

“Relax. I won’t tattle,” I say, crossing my heart. “But just so you know, God knows.”

Leda scoffs. She’s not religious; none of us are—we had our fill of “the power of Christ compels you” nonsense in adolescence. She just can’t stand the idea of doing something wrong.

“Don’t tease her,” Daphne whispers in my ear. “She’s fragile.”

“I heard that! I am not fragile. I just don’t think this is a very funny time.”

“You’re right,” I say, wriggling free of Daphne to go hug Leda. It’s unpleasant, like embracing a flagpole.

“You smell good. What is that?” she asks.

“Me,” I say, flipping my hair. I left mine alone. Dark, long, thick, curly. One of the few things our mother gave to us that’s never come up in therapy. When you inherit mostly complexes, why not appreciate the rare gifts? “And Tom Ford. And Oribe. A mix.”

“Mm,” she says, taking a step back to examine me. I return the favor. She’s always had sharp features, but now, in her thirties, her cheeks have hollowed, the angles of her face gone harsh. She has Mom’s epic brows but Dad’s round green eyes. She has Mom’s prominent nose and wide mouth, but Dad’s slight lips and cleft chin. A perfect mix. She doesn’t think she’s pretty because Mom used to tell her she wasn’t, but I love looking at Leda’s face. It’s art.

She clears her throat and takes the daintiest sip of her sangria. “I talked to Helen. There is going to be a funeral.”

“Okay,” I say, pausing in anticipation of details that don’t follow. Instead, there’s a prickly silence.

“We’re not going,” Daphne says. She’s returned to the couch, this time with her feet up on the coffee table, perilously close to the pitcher.

“We, as in you and Leda?” I ask. “And Dad and Amy, I’m assuming?”

“Dad and Amy are not welcome,” Daphne says. “Aunt Helen made that clear.”

“Well, yeah,” I say, circling the coffee table and sitting on the chaise. The afternoon sun streams through the big windows, so bright it’s verging on belligerence. I shield my eyes. “But I want to go.”

Leda sighs a heavy, dramatic sigh. Daphne clicks her tongue.

“It’s gonna be a fucking circus,” Daphne says. “A freak show. You know that, right?”

“I love freaks. I am one.”

“Wearing old Salvation Army wedding dresses on the subway doesn’t make you a freak,” Daphne says, studying the contents of her glass.

“It makes me one of New York’s most stylish people, according to the Times,” I say. They both roll their eyes. “I’m not trying to convince you two to go.”

“Good. Because I’ve already been through this with Tom,” Leda says. “This is my decision.”

“Where is Tommy boy?”

“Upstairs on a work call.”

“Tommy!” I shout. “Maybe he’ll go with me.”

Leda gives me a death glare.

“Fine. I’ll go by myself.”

Daphne shakes her head. She continues shaking her head. Just watching her makes me dizzy.

“Clio…” Leda starts.