Jennifer Dixon
Sisters in Crime
Heat drips from the popsicles making our hands sticky with red. We work quickly; finishing the popsicles before the unyielding August sun devours them. My little sister sighs deeply and wipes at her crimson stained mouth with the cuff of her t-shirt.
“I am soooo boooored,” she whines, throwing her head down and snapping her sweaty, blond ponytail forward, cheerleader style.
“Trisha, you are soooooo dramatic,” I mock, while wiping my hands on my faded blue jean shorts.
There are three short days left of our break and boredom hangs in the air like an dark rain cloud. Long days of droning teachers and restrictive desks loom ever near, threatening our summer freedom. The smell of pool chlorine, the chime of the ice cream man’s jingle, and juicy, blue-raspberry sno cones will be replaced. Our days will soon be filled with the odor of #2 pencil shavings, the squeak of chalk on freshly washed blackboards, and the bland cafeteria mush served up by disgruntled, hair-net wearing lunch ladies who sport hairy moles like they are the latest fad.
She glances up at me from where she sits on our concrete steps. Aqua blue eyes, so similar to my own, shoot laser beams of contempt in my direction. I study her face, waiting for her sarcastic reply, and notice her freckles have multiplied exponentially since the start of summer. She opens her mouth, ready to let me have it, and is interrupted by the rusty squeak of our screen door. We turn and see Mom poking her head out.
“Girls, I’m gonna run to the store to pick up a few things. You think you’ll be okay for an hour or so?”
“Yeah, we’ll be fine,” I say, ready to assume the role of boss for the next hour. Trisha nods in approval.
Mom ducks back into the house and returns seconds later with keys and purse in tow. She hurries toward the car, yelling out her last reminders over her shoulder.
“You guys know the rules when I’m gone. No using the stove and don’t answer the door for anyone!”
Trisha and I both nod in false obedience, anxious for a whole hour free from parental guidance. She hops into the family Citation, a dull two-tone maroon, and rolls down the window to release the hot, stuffy air. Before pulling out, she calls out the window.
“Be good girls. I love you.”
We wave as she drives away, feeling the weight of authority lift. Trisha and I lock eyes; sly grins overtake our faces. Our previous altercation now forgotten, my sister and I are now ready for mischief…good old-fashioned mischief. We escape into the air-conditioning of our living room and I lock the door behind us, all alone with ideas of trouble.
“So…whadaya wanna do?” she asks, curious to see what bright idea I’ll come up with this time. I am never short of unique ideas for having fun and Trisha is always willing to go along for the unpredictable ride. Let me think…there was the time we washed the dishes while we took a bath in our swimsuits; two chores for the price of one. The time we put a twelve-pound bowling ball on our trampoline, batting it down and playing a warped game of keep away as we jumped around. Trisha sacrificed two front teeth for that day of twisted fun. And, who could forget, canned food art. We lined up different cans of food in the road and watched, hidden from sight, as cars unknowingly became artists. Our climatic excitement was always satisfied by the impending *POP* as the colorful food burst from its tin prison, then *SPLAT* as it sprayed in a thick, abstract pattern over the black asphalt canvas.
“Well, we can’t use the stove. We can’t go outside,” I rattle things off trying to find inspiration on the trail of “cant’s.” Trisha, startled by her own strike of genius, throws her arms up in an “A-ha” moment.
“We can’t use the stove, right? But, Mom didn’t say ANYTHING about the microwave!” Her red stained lips break into a maniacal smile, and with her cheeks still rosy from the heat, she takes on the appearance of a lunatic clown. Her genius in finding this loophole is the catalyst that sparks my best idea yet. I grab Trisha by her chubby wrists and begin ranting.
“Oh my gosh! I just though of something! You know how when Mom bakes and we ask for a taste and we only get like a teeny-tiny teaspoonful. And then she says we can lick the bowl, but scrapes out ever last drop. We could totally make like a whole bowl of icing just to eat. We could have it all to ourselves,” I sputter on, breathlessly, unable to control my excitement. I have spoken words dipped in magic and rolled in glittery fairy dust. I have cast my spell. Her eyes glaze over and her mouth falls open. She is thinking about the delight she will find at the bottom of a bowl filled with sweet, gooey icing.
I tug her arm, coaxing her gently in the direction of the kitchen. I continue filling her in on the details of my perfect plan.
“Okay. So, I’ve seen Mom make icing a million times. There are only like three ingredients.” I begin going through the cabinets searching for what I need. Trisha stands back, unsure what to do. Then, she thinks of something and jumps on our kitchen counter.
I begin to pile ingredients on our slick, wood table top: powdered sugar, butter, vanilla…What are we missing…? Trisha interjects my thought.
“Hey, don’t we need to dye it?” she asks twisting around from her kneeling position on the counter. She is holding the small box of liquid colors we use for Easter eggs.
“Yeah. Pick out whatever color you want.” She nods and slips a small, dunce capped red bottle from the box.
We go to work like pre-teen mad scientists. Powdered sugar and mischievous giggles fill the air in our tiny kitchen. All is going well until we dump in a whole stick of melted butter and several generous squirts of the red dye. We stir until our arms grow tired, but something isn’t right.
“It doesn’t look right,” my worried accomplice says, disappointed. I have to agree. The bowl is filled with a thin, goopy, lumpy mess of pink. Foamy bubbles have gathered on top from our vigorous stirring.
“Well, we haven’t used the mixer yet. Once we blend everything together it will be perfect,” I coax, unwilling to admit that our Pepto-Bismol concoction would not hold up to icing a Twinkie. She grabs the mixer and plops it in the bowl. Then, disaster ensues.
As soon as she flips the switch the bowl goes into a schizophrenic rage. It twists and turns, leaving the wallpapered kitchen dripping pink like bulimic Barbie threw up her cotton candy binge.
“TURN IT OFF….TURN IT OFF!” I scream at the top of my lungs. Trisha pushes a button and the room falls silent. We meet eyes and share a moment of trepidation. We both know we will be dead once our Mom walks through the door. I’m not sure how she will carry it out, but I will not live to see junior high, kiss a boy, or drive. Trisha will not live to know what it is like to wake up with a dry bed in the morning and her Luke Perry poster will go unkissed forevermore.
“Okay…I think we have time to clean this up,” I say, panicked. Death is looming near, driving the speed limit in a two-tone Citation.
“Trish, we have time.” Her blue eyes are watering, bottom lip shaking. Her purple track shirt is splattered with icing. I run to the sink and grab a wash rag and throw it in her direction.
“Start cleaning!” We go to scrubbing like two janitors who get paid serious dough for a living. I’ve never worked so hard or fast in my life.
“We’re gonna get away with this, Trish,” I beam in her direction. Her face is red and shiny with sweat.
“Why do we always do…” She is interrupted by our squeaky screen door.
“Girls, you need to come help me bring some stuff in,” Mom’s voice breaks my confidence. I glance around and am semi-satisfied with our clean up, but the bowl of icing still sits on the ….
“Girls did you…” She stops in the doorway. We are caught, pink-handed, holding sponges and the best evidence of all, the goop filled bowl screams from the middle of our table. She scans the room, her eyes smoking with fury. Most of the walls are clean now, but a few streaks of incrimination remain. She takes in a huge breath to gather her Mom wits and probably to contemplate the best way to get rid of two small bodies. Trisha and I remain still, trying to appreciate what remains of our lives. I’m sure gonna miss my family, especially Trisha. I glance in her direction and my Mom’s anger grabs my attention.
“What were you girls…You know what, never mind. I don’t know what little pink potion you guys created, but you’re gonna eat every last drop. Your Dad and I work too hard to be wasting food. I hope it tastes better than it looks,” she makes her way over to our utensil drawer and scoops out… two… spoons...whew—not a knife. She slings them on the table. The metallic clatter makes my stomach roll. Trisha and I remain as silent and still as GI Joe soldiers.
“I’m going to bring groceries in and you guys are gonna have your pink dinner and then you’re gonna finish cleaning up this kitchen. Bon appétit,” she smiles satisfied with her wicked punishment. She whips around and stalks out the kitchen door. We do not move or speak until we hear the slam of the screen door.
“Well, I guess it’s time to eat,” I try to make a joke.
“She was real mad,” Trisha says. We sit down across from each other and grab our tarnished, silver spoons. We hear the screen open again, and Mom floats through the kitchen. She is obviously pleased with the Mom justice she has smacked down. She begins unpacking the groceries onto the counter.
“Eat up, girls! Your dinner’s getting cold,” she punctuates her statement with a Cheshire grin, and sidles back out of the room.
“How bad can it be? It’s just powdered sugar, butter, and red dye,” I say, anxious to get this over with. I delicately dip my spoon in the bowl to get a tiny taste. I know, if I go first Trisha is more likely to follow and we can get over this pink hump. I poke my tongue out and close my eyes. The cold glop meets my taste buds and I realize this might not be so bad. Mom thought she was giving us a tough punishment, but this tastes like liquid cotton candy.
“Mmmmm…it’s not too bad,” I let Trisha know it is safe to dive in to the lagoon. She goes for it and the sick face she is wearing dissipates and is replaced by a smile of relief. We alternate dipping, then licking our spoons. My Mom quietly continues to put away the groceries and, eventually, leaves us by ourselves.
After 203 dips, and 202 licks we begin to understand the downside. I am getting nauseous and Trisha is turning a color that could only be named on a crayon. Maybe ‘I’m Gonna Puke’ green. The sound of it makes my ears smile.
It is at this moment, watching Trisha dutifully choke down her portion of this disaster, that I understand; we are in this thing together. The earliest memory I can recall involves her; the day my parents brought her home from the hospital. And from then on out, we have been sharing baths, secrets, and spankings. There is no one else on this planet that laughs at my corny jokes or willingly carries out my stupid schemes like she does. We tend to get ourselves in some messy situations, but we always come out laughing with another shared disaster under our high tops. I am thoughtfully staring at my green hued partner in…No, sister in crime when Mom pokes her head in and tells us we can stop eating.
“You girls need to finish cleaning these walls before your Dad gets home.”
“Okay,” we say in thankful unison. I gladly pick up the bowl and carry the remainder of the sweet nastiness to our sink. I wet a sponge and toss it in Trisha’s direction. She goes to work cleaning the remainder of our gaffe and I begin washing the bowl when I hear my sister speak words dipped in magic and rolled in glittery fairy dust:
“So, what do ya wanna do tomorrow?”
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