Around the Corner (Discontinued)

Chapter 3

I have always disliked our our home phone, a cheap black landline with the number two button completely removed. Because, aside from myself, no one in the household uses it, no one wants to invest in a better version, or at the very least, another button. I dial her number, waiting as I listen to the brittle hum of an ancient phone.

I straighten when a voice interrupts the crackled monotonous purr on the other line.

"Hello?"

"Hi. Laila. Listen, I–"

"Did you finish my packets?"

"Yes," I say, "I'll give them to you next week."

"Yes, because that's when they're due. I gotta go. Bye."

"Millie, I was hoping to get out of the house for a little bit." I shrug, glancing backwards at the closed door to my sister's room. "I don't think my parents will let me go if I ask."

She sighs, but all I hear is a broken noise on the line. "Yeah, they never do."

"You said you needed a dress. I could help pick it out."

"You can help, I guess. I'll come by." Nothing hides her contempt, not even the broken phone.

"Thanks, I–" She ends the call, and I end the sentence.

I make haste, dressing quickly, into a secondhand threadbare shirt, frayed at hems from Fernanda's time with it. Most of my shirts resemble this one, faded and battered from repeated use and laundering. My jeans, however, have had one sole owner, due to the fact I could not fit into Fernanda's used skinny jeans. Even her shirts, which so excellently fit her frame, hug mine tight enough, each crease a threat to tear and holes to form. Her hand-me-downs never adjusted to my muffin top nor my chubbiness, longing for Fernanda's lean curves and shape. Nothing in her wardrobe liked my plump body. When I think of her clothes being too small for me, neither am I.

My parents grant me permission to leave, and I amble down the hall, past Fernanda's closed door. Drawing careful steps back, I freeze outside the door.

Silence. Emptiness. Against my own advice, I carefully wrap my fingers around the doorknob, turning. I push open the door, peeking inside.

Fresh air flowing in through the open window hits me. Beige curtains stretch to the floor and billowed as the breeze blows in. Swaying gently, they caress her wooden floors and cast tinted light over the empty bedroom.

I wander, unsurprised my sister already made her grand escape. Whenever our parents try to scold her, control her wildness, she runs back to trouble. To another home. To another sort of family.

To her boyfriend.

Although my parents never buy her items, her room is stunning in comparison to my own bedroom. I have a simpler taste, accepting any furniture given. Thus, furniture and decorations of all colors and styles filled the room next door. Here, however, is just as aesthetic as the girl who is meant to sleep upon those tawny and white linen sheets. Upwards, circular lanterns dangle from the ceiling, only to crawl down to the wooden bed frame and a hidden outlet. I walk past her large drawers to a dresser beside the window. Bare cream walls stare, excited to finally have company grace them.

Jewelry Fernanda no longer wears litters the surface of the dresser, tangled and broken. A silver watch glitters from a metal hook holding up various chains and necklaces. Underneath the mix, crinkled paper is laid out. I pull the sheet of notebook paper out, realizing it had been written on. Though the messy handwriting is scarcely legible and capital letters are scattered everywhere, I manage to read the entire letter.

Fern, sweetheart–
I'm not angry about the fIght. you're right, Dania did deserVE it. Everyone in the school knows damn well not to mess with you. You've got fists of iron. God, it's fuNNy I'm so madly in lOVe with a steel Woman. But you're more than that, as well. You're a cLad iron queen. Those last longer than princesses iN ribbons aNd silk dressEs. I should know, I've beeN with a few. But I could never love them the way I love you. Fern, you're my everything. They say let what you love kill you, so long you love every bit of it. I'm sure of our loving and my constant need for you by my side. If that quote rings true, I'm ready to die, my iron clad queen. Love you.

Brunito, your favorite midget

Ps. I'm still taller than you

Surrounding the poorly written love letter are awkward hearts and misshaped arrows going through them. Others lie underneath all the gold and silver chains, all from Bruno. They range from cheesy and awkward to poetically sweet, almost like lyrics to a song. Some go as far back as the ninth grade, those being the most awkward.

I fold the first one I read, and shove the letter into the back pocket of my jeans. I leave room, shutting the door behind me. My parents will discover the emptiness soon enough. Shake their heads and try to keep up with work. We stopped filing missing person reports long ago, when we realized it did no good. She is a stray cat with a liking for freedom.

For trouble.