The Accidental Siren

10.1 Olivia

CHAPTER TEN

OLIVIA

I was six when I overheard Mom and Livy murmuring about race in the adjacent bedroom. Back then, a broken sliding door was the only barrier between the bathroom and my sister's privacy. I watched them through a crack in the frame. I listened to every word.

“The kids at school call me black,” Livy said. I could see her sitting calmly on the foot of her bed; “calm” being a rare adjective for my seven-year-old sis. Her feet dangled beside Mom's chunky legs and her hands were folded in her lap.

“Well that's a silly thing to say,” Mom replied. “Your race is African, and your skin is a beautiful brown color.”

Livy held up her arm and inspected it.

Mom held her arm out beside Livy's. “And you know what?”

“What?”

“People call me white.” She found a coloring book on the nightstand, opened to a blank page, and placed her arm against the crease. “The paper's white, not my skin. My skin is beige!”

Livy smiled.

“We're all different colors, sweetie. And we're all beautiful in different ways.”

*  *  *

Punishment: day six.

T-minus five days until the Fairytale premiere.

Mara would always be my paradoxical muse; a wishing-well of inspiration with heads-up pennies to spare. When she stands beside you, your soul lifts and creativity flows. When she's actually yours--when your arms are wrapped around her neck and your life is no longer dedicated to winning her but to keeping her--the well begins to run dry.

Questions about our editing progress were constant: “When can we see it?” “How far are you?” “Why doesn't it look like a real movie?” And the questions didn’t just come from family. The panel of judges for the Lakeshore Celebration Art Contest called Mom every two days to request my submission.

I tossed the tennis ball at the wall above Whit's head--THUNK--and caught it on the return. “I wrote her a note in secret code last night and left it under her pillow.” I threw the ball again. THUNK. “The other day, we snuggled and watched a David the Gnome marathon on Nickelodeon.” Whit's eyes followed the ball. THUNK. “This morning, I wrote her a poem about Dorothy. She liked it so much she hugged me.” THUNK.

“James!” Livy shouted from the kitchen. “Knock it off!”

“I caught the ball, fell backwards on my bed, and tossed it toward the spinning blades of the ceiling fan.

“Glad you've been workin' so hard,” Whit said.

“If I wasn't grounded, I'd never get anything done!”

He held down the fast-forward button and zipped through the completed Red Room scene. Dad was both terrifying and comical in his red robe and latex mask. Watching him hobble through the room at super-human speed added another layer to the absurdity.

“Did you bring the caffeine?” I asked.

“Crap,” Whit said. “Totally forgot.”

“Darnit. How are we gonna stay awake?” I threw the ball again. The green fuzz came an inch from striking the fan.

Whit reached beneath his chair and tossed me another bag of homemade powder. “This'll keep us motivated,” he said.

I tossed the candy on my nightstand. “No sugar, beetle-dick. Four pounds left till my goal.”