Dead to Me Read Free

“Circulate, my dear! Circulate!”
    After enough people had remarked on how precious we were, she’d shuttle us off to bed, making a big show of kissing us good night in front of her guests.
    It was always movie people, no one you’d have heard of, but people from my father’s department, office people, and some of my mother’s old friends from her acting days.
Occasionally someone important would turn up, if they were in the neighborhood, if they needed a quick drink before moving on to a better party. I always knew who these people were because Annie
and I were always dragged over for introductions that were supposed to look spontaneous but were actually quite well rehearsed.
    “Now, let me hear you do it again, Alice.”
    “Hello, Mr. Dietrich. It’s a pleasure to meet you,” I said, thrusting my right hand forward with plucky enthusiasm. Of course, I knew how to shake hands properly, and I knew
that grown-ups didn’t stick out their hands like they were directing traffic when greeting one another, but Mother insisted I do it this way. She said it made me look more youthful and
endearing.
    “And how old are you, little girl?” my mother asked, affecting a gruff, low-pitched voice.
    “I’m seven.”
    “Sir,” she said in her normal voice. “Remember to say ‘sir,’ Alice.”
    “I’m seven, sir.”
    Back to the old-man voice. “And how do you like school?”
    “I like it very well, sir.”
    My mother groaned. “Say it with a little more
pep
, Alice.”
    “I like it very well, sir!”
    “That’s better. Try to stay bright and sunny, Alice. People will always respond better to you if they think that you’re a cheerful person.” She sighed. “Now, if
only we could do something about those freckles.”
    She introduced us to anyone important, or anyone she thought was important. Anyone who wasn’t one of the threadbare office drones, thwarted artists, or blowsy husband-hunters who showed up
anyplace they were lucky enough to be asked.
    When we were older, she made me play the piano for them and she made Annie sing. The rehearsals we went through for those parties were ten times worse than practicing introductions and passing
olive trays.
    Even so, I loved to hear Annie sing. She had a full, throaty alto voice like Judy Garland, and when she sang something she really loved, like “Over the Rainbow” or “My Funny
Valentine,” I could see her go somewhere else. She wasn’t singing to a room of our parents’ drunk friends anymore. When she sang, she might as well have been in her own room,
singing for nobody but herself.
    I would never have gone so far as to say that our parents loved her more than me, but it was clear they considered her more
promising
. Where Annie was “beautiful” and
“smart,” I was “cute” and “clever.” Annie was charming; I was pleasant. Annie danced ballet and tap and took voice lessons, and I backed her up on the piano. And
we both went to those awful parties.
    Things changed when Annie started high school. Our parents sent her out to talent shows, where Annie sang insipid, perky little songs while I accompanied her. Annie also sang at other
parties—Hollywood parties—parties at which I wasn’t invited to perform, since I was too young to be beautiful or glamorous, but too old to be cute. My mother zipped Annie into
dresses with full chiffon skirts and as low a neckline as a fifteen-year-old could pull off, and pinned her hair into complicated twists on top of her head.
    “Mother, it hurts,” Annie complained.
    “Glamour hurts, dear. Just wait until next week when I take you in to Stella for a rinse,” she said, tugging at Annie’s scalp. “We’ll turn this straw into gold
yet.”
    Other things changed, too. Boys started calling the house, asking for her, sometimes two or three a night. Once or twice, I answered the phone and pretended to be her, but was always found out
within a few sentences. Each of Annie’s boyfriends annoyed my