Forbidden Sister Read Free Page B

used Mama’s French to call me his fille parfaite . Maybe hearing him say that I was a perfect daughter in French made it even more special.
    Sometimes I would imagine that Roxy was standing there beside me in the house, scowling and sneering whenever Papa said that. I knew what sibling rivalry was, how friends of mine competed with their sisters or brothers for their parents’ affection and approval. As strange as it might sound, even though my sister was gone from our home and our lives, I still felt sibling rivalry. Perhaps I was competing with a ghost. My visions of her were as vague as that, but I still felt that I was always being measured against her. Was my French as good as hers? Was I as pretty?
    Other girls and boys my age might have older brothers or sisters to look up to and try to emulate. I had a sister, a secret sister always to be better than. It wasn’t difficult for me to outdo her in every way except misbehavior, but nothing I could do or say really stopped my parents from thinking about her. I knew that was true, regardless of what Papa pretended or how furious and red his face would become at the mere suggestion of her.
    Roxy was there; she would always be there, haunting us all. Keeping her bedroom door shut, throwing out her things, removing her pictures from the shelvesand the mantel, ignoring her birthday, and forbidding the sound of her name didn’t stop her voice from echoing somewhere in the house. Whenever I saw Papa stop what he was doing or look up from what he was reading and stare blankly at a corner or at a chair, I had the feeling he was seeing Roxy. I know Mama did. It got so I recognized those moments when she would pause no matter what she was doing and just stare at something. I would say nothing. Afterward, she often went off to cry in secret.
    “If it doesn’t rain, we’re going to the park for lunch, and then after school, I’m going to Chastity Morgan’s house to study for our unit exam in social studies,” I told Papa at breakfast. His whole body was at attention, waiting for my response.
    “Just you and Chastity?” he asked, his dark brown eyebrows lifted in anticipation of my answer.
    Even though Papa was never in the Army, he kept his dark brown hair as short as a soldier’s hair and had a soldier’s posture, with his shoulders back and his back straight. He had a GI Joe shave every morning and wore spit-polished shoes. He was a little taller than six feet and tried to keep himself physically fit. He would walk as much as he could and avoid taxicabs whenever possible, but his job was sedentary. Despite his efforts, he had slowly gained weight over the years, until his doctor warned him about his blood pressure and cholesterol. He tried to watch his diet, but Mama was French and cooked with sauces he loved. It did him no good to try to pass the blame onto her, either, because she was ready to point out how the Frenchwere thinner and healthier because they didn’t ask for seconds as he would often do.
    Except for that and the topic of my sister, my parents rarely argued. If anyone complained, it was Mama about herself. I thought it was an odd complaint.
    “I’m too devoted to that man,” she would mutter. “But I can’t help it.”
    I wondered if that was true. Could you love someone too much? What was too much? From what I saw in the lives of my classmates, especially when I visited them at their homes, their parents could use love inoculations, affection booster shots. Chastity Morgan’s parents were like that. Eating dinner in their dining room was like eating at a restaurant. Their conversation was mostly directed to their maid. I was there when Chastity’s father sent food back to be cooked longer or complained about being given food that was too cool. I half expected him to leave a tip at his plate before he left the table.
    Most of the time at these dinners, her mother would talk to Chastity and me without saying more than two words to Chastity’s