“Bagsy you get anything with sweat stains,” I said.
“First dibs on the giant knickers.”
We hefted the bag up the stairs and turned out its contents on my bed. I’d expected the worst, but I was wrong. It was a surprisingly good haul.
“Look at this beauty,” Laika said, holding up a blouse with bouffant sleeves and a high frilly collar in a faded tangerine.
“Put it on,” I said. “No, wait—look at this jumper—can you believe that pattern? Put that on too. Here—try it with this nylon skirt. And those socks with the multicolored sheep.”
“Now this is more like it,” Laika said, pulling out a pair of faded black jodhpurs. “Hey, and look at the heels on those boots. Some of this stuff is seriously cool. Vintage. I’m going for the jodhpurs. And the frilly shirt.”
I pulled on a white, layered, ankle-length sundress and used a wide belt to cinch it in at the waist.
“That actually doesn’t look too bad,” Laika said, “if you were thinking of auditioning for a part in a musical. Put that enormous hat with it. You look like a wedding cake.”
“We need makeup,” I said. On a roll now, we marched into my mother’s bathroom and, giggling madly, helped each other load up our faces with foundation then eyeliner, mascara, blusher, cherry-red lipstick.
“I look ridiculous,” Laika said, inspecting her face. “I look like a clown.” She pulled a couple of poses. “You look okay.”
“Come on,” I said, “let’s show Deedee.”
Laika looked at me and raised her eyebrows. “Seriously?”
“Why not? Just keep a straight face, okay?”
We tottered downstairs. I had to hold up the tiers of lace fabric so I wouldn’t trip and Laika could hardly walk in the high-heeled boots. I went first out on to the terrace, where my father, who was supervising the work, was standing with Ian Cox, both men with their arms crossed across their chests, businesslike. I gave a twirl.
“Very nice, Willa,” my father said, “very Stepford Wives.”
“Stepford Wives,” I said. “What’s that?”
Following my lead, Laika made her entrance. She flung open her arms and wheeled around, staggering slightly in the high heels. She was giggling, enjoying herself. Standing in the middle of the terrace, she wiggled her hips and strutted like a catwalk model, striking different poses, her dark hair wild and tumbling about her head. The pale tangerine blouse billowed like a sail. I stood on the edge of the terrace, loving the show, the fun Laika was having. The two men watched.
“Good God,” Deedee said, appearing in the doorway. “What’s she up to now?”
“What’s going on?” my mother said, following behind.
My father replied, keeping his eyes on my sister. “Laika is flirting with me,” he said.
I watched Laika’s face fall the moment the words were out of his mouth. Turning, she pushed past Deedee and my mother and stumbled into the house, wobbling unsteadily in the heels. I followed her. She pulled off the boots and threw them hard across the kitchen. One bounced off the utility door and she bolted upstairs.
“Oh, my girl,” my mother said.
“Stay here,” I said; “I’ll go.”
I raced up the stairs. Laika was in her room, tearing off the clothes and hurling them across the room, her cheeks burning with shame. I stood in the doorway, plucking at the fabric of the white dress.
“Don’t say anything,” she said, “don’t even speak to me.”
She was down to her bra and knickers, the little dolphin necklace swinging wildly at her throat. She pushed past me and into the bathroom we shared. At the sink she scrubbed at her face with soap until her cheeks were blood red and raw. I put out a hand and touched her arm.
“Lai.” She turned her streaked face to me, her cheeks slick with rivers of black mascara.
“It’s always me,” she said. “Don’t you get that? It’s never, ever you, never the Golden Girl. Even when we’re doing the exact same thing. It’s always me.” She turned back and scrubbed again at her face. “Like I would flirt with my own father? It’s sick.”
“I don’t think he meant it like that.” My words sounded weak, even to me, a lie.
She turned on me. “Who the fuck are you now, his pet monkey?” She stood up and glared at me, her entire body tense with fury, her eyes red from the soap. “I hate him.”
She pushed past me and stormed to her bedroom. Then she turned and stood in the doorway. Through gritted teeth she said, “You’re never going to understand. You do everything you’re told. You never question anything. You’re a puppet. Somebody pulls a string and your arm jerks up. Someone opens your mouth and you spew whatever they want you to say. You never stand up for me. You never stand up for you. Nothing matters to you. You haven’t got the guts to stand up for anything or anyone in your entire life, not ever. I hate the fucking lot of you.”
She slammed the door so hard it rattled in its frame. I stood by the door, frozen, holding my breath in case someone downstairs had heard.
***
Laika only came down the next day, silently materializing next to me in a T-shirt and shorts but otherwise looking like she’d just got out of bed, her hair still an unbrushed mess of wild dark curls. I put my arm around her shoulders and we stood in silence, gazing through the window. Some new neighbors, Graeme and Sheila Bowman, had come over to introduce themselves, and my parents were standing with them on the terrace, inspecting the pale yellow brick my father had chosen for the extension. Spotting the two of us through the kitchen window, my mother called us out to say hello.
“Jesus,” Laika said, “do we have to?”
“Yeah, we do,” I said, “for Mum.” I dragged her outside.
“These are my daughters,” my mother said. “This one is Willa.”
“What a pretty name,” Sheila Bowman said. “Very unusual.”
“She was meant to be a William,” my father said.
“And this one needs a haircut.” My mother took hold of the long, tumbling cords of Laika’s unbrushed hair and twisted them into a sort of high bun around her own fingers. Unable to move, Laika stood scowling, the milk-white skin of her neck exposed, as if waiting by a guillotine. Her fringe covered her eyes. “I’ve been telling her for weeks, but she’s not exactly cooperating.”
