IT WAS WORSE THAN I’D expected.
Adriana was primly folding a blouse and placing it into a suitcase on her bed. She wore an oversized Tweety Bird t-shirt and Christmas socks, and wads of toilet paper lay scattered about the room.
A few years ago, Adriana went through a rebellious stage and chopped her hair off into a pixie cut. I’d never seen my mother more horrified. Adriana had lost her credit card, her acting classes at our all-girls school, and got glowered at every day for a month. It’d grown into a sleek bob now, but it was then I’d learned that cutting your hair in this house was worse than murder.
With dark blue walls, white crown molding and golden accents, Adriana’s room would appear fit for a home staging . . . if it didn’t look like a costume designer had thrown up in it. Posters from famous plays like The Great Gatsby hung on the walls. Weird stage props sat on the vanity: feathers, hats, and masquerade masks. Things that made your head hurt while trying to figure out their purpose—like the giant rabbit’s head on the bed.
I didn’t believe Papà knew he was paying for every penny of Adriana’s dramatic art school’s stage props. But my father didn’t concern himself with my sister too much. As long as she was where she was supposed to be, he was happy. He just didn’t understand her, nor she him.
With a sigh, I grabbed the blouse from her suitcase and went to the walk-in closet to hang it back up. She ignored my presence, brushing shoulders with me as she passed with a pair of jeans.
“What’s with all of the toilet paper?” I asked, sliding the shirt onto a hanger.
She sniffled but didn’t respond.
The last time I’d seen her cry was at our nonno’s funeral when she was thirteen. My little sister was one of the most unemotional people I’d ever met. In fact, I thought the idea of emotion repelled her. My stomach twisted with concern, but I knew Adriana appreciated pity as much as she loved chick flicks. She hated them.
I grabbed the jeans from the suitcase and headed to the closet. “So, where are you going?”
She passed me with a yellow polka-dot bikini. “Cuba. Saudi Arabia. North Korea. Pick one.”
We continued this dance of packing and unpacking like a human conveyor belt.
My brows knitted. “Well, you didn’t exactly give me a good list. But Saudi Arabia is out if you’re planning on wearing this bathing suit.” I folded it and put it away.
“Have you met him?” she asked, walking past me with a zebra-printed robe.
I knew she meant her future husband.
I hesitated. “Yes. He’s, uh . . . real nice.”
“Where am I going to fit all my props?” She threw her hands on her hips and stared into her small suitcase like she’d just realized it wasn’t a Mary Poppins bag.
“I think they’re going to have to stay here.”
Her face scrunched up like she was about to cry. “But I love my costumes.” Tears were running now. “And what about Mr. Rabbit?” She grabbed the giant rabbit’s head off the bed and held it next to her own.
“Well . . . I’m not sure about North Korea’s shipping policies, but I’m betting Mr. Rabbit won’t pass.”
She threw herself on the bed and whined, “What about Cuba?”
“It’s probably a better possibility.”
She nodded like that was good. “I have an Alice in Wonderland production coming up.” She wiped her cheeks, already finished crying.
“Who are you playing?” I knew it wasn’t Alice. My sister didn’t like anything mainstream or blonde.
“The Cheshire Cat.” She smiled.
“Yeah, that sounds like you.” I went into the closet and found a thin-strapped black dress she could wear to lunch. It took a moment to find it because it was squeezed between a Legend of Zelda and Peter Pan costume.
I set the dress on her bed. “You better get ready. Almost everyone is here.”
“Ryan broke up with me,” she deadpanned.
My expression softened. “I’m so sorry, Adriana.”
“He doesn’t understand why I’m getting married and doesn’t want to see me anymore. So, he must not love me very much, right, Elena?” She looked at me with big brown eyes.