"It's For You"

The rotary phone in our beige, wood-paneled kitchen rings, its tinny pitch cutting through the radio quietly playing the Hits of the ‘70s, ‘80s and Today in another room. My sister and I look at each other from across the dining room table and all the homework spread out between us and smile mischievously at one another.

        “I got it!” I say and spring up first, but she manages to get a hand on the hood of my sweatshirt and pulls me back, surging past me as she squeals, “No, I got it!”

         Laurel is fifteen and I am twelve, and with six inches over me, she outmuscles me easily. I’m quick on her heels, though, as she rounds the kitchen island to grab the yellow receiver from its cradle near the fridge. I duck under her arm as she reaches the phone, the silver glitter in her nail polish gleaming in the overhead lights as she grasps the handle.

         My small hands land on top of her knuckles, keeping her from answering immediately. My nails, speckled with cheap pink polish that I have picked off, look dull next to her well-manicured fingers. I grin at my sister in triumph as the Brrrriinnggg of the landline trills through the house again, piercing our eardrums as we stand next to it.

    “Mia!” she groans at me, scrunching up her nose as she lets out an impatient sigh. “Please don’t be embarrassing!” Laurel’s cheeks flush pink and her eyes turn pleading. I see in my older sister a flash of my future, and I am disappointed by how much of it seems to be affected by whether my crush of the month calls me like they said they would.

This month it’s Chad, and for days now after school, Laurel has sat nearby one of the two landlines in our split-level house, waiting for him to call. She has begged our parents for a cordless for months, but so far, they aren’t sold on the idea. I think they know once she can take the phone in her room, they’re going to lose the ability to eavesdrop on some critical teenage intel. Plus, our mom really does seem to like the retro feel of the rotary phone. As an aging hippie, she says we need to appreciate old technology more. The phones remain corded and bolted to the wall (for now), one in the kitchen, one in the living room; both where responsible ears can hear you talking.

“Oh, come on, Laur, this could be anybody! How are you so sure it’s for you?” I flash my teeth at her, and she practically grunts in response. As her younger sister, it’s my duty to remind her that this is not the stuff that really matters. That boys and flirting and having perfect hair and nails might be fun, but they aren’t everything. And failing that, at least it’s my job to torture her a little, right? I mean, really, what are sisters for?

Her brown eyes narrow at me in a sideways glance, assessing. I can’t tell if she’s going to yell at me or try to bargain. She’s quite the unpredictable teenager these days. No one in our family knows what to expect from her minute to minute.

The phone rings again under our hands, and I feel the vibrations of the gears in its base tingling through her fingers and into mine. I’m using as much of my body weight as I can to keep her from being able to lift it.

“Can someone get that!” our dad calls from the basement. I hear the annoyance in his voice. If he comes upstairs from his workshop, he’s going to have questions. And Laurel wants privacy.

“Mia, please!” she practically shrieks as she tries to wrestle me out of the way with her hip. I plant my feet and use the counter behind me to resist while she shoves her hip bone harder than necessary into my stomach. I know I’ve taken it too far, but I feel like I can’t stop now. I don’t budge despite the dull ache in my tummy. “Ugh! I’ll paint your nails!” she yelps, searching for an idea she knows might break through to me.

The phone rings for the fifth time. “Girls!” our dad’s voice comes more forcefully than before from downstairs.

“I got it, Dad!” Laurel calls down and turns back to me. She wears an expression of near desperation, and I feel another pang of anxiety for the adolescent future that awaits me just around the corner.

“And my toes,” I say, pressing my advantage. I know what I said about caring about your appearance, and of course I mean it, but spa days are just about the only part of growing up that doesn’t scare the bejesus out of me. And despite how crazy she can make me feel sometimes, if I'm being honest, I crave my big sister’s attention.

“And your toes,” she agrees.

“And I get to pick any of your Hard Candy colors to use,” I add, easing up on Laurel’s hand before she agrees. I know she will, though, because I’m backing down first. It’s our unspoken, sisterly code of conduct.

“Fine,” she hisses while I take a step back, my hands raised in surrender. She lifts the receiver and covers the mouthpiece so Chad can’t hear her take a steadying breath. She straightens her shoulders, tosses her chestnut hair (as if he can see her), and coats her voice in honey. “Hello?” she croons like we hadn’t just been locked in battle.

Laurel’s face falls as an unmistakably female voice comes through the other end of the receiver. “Hang on,” she says as she extends the phone to me like she’s holding out a soiled rag. “It’s for you.” She looks upset and I want to feel bad, but I haven’t forgotten how she threw a little extra umph into her hip thrust when she was clearing me out of the way, so I can’t muster any sympathy quite yet.  

I shrug at her and grab the phone, the smallest look of satisfaction on my face.

        “Don’t take too long,” she says sharply. “Chad might call soon. I don’t want him getting a busy signal.”

I bite my tongue. I’m hoping even though it wasn’t him, she still might do my nails. The prospect of turning boy crazy doesn't thrill me, but Laurel has a bottle of ‘Sky’, a light blue shade with a subtle sparkly sheen, in her Hard Candy nail polish collection that I’ve had my eye on forever.

“Hello?” I say into the receiver.

        “Hi!” comes the voice of my best friend and down-the-street-neighbor, Emily. “Want to come over and watch Are You Afraid of the Dark? It starts in twenty minutes!”

“I’d love to,” I say, and catch Laurel’s eye hopefully. “But my sister promised to give me a mani-pedi.” I give her my best you-gotta-love-me smile and she rolls her eyes again, but she nods her head at the same time, and I know she’s relenting, accepting this turn of events.

“Call me in an hour, Em!” I say hurriedly, practically throwing the receiver back on the hook.

“Don’t!” Laurel starts to yell at my friend through the phone, but the line has already gone dead. “Chad might call!” she shouts towards my retreating back as I go running upstairs to her room to grab her basket of nail polishes. I pray the phone doesn’t ring again until the second coat dries, but I do hope when it finally does, it’ll be Chad calling for Laurel.

And I’m betting Laurel is hoping that whenever that phone call comes, I will be on my way to Emily’s and nowhere near either receiver in our house.