Annie says. We’re in the family room after dinner, a fire roaring in the fireplace. “Mom? Sarah?” Dad keeps checking his phone. After the haircut, he quit looking at Annie when she spoke. When she pierced one of her ears in numerous places, he didn’t talk to her for a week. When she pierced her nose, I thought he might collapse from anger. I think he doesn’t look at her straight on anymore because he’s afraid something new has happened. Mom’s watching The Bachelor. A long-ago season, and I’m not sure why she’s turned it on now. She knows the outcome. Mom pauses the show. Annie’s animated. Her eyes are bright. Liquid looking. Like what she plans to say means as much to her as that night on the stage last year. She glances at me. Is she nervous? My sister the star. Is she afraid? Has she become like me because of her choices? Because of her weight? “Mom, me and Sarah are starting a club,” Annie says. What? Me? No, not me. Mom looks from Annie to me and back to my sister.
