The Care and Handling of Roses With Thorns by Margaret Dilloway Page B

it.
    “Gal? You there?”
    “Yeah. I’m here.” I forgot I wasn’t talking. It’s a habit I’ve developed with my sister. She’s useless to argue against.
    “All right. I’ll call when I get in.” I hear a baritone murmuring behind her, probably into her other ear, into her neck. “I gotta go, Gal. Thanks.”
    The dial tone feels like a slap in the head.
    I shouldn’t have assumed all was well.
    I go into the living room. Riley’s staring blankly out the window. I am struck by how fast time has gone. She’s almost an adult, fifteen and a half. To me, the period I didn’t see her means seven or eight new roses, barely enough time for a new rose success. My perception of time is more geological than human.
    Her energy somehow fills up the house, makes it vibrate. It makes me tired, frankly. She stretches and shoots a withering look toward me. “Who doesn’t have cable in this day and age?”
    “Welcome to the home of the last great cheapskate holdout.” I grin. “No cell phone, either. And dial-up Internet.”
    “You’ve got to be joking.” She leans forward and rubs her temples with her fingertips. “I guess my mother really is trying to punish me.”
    “I’m not that bad.” I want to point out that at least I have my head screwed on straight, but instead I go into the kitchen. What will I feed her? I never have company. “You hungry? I’ve got minute steaks.”
    “No thanks.” She follows me into the kitchen, opening the old yellow freezer door with a groan. “Ugh. Frozen peas. Minute steaks. It looks like Grandma’s freezer.”
    Now she’s acting more like a regular teenager. The type I’m used to.
    I choose the simplest food possible, plus a few extra things in case Dara comes over or Brad looks hungry. “She taught me well.” I dig inside. “I might have a frozen burrito.”
    “Can’t we get a pizza?”
    I give her a stern look. “Didn’t your mother teach you how guests should behave? You eat what’s put in front of you.” I find the burrito encased in a tomb of frozen water. Bean and cheese. I crack the ice off over the sink and stick it in the microwave. “Take it or leave it, buddy.”
    “Buddy’s what you call boys.” She sits at my round glass table, putting her fingers underneath it. Who gets fingerprints on the underside of a glass table?
    I sit across from her. “You’re just like me. Get cranky when you’re hungry.”
    “It’s not because I’m hungry. I’m always like this.”
    “Oh, good. I’ve got something to look forward to.” I’m teasing, but her expression drops and darkens. Oops. She probably never got teased, the way my father teased me and Becky. I punch her lightly on the arm to show I’m playing.
    She winces as though I could actually hurt her. “I didn’t want to come, you know. But I had no choice. My mother was like, hey, I gotta go to Asia, and Gram’s not home, so you’re going to Gal’s. Who cares that the school year’s almost over? Who cares what I think?” She leans toward me. “You know, she didn’t have to take that stupid job. She could have looked for a new job at home.”
    I lace my fingers together. “Not exactly fair, I suppose.”
    The microwave beeps. Riley gets up and takes the burrito out, putting it on a plate she pulls out after a second’s search. “Want half?”
    I shake my head. “I might have salsa in the fridge.”
    “I’m not a bad student, you know.” She retrieves the salsa and sits down again across from me, wrinkling her nose. “This expired last year.”
    “Expiration dates are relative.” I sniff at it. Still smells like salsa. No mold. It’s all those preservatives. I throw it away to appease her. “What’s your favorite subject?”
    She takes a bite of the burrito, careful of its heat, and does not speak until she is through chewing. “Art.”
    “Art. That’s nice.” I’ll have to put her in Dara’s class. If she stays long enough to enroll. But what else am I going to do with