The Pretty One: A Novel About Sisters by Lucinda Rosenfeld

Fair—or Gus’s poem about an orphan boy with a cleft lip had won an Honorable Mention in the All Westchester Poetry Runoff for Under Thirteens. “Well, how do you like that,” Bob would say.
    “Wow, good for you,” Olympia now said, turning to Perriand thinking about how she was never invited anywhere—not even to Austria.
    “It’s really nothing.” Perri smiled faux modestly. “To be honest, the whole thing sounds completely hokey. I can’t figure out why I was even asked! The keynote speaker is the founder of Apple, Steve Whatshisname. Apparently, the organizers saw that silly article I was in, in Fortune magazine last year, about ten female entrepreneurs to watch—”
    Olympia felt her body tensing into a thousand individual knots. “I heard Steve Whatshisname is dying of cancer,” she said, then felt bad for saying so in light of her father’s medical issues.
    “I went to a conference in Beijing once,” said Bob. “Back then, they called it Peking, of course, raising the question… is it now called Beijing Duck?”
    “I was asked to speak, too,” interjected Gus, suddenly vertical. “In court tomorrow morning on behalf of a battered woman who’s about to become homeless unless her baby’s deadbeat daddy steps up to the plate.” She yanked out a chair at the far end of the table, producing a screeching sound that caused Perri to visibly flinch. (Or was it something Gus had said?) “And then, later in the day, I’m giving a lecture on the fundamentals of contract law to three hundred first-years.”
    “Such ambitious daughters I have!” declared Carol. She turned to her husband, then her son-in-law. “They certainly didn’t get it from me.”
    “Or me,” cut in Olympia, fully aware of the nakedness of her own insecurity, yet in that moment somehow unable to disguise it. At her age, she secretly felt she ought to have been running her own gallery or museum, not ordering cases of Riesling and updating mailing lists for someone else’s and especially not someone nearly ten years her junior. That, or she should have been oneof the featured artists. But despite having attended Pratt for a year and a half and forging some connections in the downtown art world, Olympia had long ago given up trying to be an artist. She’d had her bunny paintings featured in a few group shows, but the exposure hadn’t led anywhere. Maybe it was that she didn’t have the energy or the drive, or that she secretly suspected that her artwork was trite, even corny, and possibly not even worthy of a Hallmark card; and that she couldn’t compete on that front or really any other; and that the only thing she’d ever been good at was looking a certain way, striking a certain pose. That and arranging blind dates. Her sisters were the Impressive Ones, while Olympia flitted from job to job and failed to complete master’s programs (two, so far). She was the only Hellinger sister without an advanced degree. Perri had gotten her MBA from Columbia, and Gus her JD from Berkeley. Olympia had also been the only sister not to break 1400 on the SAT.
    “Um, you’re hardly flipping burgers at Mickey Dee’s,” said Gus.
    “I didn’t say I was,” said Olympia, hiding behind her water glass.
    An awkward silence ensued. It was Mike who lifted the pall. “Well, here’s my public speech for the day: What do you say we all eat?”
    “Finally,” grumbled Aiden.
    “Sadie, Aiden,” said Perri. “Please go wash your hands!”
    “I washed them an hour ago,” murmured Aiden.
    “It’s only blood,” said Sadie, lifting her hands, which were covered with red streaks.
    “Blood!” cried Perri.
    “Just kidding. It’s marker.”
    “Fine. Be filthy, all of you,” said Perri as she doled out perfectsquares of her asparagus frittata. “Contact cholera. What do I care?”
    Sadie lifted a celery stick off her plate, waved it through the air at her mother, and declared, “Petrificus Totalus!”
    “Anyone care for an