Today Will Be Different by Maria Semple Page B

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“You never told me you had a sister,” Timby said to me over the top of the catalog.
    “I don’t have a sister,” I said.
    There it was, finally: my lie, now a citizen of the world.
    Before I fell asleep at night, I’d cycle through the various intonations in my head, preparing myself for this awful, inevitable moment.
    I don’t have a sister.
    I don’t have a sister.
    I don’t have a sister.
    I don’t have a sister .
    Sometimes I’d say it out loud without realizing. Timby from the backseat: “What do you keep saying?” Me from the front: “Nothing.”
    Sometimes it would show on my face.
    Joe: What are you thinking about?
    Me: Nothing, why?
    Joe: Your teeth are bared.
    “But Tess Tyler was your mom,” Timby said. “And Parsley was your dog and—”
    “ The Flood Girls represents two sides of me,” I snapped. “It was an artistic experiment. That’s all.”
    The French fries arrived, a crispy umber heap sprinkled with chopped fresh herbs.
    “Whoa!” Timby said. “I call most of them!”
    Could it be? Could I have just gotten away with the whole thing?
    “Wait till you try the ketchup,” I said, a tremor in my voice. “They make it themselves.”
    But Spencer…
    Confusion had broken out across his face. His eyes were squinting. His brows were coming together. His mouth was opening. Words were coming out.
    “But didn’t I meet your sister?”
    For clarity: I do have a sister. Her name is Ivy. I created The Flood Girls as a gift for her. Until Dan Clowes happened across those illustrations years ago, it had never occurred to me to turn them into a graphic novel.
    Enter Joyce Primm, junior editor at Burton Hill, doing what junior editors did: troll obscure prize dinners for promising talent. Late twenties, rail-thin, pure confidence, Joyce cornered me in the Odeon ladies’ room.
    “Violet Parry gets all the credit for Looper Wash, ” she said. “It’s time we right that wrong.”
    “Nice try,” I said. “But Violet is a dear friend. No crime has been committed.”
    “I want more Eleanor Flood,” Joyce said. “ The Flood Girls begs to be expanded.”
    “This is highly flattering,” I said. “But I’m no graphic novelist.”
    “Daniel Clowes thinks otherwise,” she said. “So do I.”
    “I have no story to tell,” I said.
    She handed me her card. “Call me when you change your mind.”
    Then, years later, something terrible happened.
    And I did have a story to tell.
    I called up Joyce, by then executive editor of Burton Hill. She flew to Seattle.
    We had drinks at the W Hotel. Joyce had on three-inch heels, peach pants, a floral crinkly silk shirt buttoned low, and a long gold chain. Her face was makeup-free and she wore her long hair in an effortless chignon.
    Anytime I get into a one-on-one social situation, especially if there’s something at stake, my anxiety spikes. I talk fast. I jump topics unexpectedly. I say shocking things. Right before I push it too far, I double back and expose a vulnerability. If I see you about to criticize me, I leap in and criticize myself. (One shrink labeled this The Trick. Halfway through our first session, he stopped me mid-yak. He said I was so afraid of rejection that I turned every interaction into a life-or-death charm offensive. That I was so unrelentingly verbal made me, in his opinion, untreatable. He handed me back my check and wished me luck.)
    The best/worst thing about The Trick? People fall for it every time!
    Over drinks, Joyce and I became instant buddies. Moscow Mules became dinner, became “You’ve got to see this cute hat I bought.” Upstairs in her room, Joyce gave me her cologne; I’d admired the scent but it could be bought only in Paris. I told her she dressed like a spring when she was really a summer; I wrote her a list of colors she needed to start wearing. She confessed to being on the verge of an affair with a married author. I told her I was the direct descendant of a U.S.