Free Dr. Bird's Advice for Sad Poets by Evan Roskos Page B

said that the day before, Jorie got into an argument with Mrs. Yao and that she threw a laptop at her.”
    “Oh, yeah, I heard about that.”
    “Really?” I say. “Mrs. Yao didn’t report the incident. To anyone.”
    I try to read Gina’s face.
    “Well, I heard about it,” this marvel of bone structure and skin tone says. “I heard your sister freaked out in the library at some kids and then Mrs. Yao came over to break it up and then your sister threw a laptop at her or something.”
    “But that’s not what Mrs. Yao says.”
    “Well, I didn’t tell you about this, so why are you bothering me?” Gina inhales so hard on her cigarette that I can hear tiny tobacco leaves burning.
    “I want to find out if there’s a way to get her unexpelled.”
    “Not likely to happen, James. She sent me to the
hospital.
”
    “What if you ask them to let her walk at graduation?”
    “What am I supposed to do, go in there and plead with them to let her finish out the year? Give her another chance to cut my face up?” Gina presses her finger just under her tiny scar. I realize now that she has a tan and it’s not summer yet. She once dyed her hair with bright blue Kool-Aid and let my sister pierce her ears with a safety pin.
    “Look, you can believe me or not,” Gina says, “but she started a fight with me.”
    I wish liars just revealed themselves with a glow that others could see. But they don’t. And I don’t have the ability to read faces or tics or beads of sweat.
    “Jorie got kicked out of the house because of all this, Gina. Literally dragged and kicked out of the house.”
    “She’s probably better off.” She tosses her cigarette and pulls out her phone, dismissing me.
    God! Everything she does is like from a movie. She’s going to be famous. Strangers will weep over her murder-suicide!

19.
    TONIGHT, DINNER WITH MY PARENTS is a jovial affair. We begin with classy appetizers including Havarti dill cheese on crackers and some Rumaki. We discuss the latest showings at the art galleries in the city and schedule an outing to the Ritzy Cinemas to see the latest French film. Our main course: lobster ravioli in a blush sauce. For dessert: tiramisu. We tell jokes, laugh. I impress my father with my wit and even recite some Whitman to celebrate the culinary delights:
     
    This is the meal pleasantly set . . . . this is the meat and drink for natural hunger,
    It is for the wicked just the same as the righteous . . . .
     
    I ask for a glass of wine and receive it without lecture—I feel adult, accepted, in the right place and the right time for the first time.
    Of course, our real dinner is nothing like this. I’m just trying to ignore the empty spot at the table across from me where Jorie used to sit and roll her eyes whenever something eye-roll-worthy was said. Such as when my mother talked about how badly she wanted to apply for
The Amazing Race
with Jorie.
    “Think about how much closer we would be, Jorie—traveling together, working together, winning together!”
    “We wouldn’t win,” Jorie would say.
    “Of course we would! I think we would.”
    “I’m not sure a couple of Americans running around in foreign countries is something the world can handle,” my father would grumble. “You’d be walking targets. I wouldn’t be surprised if we found out that some of the people booted off the show were really kidnapped by terrorists.” This was followed by a stern insertion of his fork into his mouth, and then: “Don’t roll your eyes at me, Jorie. Show some respect for god’s sake.”
    Tonight, I pick at my iceberg lettuce salad (nutritional content: none) and try to find some of the frozen cheese ravioli that have been cooked thoroughly enough to eat. (My mother mixes meat and cheese ravioli together; meat ravioli taste like the devil’s nuts.)
    “Has Jorie called or anything?” I ask.
    My parents are silent. Just hearing the name of the banished irritates them. Or maybe they easily erased