Free The Never Never Sisters by L. Alison Heller Page A

respond
     in kind.
    “Marriage counseling,” said my mom, speaking again for me.
    “A marriage counselor.” Sloane smiled benignly, and my mom smiled too before tittering
     nervously.
    “O-kay.” The tittering had apparently annoyed Sloane, who jerked away from both of
     us.
    My mom and I exchanged a glance, and my dad tried to fill the silence. “So where are
     you staying?”
    “We’re staying downtown,” said Sloane. “With a friend.”
    If anyone else noticed the “we,” no one said anything about it.
    “You know we have a lot of room here. We’d love it if—”
    “I can see,” said Sloane, turning around and taking in the vaulted ceilings, “but
     it’s very comfortable where I am. This place is insane, though.”
    “It was just luck.” My dad cleared his throat. “I had nothing to do with it.”
    “That’s not true, Frankie,” said my mom. “If you hadn’t done such a good job at the
     bank to begin with, Brent never would’ve poached you from them to work at Moonstone.
     If you hadn’t done such a good job working at Moonstone, it wouldn’t have been ripe
     for the offering.”
    She always said it like this, as though my father had caused the boondoggle, his one
     sure step leading to the next—
this is the dog that worried the cat that killed the rat, that ate the malt that lay
     in the house that Jack built.
    It was sweet that she saw him as a superhero, but in reality, my dad’s life as in-house
     counsel at a bank had been identical to his life as in-house counsel at Moonstone,
     down to the allotted weeks of vacation and pay grade. He hadn’t gone there to strike
     oil; it was just what had happened.
    Sloane swiveled her head as though at an open house, and my parents watched her like
     nervous sellers.
    “What do you want to do when you’re here, Sloane?” My voice must have been too sharp
     again, because one, two, three, their faces whipped toward me.
    “I have some plans.”
    “Anything interesting?”
    “Um, some tourist stuff.”
    “Like . . . what?”
    “I really want to check out some of the
SummerEyes
sculptures. Have you gone yet?”
    “No, not yet.” I tried to catch my mom’s eye. Coming to New York for that particular
     art installation was kind of like going to Hawaii for the films. New York’s latest
     public art project, the
Eyes
, was the misbegotten plan of some artiste wunderkind who’d spent taxpayer dollars
     commissioning one hundred sculptures of eyeballs in parks all over the city. He’d
     been pilloried when his pièce de résistance—an overbudget giant unblinking bloodshot
     papier-mâché pupil just north of the zoo��was blamed for causing its fourth panic
     attack. “I don’t know if I’ll ever make it. They’re supposed to be terrifying, actually.”
    “I don’t know.” Sloane shrugged. “Some of them sound worth checking out.”
    My mom leaned forward tentatively, hoping to bond over the artistic merit of the
Eyes
, and I felt a surge of protectiveness toward her and a stab of anger directed at
     Sloane. It was difficult to tell which was stronger.

    Sloane offered to walk out with me, but I managed to duck the invitation by agreeing
     that of course we should all have another breakfast on Monday, but I had to leave
     for a session. I darted out as they continued to discuss their calendars, which were
     surprisingly complicated given that my mom didn’t have a job and Sloane was here on
     vacation.
    I was in the elevator, praying for the doors to just close already, when a hand waved
     through them. They receded and Sloane pushed her way in, muttering something under
     her breath about never getting out of there. Then, a little more clearly, she asked
     which way I was headed.
    “Up to Sixty-eighth Street.”
    “Good,” she said, checking her watch. “You can come with me to meet Giovanni.”
    She was sufficiently declarative to render me defenseless, so I followed her out of
     the building. As soon as we were on the