>>Chapter Four

We stare at the exclusive cell Sara purchased for her parents.

Beep, beep, beep.

It seems to be getting madder, agitated. Impatient and angry like its callers.

“Are you… gonna pick that up?”

Sara’s eyes flick towards me, disbelief written all over: are you crazy?

Beep, beep, beep, beep, beep!

Then it dies.

The air immediately lightens – Sara visibly has a burden lifted from her shoulders, sighing in relief. I walk towards the little black thing of evil that stares back at me with intense resentment, daring to burn a hole in the back of my eyes. With distaste, I pick up the cell with my thumb and a finger.

That’s when it buzzes.

“Agh!” I drop it and it falls to the floor with a clang. Beep, beep, beep! It dances some angry tribe dance, spinning on the floor. It flashes a bright white light menacingly. “Sara!”

“Shh.” She’s all stuffed up against a corner, as if that’d stop the evil cell phone from recognizing her presence. Wait. It’s a cell phone. I’ve forgotten it’s not alive.

“Sara,” I hiss. “You can pick that up or leave it. Why are you trying to sink into the wall?”

She looks at me with these wide eyes. “Er… ’cause the evil thing is going to come and take a good bite out of me and chew me up?”

If you know Sara, you’d think she is actually half serious about what she just said. Overactive imagination and a whole lot of insanity is what she’s made up of.

The thing dies again.

Slowly, she edges, all limbs against the wall, towards her room, like some sort of sneak thief.

“Oh, no, you are not leaving me with this devil’s device!” I pick it up and throw it at her.

“Agh!” She dodges it and it bounces against the wall and drops on the floor again. She runs and slams the door behind her.

I take tentative steps towards it again. No damage done. Dammit.

“Hey, hey, hey!”

“Sara! Your phone is ringing!”

I never liked Sara’s peculiar ring tone – it just goes “hey, hey, hey” on repeat like an annoying voice in your head and it doesn’t exactly die because Sara doesn’t like voicemail and disabled it – she has a theory about voicemail breakups and bad news and all sorts of negative theories that all lead to one conclusion: disable voicemail.

She opens the door and takes the evil phone out my hands, without a second to spare, flings it on to her bed and shuts the door. Then she goes to the kitchen where her regular cell was charging.

Without checking who it was, she picks up. “Yes, hello, Sara Klein.”

Her face pales drastically at the voice on the other end of the receiver. She looks like she’s choking. I rush over. She’s got her eyes the size of those ancient coins you see in books and museums. I place my ear against the phone.

“Sara – don’t you – come home – don’t stay – pick up your phone – we haven’t heard – so long –” the voice babbles on and on.

But I recognize that voice. I gasp in horror.

“What was that!”

Oh, no. Sara looks at me with extreme stress and accusation. “No, Ma, just Una.”

“That girl – how dare – she’s bad –”

Sara raises an eyebrow and I return her look of utter indifference.

We’ve got a feeling that this is gonna be a long night.

So it’s about four in the morning, Sara’s cell is propped up against a book on the coffee table, Sara and I staring at it to make sure we know when Mama Sara’s gonna explode and realize we haven’t been listening since an hour ago.

I have my head propped up against the coach, sitting on the floor and Sara has hers on my lap. Yawns rip through the two of us, on repeat.

“I think your Ma’s not in the country,” I say quietly, fighting another yawn.

She makes a sound of agreement.

There’s another moment of silence, and then the cell nearly exploded – “ARE YOU LISTENING TO ME?”

“YES, Ma!” Sara reflexively shoots up into sitting position and grabs the phone, looking rather desperate and just a little demented.

“You weren’t listening, were you –”

“MA! Stop screaming! Leave me alone! UGGHHH.” Like a proper teenager, she throws the phone on the couch and dives for a pillow, screaming into it.

“Don’t you –”

I pick up the phone, not very sure what’s gotten to my brain – probably fried. “Mrs. Klein?” I say, as confident as I could, only feeling like a four year old facing up to the big playground bully and managing to end up with a little squeak at the end of my two word sentence/question – heck, I just addressed her!

There’s a stone cold silence. “Una.”

Not a “hey”, not a “hi” – but I have to say that I’m not the slightest bit surprised. Though, honestly, it doesn’t keep me from being intimidated.

“Mrs. Klein, Sara’s doing very well here,” I force a smile as I say it, to convince myself she’d even care. And that smile cost me about twenty years of daylight.

You could always here a “hmph” before her very rude, but expected, answer. “Well, I wouldn’t know, would I? But as you can see, I haven’t seen her in two years and I would like to see my daughter immediately.” Like I’ve been holding Sara hostage.

“Well, Mrs. Klein –”

“Excuse me, young lady, I would like to speak to my daughter.”

For a moment, I am so insulted and thrown off that I couldn’t speak, after hearing her tone – as if I’m a lowlife, as if I’m a servant, as if… I’m of no significance. Sara has already emerged from her safe-pillow. She bit her lip as she saw the look on my face. She reaches her hand out for the cell. Without arguing, I drop it in her hand with disgust.

“Ma,” Sara speaks clearly, each word distinct. “I want you to stop bothering me. And you are not allowed to speak to Una that way.” Pause. “No, Ma.” She opens her mouth, with a stubborn set to it, ready to argue. But then something stops her. Her eyes darken. “Fine. Yes.”

Sara sighs as she hangs up, not bothering to say goodbye.

“We’re heading for a visit.”

I stare at her for a second. Hold up.

“We are?”

“Yes.”

“No, no – we are?”

She gives me a grimace. “Yes, Una, we are.”

My mind races through every excuse that can register. “But – but I have to work – the school –”

“I’ll call in for you. You’re a substitute anyway.”

“But – but…” I probably have a look of devastation on my face now. “Where are we going?”

“Hawaii.”

“Go get a dress.”

“Sara –”

“No, seriously, pick up a dress.”

“Sara –”

“Don’t argue with me, Una.”

“SARA!” I explode and let the heave of shopping bags I have been carrying fall across the sparkly porcelain floor. I could barely speak through all of it.

We’ve been hopping from one store to the next branded store – Gucci, Dolce and Gabbana, Christian Dior, Coach, Guess – store after store, Sara picked up more and more. She gets like this when she’s nervous. She has all the money in the world to spend – and she certainly spends it like there’ no tomorrow.

“So far you’ve gotten two pairs of high heels –” I pick up the paper bags holding two shoeboxes from Guess, “ – a pair of sandals from Gucci –” I continue to pick things up one by one as I counted them off, “ a LBD from Christian Dior, a handbag from Coach, another gold dress from D&G, a pair of shorts and three tops from Guess –”

“I have to look my best when I see my parents, okay?” she snaps at me, lowering her sparkly, newly bought D&G shades.

I give her a look of aggravation. “Sara, I am not your personal shopper – not your servant – why are you making me carry all this stuff? And we’re walking so much!”

She waves her arms around. “Agh! I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” She has a permanent look of frustration on her face as she throws her hands in the air.

“You don’t seem very apologetic,” I mumble.

“What?” she snaps.

“Nothing,” I reply quickly, getting a better hang on the stuff I am carrying. “Let’s go.”

“Back?” she stares at me with one eyebrow raised.

“Ye-es?”

“We have to get you a dress,” she dismisses the idea of going home and evaporates my little bubble dream of soaking my feet and cooking up a big pot of hot soup – and boiling her in it!

After a violent imagination that kept me silence for half a moment, I sigh. “Let’s go.”

So she drags me to Roxy, to get a sundress, and picks the first one after having me try on about a dozen. She paid for that, a sunhat and a pair of flip-flops – “for your labor,” she says. Then she brings me to Zara to get a proper dress, a couple of tops and two pairs of shorts, and nearly talks me into buying a new pair of boots I couldn’t wear on a normal day in California never mind Hawaii. She split the bill with me in Zara.

But unlike Sara, I am not rolling in a thirty-thousand – and increasing – paycheck. So there go my past month’s earnings.

I am so wiped up by the time I get home that I decide to forget about my stupid, useless diet and head to the fridge and rip out all the chocolates I can find.

“What happened to your –”

I stab a finger towards whatever direction I think Sara’s voice is coming from, buried deep in the fridge. “Don’t you talk to me about my diet!”

I hear a little chuckle and some shuffling – probably caused by the weight of the shopping bags – and then a thud when she shuts her room door.

“You better start packing!” she shouts from inside.

“What? When are we leaving?”

“4a.m. flight!” I hear the door click locked.

It takes two seconds for her words to sink in, her reaction to link to her words and for me to do a double take.

“WHAT!”

“I think I’m gonna be sick.”

“Stop groaning,” I mutter under my breath.

I have to go through this every time with her when we’re going somewhere, on a plane, on a train, on a boat. You’d think, as a high-flying writer, with so many places to go, so many people to see, Sara’d be a little more… independent or level-headed, at least. But she freaks out anytime she feels that she’s not on ground. So that includes boats and Ferris wheels too.

I’m the type that doesn’t understand why people get scared from flights. From the first time I took a flight to NY, when I was eighteen, I was only filled with a type of excitement that would send a five year old kid hyperventilating. So Sara, right now, does not make sense to me. And I have never been so tempted to slap her – though I have that feeling a little too often to call myself her best friend.

The music playing in the background is light and bubbly, with ukulele strings, flowing vocals in a language that doesn’t make sense to me and light thumps of percussion. I feel my eyes sliding shut and tug on the ends of my shoulder-length hair. I don’t have curls like Sara, neither did I have straight hair like those Barbie girls. My hair is smooth but just a little bit wavy and surprisingly, as I grew it out over the year, twirls at the ends. It’s brown. Just brown. Sara said she likes it ’cause it’s the color of hot cocoa – warm. But I think she was just hungry and cold at the time.

I look over at Sara, sighing. I don’t see the necessity of it but she certainly did. Looking pale and green, slumped against the seat, her hair is long to the lengths of her shoulders. Before leaving, she ran by Tyler, her hairstylist, to get hair extensions. So now it’s once again long and curly, just the shade of gold it has always been.

Lost in thought for a moment, I’m just looking at her. She shifts and groans.

“I hate my family.” And it’s sad that she means it.

“Ohmigod. There she is.”

A couple of teenagers with bleach blond hair and shorts so short it should be illegal to be worn on flights run straight past us into the arms of what seems to be their elder sister, who looks rather sophisticated compared to them, even with her pink-colored flip flops and yellow-colored short shorts.

We certainly are not going to have that level of enthusiasm. We make a turn and there they are, down the aisle there – Count Dracula and Medusa. Ultimately not made for each other, but matches up fine with their level of twisted personalities.

“Sara, darling!”

Someone behind them jumps. A golden blonde just like Sara, but with her hair straightened and about a head shorter. Her wave suggests that she’s related to the Queen of England. And despite her high-flying career, she’s wearing a colorful sundress in a cold airport – but it is Hawaii after all.

“Caprice,” Sara mutters under her breath.

There is no animosity between the two sisters, but they are just not family, not sisters – just two people, born in the same family, grew up in different states of mind and lead different lives.

Caprice, Sara told me, means impulse in French. It is proven that every step that Caprice takes in her life, her career has proven to be correct, just as her impulse tells her.

There’s a moment of silence as we come to a stop in front of the two parents, still rigid in Hawaii, and the sister that’s sunshine and smiles popping up next to them. Mr. Klein nods. Mrs. Klein has a stiff expression on her face and she opens her mouth.

Sara and I feel each other shrink next to the other, awaiting her poisonous words.

“Sara…” her stare is intimidating.

Caprice jumps in with a tight smile. “Let’s go get you guys checked into the hotel – we’ll be in the same room! Won’t that be fun?”

Sara smiles tightly in return. “Yeah… fun.”

So we walk in silence towards the glass doors, out into the open air of Hawaii. The heat flushes my skin and I see that even Sara relaxes. But her face seems to be held in a permanent expression called I-don’t-freakin’-wanna-be-here-get-me-outta-here! Or something like that.

I’ve never been anywhere outside of America. Sara has taken me to L.A., Las Vegas and Miami before but that’s about the limit of it. She said she’s going to take me to Alaska soon but that might have to take a while because I refused that she paid for another trip of mine. And I don’t have a steady job.

“Well, you must be Una?” Caprice attempts to make small talk.

“Yes. Una Carton.” I don’t try very hard. She’s not… unlikeable. But somehow seeing her as a tool of torment of Mr. and Mrs. Klein towards Sara just changes things.

There’s a slight pause. “Well, we’re taking the cab, I hope you don’t mind.”

I smile at her politely. “I take the cab everywhere.”

She bites her lip and I watch her expression as I drop my luggage into the trunk with the help of the driver and get into the cab next to a fidgety Sara. She pulls on the pale gold sundress she’s wearing and flaps her hands on her head – to check whether her hair extensions are secure, I suppose.

I look down at myself. Clearly, I don’t belong in either Hawaii or around the Klein family. I have a pair of jeans and boots on with a baby-doll top and leather jacket on to appear less… unkempt.

The cab door opens. I don’t even have eyes for the probably cute-looking man at my door. All I’m staring at is the five-star resort that would’ve taken me a million years to get a chance to even dine in. It has a cross of elegance, like from a five-star hotel in the middle of NYC, and a relaxed atmosphere of an island resort.

From a far, you can already hear the sound of the ocean, the laughter, the lapping of water from a pool, the sizzling sound of something being grilled, little bells ringing in the distance and the wind – the wind that smells like salt, the smell that I love.

I sigh.

“Been a while since you came to the beach, I suppose?” Caprice smiles good-naturedly.

I smile back at her, managing to look past the would-be insult. I turn back to the resort and take a big huff of sea-air in with my eyes shut. Sara’s shuffling feet make me open my eyes again.

She stands next to me and has a face of chagrin.

Caprice’s smile tightens. “You remember this place, Sara, honey?”

“Yeah, I remember,” she mutters darkly.

I look at her questioningly. She stares back meaningfully.

“Yes, Sara. Remember Carter?”

We turn and I nearly tip over. Mrs. Klein stands there with a sarcastic smirk on her face. Mr. Klein scratches his jaw and looks into the far distance as if he doesn’t really want to be included into this conversation.

“Who’s Carter?”

And a voice answers my question, as we turn around and meet him.

“Sara?”