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men’s oxford shirt in a 38 regular, along with a stick of extra-strength deodorant.
    “Put these on,” he said. “Quickly. Mulberg is waiting in my office.”
    When I exited the stall, a pair of women’s sandals was waiting for me on the floor.
    “Size seven, right?” David asked.
    “No. Size nine.”
    “Close enough.”
    “Where did you get those?”
    “From my secretary.”
    “Since you’re so good at persuading women to remove their clothes, maybe you could get the rest of her outfit,” I suggested.
    “I could, but your ass wouldn’t fit in it.”
    We finished assembling my slapdash ensemble and concluded that while I looked remarkably unfashionable and unattractive, I no longer appeared hungover and irresponsible. David sprayed me with his cologne as we left the men’s restroom and ventured into our meeting.
    “Great. Now I smell like you.”
    “I wish.”

    Larry Mulberg was hardly a fashion plate himself and I suspected he would have no comment about my substandard attire. David’s secretary entered the office in stocking feet and asked if anyone would like a beverage, and I finally got my Coke. The meeting went well: I explained to Mulberg the financial benefits of outsourcing background checks and gave him a thorough overview of my family’s expertise in that area. I’m rather good at talking nonrelatives into things, so Mulberg bought it all, not once noticing the green tinge to my complexion or my bloodshot eyes.
    I detached the size-seven sandals and handed them back to David’s secretary, thanking her profusely. Returning to my brother’s office, I changed back into my wrinkled shirt and reluctantly tossed my abandoned sneaker in the trash.
    “David, can you loan me cab money?” I asked, gesturing at my bare feet, expecting some sympathy. David, already behind his desk hard at work, stared at me coldly. He reached into his back pocket, took out a twenty, and left it on the edge of the desk. He then returned to writing his brief.
    “Well, uh, thanks,” I said, after I took the bill. “I’ll pay you back,” I continued, heading for the door. I almost made it out of the office before David finished me off.
    “Make sure I never see you like that again,” he said slowly and deliberately. It was not a piece of advice.
    Then he ordered me to leave. And I did. In that moment I realized that the role of the raven-haired golden boy David played to my mousy-brown fuckup was not the plum part I had always imagined. It occurred to me that while I was egging the neighbor’s yard, David never had the chance to try it himself. Destruction and rebellion are a natural part of adolescence. But David, always cleaning up after me, compensating for me, lost that essential rite of passage. Instead, he became a textbook son. And his only flaw was that he didn’t know how to be imperfect.

    I believe that miraculous transformations, the kind that usually involve a preacher smacking you over the head, are rare, so rare that when they do occur, they often cause suspicion. While my change was hardly on the scale of a miracle, it was substantial. Yes, you could still find me in a wrinkled shirt, or downing a few too many, or uttering an inappropriate comment, but you wouldn’t find me leaving messes for other people to clean up. That part I stopped cold turkey.
    Initially, the wave of distrust precipitated by quasi-responsible Isabel was profound enough to almost cause a relapse. My mother was convinced it was some kind of sinister trick and questioned my motives with the skepticism of a research scientist. For at least two weeks straight, my father said around the clock, “All right, Isabel, what gives?” Uncle Ray, on the other hand, appeared genuinely concerned and suggested that vitamins might help. In fact, for the first few weeks, New Isabel prompted more hostility than Old Isabel. But I knew it was only a matter of time before I would build the trust, and when it finally happened, I could almost