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and now there’s this drama. Do you ever stop to think about how your actions affect others? I mean what if angels get one day to peek down to earth from Heaven and Tuesday was the one day Mom had for all eternity to check up on us and our lives? When she opened the clouds she would’ve been greeted with your...your spectacle.” Sister begins crying.
    I know from experience that her tears aren’t clear; they’re a strange gray color like weird steam. I always figured they were mixing with her makeup until I realized she didn’t wear any (not to be commercialized but she could use it. Pastel, bare minerals). Her face is kind of gray too because she never goes outside; she fears nature like it’s a rapist or murderer, even though it’s so the opposite— nature is what’s getting raped and murdered! But despite not having sun damage she got wrinkles before her time from watching constant news television and subconsciously reproducing Dan Rather’s facial expressions.
    Sister likes to pull back the curtains of her windows then stare out of them and look up at the sky suspiciously.
    “What did you want to talk about? Do you need some money?” Of late, Sister has been plagued with a variety of fiscal obligations, something about back taxes. “Listen, Sis, I do understand what you’re saying.” I peek behind my shoulder and watch CT—naked, gentle CT, pink grapefruit juices dripping down his body like cartoon sweat—pretend to plug the blowhole of the dolphin on television with a slice of his grapefruit. His giggles are like heartbeats: steady and seconds apart. “But you just have to realize that we’re on different planes of existence. I’m not saying I’m better than you, just that my path is way more open with lots of colors.”
    Sister’s weeping intensifies. “What the hell are you talking about?” she asks. “You’re speaking the drug-talk. I want Claudia back and I want her in English.”
    If the spasm that afflicts my back and spine at the mention of my old name “Claudia” could make a sound, a single note, it would be unharmonious beyond this dimension. No one would even be able to hear what a wonky note it would be, because the human ear is not advanced enough. It’s one of those things; the sound is made but does anyone hear it? Was it made? I speak but Sister does not hear me. Do I speak?
    “Uuuuuuuhhhhhhhhmmnnnngg.” CT lets out a guttural moan to begin his a.m. bowel gyrations. His torso bounces up and down while his hips move like he’s using an invisible hula-hoop.
    His is a hula-hoop made of enchantment. It’s built of understanding, spiritual experience, and opium ether, paired with a variety of other things the human eye cannot see and the human ear cannot hear. Most of our senses are completely inadequate and not to be trusted; our true feelings come from our wormholes, often described as “the heart in our stomach between our legs.”
    “Think about it,” CT likes to say, “The organ that the wormless refer to as ‘heart’ is like, entirely muscle. Like a body-builder or a worker bee. If bees have muscles.”
    Sister does not affect my wormhole, but her disapproval makes my pulse quite irregular.
    “Sister,” I say firmly, “Claudia is dead.”
    Sis wails. I feel like I am some sort of hostage negotiator, except Sister is both the hostage and the captor. “We’ve been over this. My name is now Sorcerella Van Crystal. It’s official; I have stationary. Our bathrooms are filled with SVC embroidered towels. You used them to wipe the perspiration from your forehead the last and only time you visited our tree house. Please don’t backpedal. You’ve chosen to remain in my journey, thus my life.”
    When Sister is really upset she begins to salivate. Her harsh words shoot out at me through the phone: sleds of anger luging down a hateful mountain. And the thing with mountains is, the higher their altitude, the lower their boiling point.
    “Don’t give me this Sorcerella