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onto the table. The waitress balked at the spilled liquid and smacked a handful of napkins on the table. “Well, maybe if you paid me. But it would have to be a lot.”
    Charlotte often considered how two such different people could be derived from the same genetic cloth. Sure, Elizabeth had changed significantly since the tragedy, but hadn’t she always been somewhat rough around the edges, a bully of sorts, even though she was the little sister?
    There’d been more than a dozen occasions through the years, at least that Charlotte could recall, when she’d been both mortified by and in awe of her sister’s gumption. Like when Charlotte was in fifth grade and Elizabeth was in fourth and Peter Becker—the meanest and also cutest boy in Charlotte’s class—had told everyone that Charlotte had showed him her boobies behind the gymnasium bleachers. And that she was as flat as a board. Unbeknownst to Peter, he’d picked the wrong girl—and the most prudish—to mess with. Not because Charlotte had been prepared to defend herself or, really, to do anything but cower behind the very same bleachers Peter had cited, crying her eyes out from utter humiliation. Of course she hadn’t shown him her boobies—nor would she ever show any boy her boobies until she was married—but who would believe a loser like her over the perennially popular Peter Becker? Only Elizabeth.
    So during recess that day, in front of all of the fourth, fifth, and even sixth graders, Charlotte’s scrappy little sister hadmarched over to Peter, standing on her tippy-toes so their faces were a mere two inches apart. She’d pointed her index finger right at him and shouted, so everyone could hear, “Your penis is so small, I bet you have to search for it when you wanna pee.” It hadn’t necessarily been the most clever or well-conceived attack, but it had done the trick. Their fellow classmates had burst into a chorus of derisive laughter, rendering Peter Becker shocked and woefully shamed. He’d been put in his place by a girl, and a pint-sized one at that. Charlotte had cringed. Not in a million years would she have stood up to Peter or said the word
penis
aloud in front of half the school. But she’d also been beset with pride. Elizabeth had defended her honor, impervious to the notion that confronting Peter could have destroyed her as yet untarnished elementary school reputation. More than that, Elizabeth knew who she was. She knew what she wanted. And she didn’t falter in pursuit of it. Something Charlotte had never been able to do.
    â€œSo listen.” Charlotte readied herself to deliver the speech she’d rehearsed the night before, in the shower that morning, and then again on the car ride over. “I need your help.”
    â€œ
You
need
my
help? That’s rich.” The waitress returned with Elizabeth’s soda. “I’ll take the pancakes. Tall stack. Don’t skimp on the syrup.” Elizabeth squinted to read the name tag on her uniform. “Heather.” Heather nodded sardonically. Charlotte imagined Heather recounting the story of her “bitchy customer” later that night to her similarly pierced and inked boyfriend over beers at a local dive bar, the invasive shrieks of a Z-list cover band drowning out her trifling grievances.
    â€œI’ll just have a house salad with grilled chicken. Dressing on the side, please. Actually, oil and vinegar will be fine.” Elizabeth scowled at her. “On the side.” She turned back to her sister. “So, as I was saying.”
    â€œYou need my assistance. . . .”
    â€œRight. One of us has to go to Florida to help Mom deal with Dad.” Their father had recently suffered his third heart attack in three years, and this time he hadn’t bounced back the way he had in the past. He was practically immobilized, forcing their mother—who by her own admission