Unbecoming Association

• Anna Compton, Grade 12
• Short Story
• 2009

“Hello? Jazz, are you there?” I call, hammering my fist on the front door. This is the third time I’ve knocked. Giving up, I turn the handle and step inside; she won’t mind. Tinkling, mellow music wafts lazily towards me as I’m enveloped by a cloud of incense. “Good God, what is that!” I cough, scrutinising the room. Candles. Incense. Rainbow silks. It’s unbearable; I’ve walked into a fortune teller’s tent; she’s only missing a crystal ball. Walking over to her CD player, I punch the stop button and shout, “JAZZ! WHERE ARE YOU?”
“You should know better than to interrupt meditation,” she sings, waltzing up silently behind me. “The spirits are not happy.” She’s got her wide, bug-eyed glasses on.
“Spirits, shmirits,” I laugh, dissecting her outfit. Who would seriously wear a green tie- dye singlet, baggy rainbow pants and a red and purple striped silk jacket together? Not to mention the lavender bow atop her frizzy red hair! “Did you get dressed in the dark?”
“No,” she bites back, looking offended. “Clothing is an expression of the soul, a connection with the earth, a…”
“Multicolour oasis of the senses?” I giggle. She’s in one of her moods again.
“You ought not to laugh so readily,” she exclaims loftily, pushing her glasses back up her nose. “You, should take a leaf from my book. Self-expression unites us with the world!”
“Can’t take any leaves from your book,” I mutter, “you’d have none left. Aren’t you taking this a little too far?” I ask, gesturing around the room.
“Mother Earth called to me and I couldn’t refuse! I decorate to her will!” she cries out, trancelike. Her enthusiasm is startling; shouldn’t she be bored of this by now? It’s nearly been a year.
“Shall we have some tea?” she asks dreamily, dancing into the kitchen. “I got a new recipe yesterday and I’m dying to test it out!”
“Wonderful,” I sigh. “Another toxic herbal remedy. What’s in this one?”
“Echinacea, dandelion root, winter cherry extract and … something else,” she chants excitedly. Last time, I vomited for two days afterwards.
“Just heading to the bathroom,” I call, wandering down the psychedelic hallway. She’s draped silks over the doorways, dimmed the lights and added candles to every inch of space. I don’t want to be impolite; she’s my sister no matter how horridly she dresses or how many times she poisons me. Her intentions are good, just masked beneath an appalling exterior.
“Ready!” she shouts a few minutes later. There’s no escape; I’ll just have to risk it. I grit my teeth and run my fingers through my long, flowing hair. I straightened it meticulously this morning - took nearly an hour to get it perfect. How can she dress like that? Some people have no fashion sense, I note, smoothing my cute singlet down over my artfully ripped jeans. Why can’t she just fit in?
Sighing, I walk languidly back to the kitchen. Sometimes, I’d just like a normal sister.