Isla and the Happily Ever After(65)

“Wake up!” Gen bounces the bed harder. “Hattie and I are already dressed and coffee’d. Those balloons won’t make fun of themselves.”

Great. Because this is exactly what today needs. A parade.

Our house is on the wrong side of Broadway to see or hear the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade, but it only takes a few minutes to walk someplace where we can witness the grotesque spectacle first-hand. My sisters and I have a tradition of poking around the parade’s outskirts in the early hours of daylight.

My head is throbbing from crying all night long. “I don’t feel well.”

“You have to get up so Maman will stop bugging me about my hair.”

Her orange-red fuzz is about two inches long. It sticks out in a thick sphere around her head. “You look like a corgi,” I say. “Are you growing it back out?” But Gen is rifling through the papers on my bed. I lunge between her and the manuscript.

“Did Josh draw this?”

I snatch at the paper that’s still in her hands. “Give it!”

“Jeez, calm down. I just wanna see.” She extends her arm, holding it as far away from me as she can. “Wow. What is all of this?”

“Please.” I’m on the verge of tears.

Gen looks at me, startled. She hands it back slowly. “Sorry.”

“It’s just…it’s private. Don’t tell Hattie, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Seriously. You know how she is.”

“Yes, darling. I seriously won’t tell her about your seriously weird reaction to something I seriously don’t understand.”

I clutch my pillow against my chest. She stares at me for a long time. Finally, she stands and heads for my door. “Five minutes.”

“I’m not going. I don’t feel good.”

“It’s not optional.”

When Gen wants something, it’s impossible to stop her. I know better than to try. I place the manuscript back into the box. I’m careful not to crease the pages – any more than they’re already creased – but I don’t bother putting them in order. I shove the box back into my closet, throw on some clothes, and meet my sisters at the door.

Hattie frowns. “What’s up with you?”

“Leave her alone,” Gen says.

“Your hat clashes with your gloves,” Hattie says to me. “And they look even worse with that coat. Won’t you, like, die or something if you don’t look perfect?”

I pull down the woollen hat further over my eyes. Gen links her arm through mine and marches me outside before I can change my mind. Or my outfit. Hattie trudges behind us.

The feeling in New York in the autumn is what you’d expect elsewhere in the spring. Renewal. Locals are happy to be outside again. The subways have cooled, the humid stench of summer has passed. Celebrations and festivals are everywhere. The air is crisp, and its accompanying scarves and boots are a comforting return. I try to appreciate my surroundings. I search for yellow or orange or golden leaves, my own favourite aspect of the season, but the branches are already bare. I’m too late. Everything is dead.

Gen chatters away about her life in Massachusetts while Hattie interjects with colourful commentary. I don’t really pay attention. We cross Columbus, and the streets grow crowded with families and dancers and cheerleaders and police officers. Several marching bands are warming up – there’s a hum of brass, staccato drills on snare drums, and airy scales on woodwinds. The enormous Horton the Elephant balloon peeks out from behind a building, a street ahead, and its trunk is holding a bright pink flower.

“Cheer up,” Gen says to me. “I’ve signed you up to walk the route with them this year.” She points at a group of dancers in blue cowboy chaps and goofy fringed vests.

At least a dozen horrifying clowns in tattered rainbow jumpsuits pop into the drugstore beside us. “Over there,” I say. “They’re looking for you, Gen. They need you.”

“Have you seen those tap-dancing Christmas trees? They asked if you’d swing back around and have a second go with them. You won’t be too tired, right? I mean, I already paid for your tinsel pants.”

“I’m glad you guys didn’t sign me up for anything,” Hattie says. “Because it’s really awesome doing nothing.”

I shoot her an annoyed look. When Gen sees that I’m still not willing to fulfil my usual role as peacekeeper, she steps in. I sink back into myself. Back into the manuscript. I can’t erase this image from my mind: Rashmi, covered in rabbits. The Kermit balloon floats out from behind another building, and I think about rabbits. We get cold and walk home, and I think about rabbits. Maman calls us into the kitchen, and I help her make crescent rolls. Rabbits. I help her set the table. Rabbits. The turkey is carved, the drinks are poured, the toast is made. Rabbits, rabbits, rabbits. The plates are cleared, the mashed potato and gravy remains are scraped into the trash can. My boyfriend loses his virginity, and, oh, who’s that looking on?