Young Writers Society

I stood in a restaurant, waiting to be seated. Soft lights hung low over wooden tables, and guests enjoyed decadent food. My sister Isadora asked me to meet her for lunch, and I anxiously scanned the room, glancing over the tables. A middle-aged couple sat near me with bubbling champagne and steaming lobster. The more I looked, the more I had disdain for the glitzy guests and their expensive meals.

A waiter gestured for me to follow him, noting Izzy had yet to arrive. As I walked to a table, I thought of our childhood. She was the golden child who excelled in everything. I recalled one summer afternoon when she was twelve, and I was eight, where we had sat poolside with our feet hanging in the water. She had surprised me by telling me she wanted to be a professional tennis player when she grew up. It amazed me how she had desires outside of our family. As the memory faded, I realized she never pursued that dream, as she worked as an accountant at one of our firms.

The sound of the energetic guests around me amplified the worry in my mind. When I looked up from my menu, there she was, her stride elegant as she approached me. I admired her effortlessly put-together appearance. Her auburn hair matched mine, but her curls cascaded in perfect waves, comparable to a red ocean. The white pin-striped pantsuit and Louboutin pumps she wore accentuated her petite figure, radiating a sense of controlled, fashionable power. Her low-cut lavender top below her jacket beckoned a sex appeal that did not overshadow her practicality. She embodied perfection, drawing eyes as she walked by and made her presence known.

“Hey, little sis! So good to see you,” she greeted me with a warm smile. I stood, and she kissed my cheeks, no doubt leaving smudges.

“You too, Izzy.” As I nervously kissed her cheeks, I couldn't help but notice that her lipstick remained flawlessly in place, making me self-conscious about mine.

As she sat across from me and settled in, the waiter returned and asked for our drink choices.

“I’ll have a martini with an olive.”

As his eyes dilated, the waiter glanced at her while nervously adjusting his tie. “Shaken or stirred, Miss Winslow?”

“Oh, you know only my mother goes by that! Call me Izzy. And hmmm… I’m feeling stirred today.” She confidently closed her drink menu and extended it towards him with a sparkle in her eye that was unintentionally flirtatious.

Without glancing my way, the waiter asked for my drink order, his eyes never leaving Isadora as I responded.

“And I’ll have… um… how about a vodka soda with lime?”

The waiter left to get our drinks, and Isadora leaned closer to me.

“So, what’s new in your world?”

“Well… I’m three days into my senior year; nothing crazy so far.”

“And how’s Jake? Emily? Nadine?”

“They’re all fine. Jake is studying for the bar exam. Emily is the same–eager to save the world. As for Nadine, well… she’s still Nadine.”

Izzy laughed, knowing what I meant. “Is she and that guy still together?”

“Yes, the longest relationship she’s been in. They moved in together next door over the summer. But what about you? How are you?”

“I’m okay. You know father keeps me busy.”

The waiter returned with our drinks, and Isadora brought the rim of the glass to her mouth, her lipstick remaining flawless.

I took the lime and squeezed its juices into my drink while she watched with disgust.

“You have never been afraid to get your hands dirty.”

Her words seemed weighted, but I changed the subject.

“What? I like it that way! Anyway… what has father got you into now?”

“Ugh! I’m going over financial statements and our budget for next year. The possibility of an audit has him ruminating more than normal.”

“Oh, no…”

“Yeah, I’ve had to work overtime to ensure the projections are accurate and account for every penny for the last five years. He’s about to drive me nuts!”

“That’s a daily occurrence for me.”

Our laughter filled the air for a solid minute until her previously light gaze darkened. “He’s heard something about you taking a painting class. I overheard him fighting about it with Mom. What’s that all about?”

I fumbled for words, feeling a flush of color on my cheeks. Of course, he already knew, and it had not even been twenty-four hours later.

“Well, you see...” I frantically scoured my thoughts, trying to come up with the best possible explanation. “I have always wanted to express myself. And the business courses, they are important too, but...”

Her eyes narrowed, and her impeccably manicured fingernails rose before her eyes. She examined them with a forced smile. “But what?” she prompted, her tone impatient.

“But I feel like I need to pursue my dreams.” I straightened my posture and put on a brave face, trying to exude confidence. “It’s always been a part of me, and… I can’t ignore it any longer.”

A brief silence hung between us, and I worried she would disapprove. To my surprise, she leaned forward, her expression softening. “I understand the weight Father has put on you. Our family history is daunting, but happiness comes from following your heart, and you deserve to be happy.”

“Thank you,” I choked, surprised she meant it.

She reached across the table and placed a reassuring hand on mine. “You don’t need to thank me. We’re family, and family is supposed to support each other. I’m proud of you for having the courage to do what I could never do. However, I worry about Father’s reaction. He won’t be happy.”

With a feeling of discomfort, I nodded my head. “I understand. I tried to talk to him about it, but he won’t listen.”

She considered, putting her chin on her hand. “He only wants to see us follow in his footsteps… It’s like he can’t comprehend us doing anything else. He’s passionate about what our family has created and will do anything to keep it. If he already knows about the painting class, I’m sure he’ll find out quickly if you switch majors or do something like that. I suggest you try talking to him again. Maybe I can try to, too? He can be formidable when angry, and I wouldn’t want to see his temper do something drastic. Hearing it from one of us may soften the blow.”

I raised an eyebrow, and a wry smile spread on my face. “Soften the blow, huh? You know, I tried that once on a stubborn jar of pickles. Turns out, even my most persuasive words couldn’t make it budge. But maybe Father is more receptive than a jar of pickles. Worth a shot, right?”