My sister was always one of my least favorite people.
Dani was a year older than me, but you would never guess it by looking at the two of us. I took after Dad, heavy set with broad shoulders and a narrow waist, strong but not ripped by any means with dark hair and blue eyes and a soft thick growth of beard that I had cultivated proudly from the age of thirteen. I was always big for my age until I hit eighteen, when I suppose that was shortened to just plain big.
Dani took after Mom, and was a good foot shorter than me at an inch shy of five feet, and never once more than ninety pounds. Her jet black hair fell like a straight curtain down to her shoulder blades and her green eyes would flash whenever we fought. And we fought a lot.
She would want something, or say something, or just be in the same room and we would be off, arguing and badgering each other, teasing, being mean, whatever. She would hit the buttons that she knew worked, and I would push hers until she crossed her arms under her very small breasts, cocked her hip to the side and huffed in annoyance or rage and stormed away.
It was just how our relationship worked.
Don't get me wrong, I love my sister, and always have. The only person allowed to piss her off and push her buttons is me, and I have put more than one person in their place for trying pushing her too far. We have our problems, but she's my sister.
The fact that we fought almost constantly never made me love her any less, but it did make me wonder if our parents were masochists the year they decided we were going to drive to Orlando, Florida. We live in Montana, rather far north in Montana, in fact, and Mom and Dad decided that, the summer after I graduated high school, we were going to take a family vacation.
Three days in the car, a week in Orlando, and three days back. The week in Orlando would be no problem, most likely. They could leave us more or less alone, which would mean I'd be wandering around by myself most of the time while Dani fucked off and did whatever a nineteen year old girl does in Orlando. My guess was meet boys.
The three days in the car, though, made me question the folks' sanity. Dani and I fought a lot when we were confined in a three bedroom house. I had trouble imagining what three days in the back of our family minivan would be like.
Dani and I both argued that it would be both more cost effective and infinitely safer for everyone involved if we just flew. Actually, I suggested that Mom, Dad and I fly, and we put Dani in a suitcase and just check her with rest of the bags.
After that fight was quelled by Mom, our sentence was passed with finality. We were driving, and there would be no further argument.
When the day came, I packed everything I needed into one bag. Two weeks' worth of my clothes, a swimsuit and toiletries fit into a small duffel bag. Dad taught me to pack for convenience, and I learned well. I tossed my bag into the back of the van next to Dad's equally small bag and grinned. Part of the reason Dad and I pack light is sheer necessity.
Dani and Mom pack the same way: Like they're leaving forever and there are no stores where they're going. I'm not saying all women do this, in fact I know all women don't, but Mom and my sister never go anywhere with less than four bags. Add to that the fact that Mom loaded a cooler with soda and food, and forced Dad to bring all of our camping gear in case she got a wild hair and decided to have him pull off at a campground, and most of the space in the minivan was suddenly, non-negotiably occupied.
The back gate was full, and the overspill had been packed and jammed on the short seat and against the front seats. The only available space for Dani and I was the long bench seat in the back. I took one look and groaned. There was going to be a whole lot of fighting on this trip.
Dad and I shared a look and shook our heads as Mom and Dani bounced out of the house. It was six o'clock in the morning, and both of them were full of energy. I knew that the energy would last for exactly as long as it took to hit the interstate, then they would both pass out. I probably would too, leaving Dad to navigate by himself for at least a few hours.
Dani climbed into the van ahead of me, a tactical mistake on my part, but also a necessity as she would whine and bitch until she got the side of the van with the crackable rear window anyway. She had dressed in a huge, baggy t-shirt that she had stolen from my room at some point in the past and a pair of loose shorts that would have been short before she rolled the waistband. As it was, her ass cheeks were just barely covered and had it been any situation that didn't involve her having zero contact with the outside world until we hit our first hotel, Dad would have exploded.
I climbed into the van after her and nearly ran face first into her ass. She was "arranging her space". That meant spreading her crap (iPod, water bottle, book, etc.) around a good two thirds of the seat.
"Move it, Jumbo," I said, and slapped her lightly across the ass. I'm not sure why I did that, really. I never had before.
Dani yelped in shock, spun around and plopped into the seat. She looked surprised and taken aback, and something else I couldn't really place.
"Fucker," she whispered as I crammed myself into the little available space.
