Jess Was a Bitch

Jon is forced to share a room with his sister.

Everyone is over 18.

Thanks to LarryInSeattle.

Enjoy.

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"Uh-uh, no way. I can sleep with dad and you can sleep with Jess."

There was no way I'm sharing a room with my sister, Jess. She's a total bitch. We were supposed to have three rooms - one for me, one for Jess, and one for my parents. There's no way I'm spending two weeks cooped up in a hotel room with my bitch of a sister. It's bad enough having to spend two weeks with her at all. I'm not paying for the fact the hotel can't handle a simple reservation.

"Look, Jon. Be reasonable. I'm sorry the reservation got messed up but your father and I are not sleeping in separate rooms. This is

our

vacation, too. The manager said if something opens up he'll let us know. Besides, we got free breakfast vouchers for the four of us for the entire stay. It won't kill you to share a room with your sister for a couple of weeks."

I look at my dad but any hope dies when I see the rueful half-grin that translates into, "Forget it, buddy, it's a done deal."

"It sucks for me, too, you know," Jess adds.

"No, it won't. It'll give you plenty of time to be a fucking bitch without worrying mom and dad will catch you at it."

"Jon! You may think turning nineteen and graduating from high school means you are free of our rules; your wrong. You still live in our house. We still pay for your food, clothes, and school. Apologize to your sister. And I mean right now!"

If there's any sympathy in dad's eyes I can't see it. I don't expect any from mom. Jess is her favorite. They're two peas in a pod. My mom's a bitch too. She doesn't go out of her way to direct it at me, like Jess does, but it's clear none of my friends' parents can stand her. I'd like to be pissed at them but I can't. They're both totally self-centered and self-absorbed. I feel sorry for my dad. He's stuck with them. For me, there's finally a light at the end of the tunnel. Four years of school and I'm free. I don't care what it takes; after college, I'm getting out.

"I'm sorry I called you a fucking bitch."

"You don't need to repeat it," mom huffs. "We all heard you the first time." She puts her hands on her hips and stretches her back. Her shirt is too tight. The buttons look like they're being tortured. She's very proud of her boobs. She should be. They cost as much as Jess's first year of college. "Now, get out. I want to change and go relax by the pool. I'm exhausted."

Exhausted? Really?

I think to myself. It's only a two and a-half hour flight from Dallas to Cancun. The ride from Cancun to the resort is another hour but the car was air-conditioned and the roads are way better than they used to be. She slept for most of the ride.

I grab the duffle bag I'm using for my stuff and walk out of the room. Jess follows. We were supposed to have three rooms in a row - Jess, my parents, me - with Jess and my parent's room connecting so Jess and mom could share make up and clothes and hone their bitchcraft unimpeded. I hold the plastic 'key' to the lock and the light turns green. I push the door open. The view almost makes me forget about being pissed.

Past the short hallway that holds a closet and the doorway to a bathroom fit for King Henry VIII, sit two queen-sized beds, each adorned with the universal flowered bedspread of tropical resorts, even upper crust resorts. And beyond the beds, wide patio doors open onto a patio. Beyond the patio, there's white sand and water, the dazzling blue you should only be able to get with Photoshop. I stop in the doorway and stare. It's beautiful. Forget the pool. I want to change, grab a towel, and find a quiet spot to stretch out and let the sound of the water soak away my frustration and anger.

I realize I'm blocking the view. On the heels of that thought comes a question. Why isn't Jess bitching at me to move? The only answer is because she's about to stab me with something. I turn my head. She's looking past my shoulder at the water.

I move out of the way. "Sorry," I mumble out of habit and immediately hate myself for doing it.

"Huh? Oh, no biggie. It's beautiful, isn't it?"

I nod, unsure and suspicious.

"Which bed do you want?" She asks. Now I'm really suspicious. What is she up to?

"You want me to pick?"

She shrugs. "Sure, why not?"

I can think of a million reasons.

"I guess the one by the patio then." I wait for her reaction. I'm expecting a smirk and a sarcasm drenched, "in your dreams, dork".

"Okay." She sets her suitcase on top of the other bed. "Would it be okay if we left the door open, not the screen, just the glass door, so we can hear the ocean?"

I nod.

"You want the bathroom first?"

Now, I'm totally freaking out. What the fuck is she up to? This is not my sister.

"Don't look so shocked. I'm not an alien replacement or a cyborg or something. I'm just trying to be nice."

"Yeah," I agree. "That's what's freaking me out. You're never nice." I think about adding, 'to me', but decide the statement is accurate as phrased.

She bursts out in tears and runs to the bathroom.

I'm too stunned to even drop my bag. Jess never cries, ever, unless you count fake tears shed when she wants something. She's two years older than me, almost; she won't be twenty-one for another month and I can't recall ever seeing her cry real tears. She didn't cry at grandmother's funeral, not that mom had either. Mom's dad hadn't attended. No one said anything about it. I always thought he was dead but dad told me he'd simply walked out one day. He sent them plenty of money but never called, never sent a card. Jess hadn't cried at our other grandmother's funeral, either. Dad and granddad, his father, were both a mess at that one. I did my best, sixteen-year-old dudes do not cry in public, but a couple choked sobs escaped me, mostly at seeing my dad and granddad so sad.

I get my wits about me enough to toss my duffle on the bed. I'm not sure what to do. I mean, I know what to do. I know how to offer comfort. I may only be nineteen but I'm not a dolt. It's just I've never been in a situation of needing to comfort my sister. If not ignoring her existence, I'm usually plotting very nasty, very mean, revenge.

I cross to the bathroom door. It's only half closed. I tap with one knuckle. "Jess, you okay?"

"Please, just go away and let this fucking bitch alone!"

The first tendril of guilt works its way into my chest. I shake my head. Guilty? Over what? Telling the truth? Is this her plan, making me feel like a douche for being honest?

I peek around the corner. She's sitting atop the toilet, lid down, with her face in her hands. Her shoulders are hitching and I hear snuffles of snot. She's good but she's not this good. Meryl Streep is this good, not Jess Vandermach.

I walk into the bathroom. There's a fancy faux tortoise shell box with Kleenex. I lift the box and retrieve the ordinary cardboard box it hides and sit down on the edge of the tub. It's like, six feet from the toilet. There's the bidet but I'm not sitting on it. I move over to the counter and rest my butt on the edge. She doesn't look up. I nudge her shoulder with the box of Kleenex.

She glances up. "Go away," she whispers but she plucks three tissues out of the box in rapid sequence. She blows her nose.

I stare, amazed. I had no idea that red eyes, a red nose, and snot could transform a raging bitch into such a sad, vulnerable, and very small looking, girl.

"Jess, you're freaking me out. I mean, you never get upset, other than pissed. You get pissed but that's about it."

"Thanks, you're making me feel so much better, Jon. Please, just go."

Instead of leaving, I sit on the floor, legs crossed, in front of her. I hold out the Kleenex box. She takes only one this time and blots at her eyes. If she thought that would help her mascara, she was sadly mistaken. She looks like a raccoon bleeding black ink from its eyes. It has a weird effect on me. The streaks on her cheeks, the red eyes, all of it, forces me to really look at her. She's beautiful. Most brothers, I imagine, either think their sisters are 'pretty', if they like them or that their a 'fucking hag', if they don't. Jess is gorgeous; even with her face a mess, she's gorgeous.

She has the same blue eyes the rest of the family has. Her lashes are long and thick, even with most of the mascara on her cheeks. Her nose is just right, not too big, not too small, not upturned, not downturned. Her lips are also just right, Angelina Jolie but with just a little less oomph.

"What are you staring at?"

"You. You're a mess," I reply.

Without knowing why, I stand up and turn on the tap. I wet a washcloth with warm water.

"Look up," I tell her. To my amazement, she does. That's probably the first time she's ever done something I've asked her to do. I'm not kidding. Truly.

I wrap the cloth around two fingers and begin to clean off her cheeks. Mascara is designed to not come off. It takes a while. I'm extra gentle when I do her eyes.

"You're prettier without so much make-up," I tell her, as I rinse out the washcloth. "Just some eyeliner and a little lip gloss."

"Since when are you an expert on make-up?"

"I'm not but I know when a woman looks good and when she doesn't."

"So, I don't look good in make-up?"

"Jess, you're beautiful. You know it, why make me say it? You always look good. I think you look better with less make-up, that's all."

"You think I'm pretty?"

"Jesus, I just ask you why you need to make me say it? You know you're pretty."

"Then why did Alex dump me?"

"Uh, I don't know? Because he's always been a total fucking asshole? Maybe that's why. What do you mean he dumped

you

? I can't believe you haven't dumped him. You know he's an asshole, right?"

"I love him; that's why I didn't dump him. Okay? He cheats on me all the time but I don't care. Didn't care. He dumped me anyway."

"Jess, what the hell are you talking about?" I resume my place on the floor in front of her. "He was cheating on you? And you put up with it? You? I'd have thought you'd have cut his balls off. What the hell is going on?"

Jess and Alex had been hot and heavy since ninth grade. It was one of the many things that made me want to puke most of the time. He made All-State in wrestling. Jess had been too 'good', too sophisticated to be a cheerleader. She was in the best-dressed, mommy-drives-a-Porsche clique. Alex is a typical jock asshole. He's a walking cliché of jock asshole, from the top of his overly gelled hair to the bottom of his never-more-than-three-month-old Nikes. I took vague comfort in the fact that by dating him, my sister reduced the chance of him date raping some other poor idiot girl. Not that Jess was an idiot. She's brilliant, which it makes it all the harder to put up with her vacuity, since it's an act. I've always thought she was a human version of the T. Rex. Now she's telling me she's been putting up with that little jock douche cheating on her? That she loves him?

"He's the only one that's ever been nice to me. Why wouldn't I love him? You hate me. Dad hates me. The girls in high school hated me and now, the girls in college hate me. I asked Jill if she wanted to get an apartment together next year. She laughed in my face! My freshman roommate didn't even last a year. When I came back from winter break, she was just gone. She was only two doors down the hall. She never said a word to me about moving out. She never said a word to me at all. I never did anything to her."

"Yeah, but Jess, did you ever do anything

for

her? Just ignoring someone doesn't mean you're being nice. I mean, that's better than trying to make their life a living hell like you did mine, but it's still not being nice. Did you even talk to her? Where was she from?"

"I did not try to make your life a living hell!"

I just stare at her.

"I didn't! It's not like you were nice to me!"

I lean back and rest on my hands.

"I'm two years younger than you. My first memories of you are of you taking my toys, pushing me down the stairs, locking me out of the bathroom until I wet my pants. And you think I was supposed to be nice to you. Jesus! Are you kidding me?"

"You were only two but I was only three or four myself. Of course, I took your toys. That's what toddlers do."

I realize I don't want to fight with her. The minute or two when I was worried about her felt good.

"Okay. Okay. All I was trying to say is you always seem so into yourself. You're like mom, nothing interests you unless it's about you. Sis, I think you only hang around mom, and she hangs around you, because you spend all your time talking about yourselves to each other. It's like you're talking to yourselves in a mirror. Why would someone want to be friends with someone who doesn't wanna be a friend?"

"That's so unfair and it's not true. I'm not interested in anyone? No one, except mom, is interested in me. No one ever asked me where I was from or if I wanted to go to a movie."

"Jess, your whole body, your facial expression, screams 'don't bother me'. No one asks you to do things because they're afraid to approach you. Besides, be honest, if Jill had asked you to go to a party or a movie, would you have done it?"

"Probably not. People only want something from me. They know I have money. I can't trust anyone, not even Alex."

"I'm calling bullshit," I say with a laugh. "They only know you have money because you make sure they know you have money. Besides, you don't have money. Mom and dad have money, well dad has money. We have the same parents but no one, except close friends know my parents are loaded. When I start school in the fall, no one will know, either."

"That's because you have no taste," Jess snaps.

I laugh again. "Maybe, but you can have taste and not dress and accessorize in a manner that blatantly screams, 'I have more money than you'. It's not your clothes, so much as it is your stupid shoes and purses and sunglasses and shit."

The old scowl is creeping over her face. Enough. I really don't want to fight.

"All I'm sayin' is if you toned it down half a notch, gave people half a chance, show just a little bit of interest in what they want or need, you'd have plenty of friends. Including a boyfriend who isn't a walking fuckhead." I stand up. The bathroom floor is not conducive to deep and long conversations. "I'm going to change and head out to the beach. I'll take a key. Look, I don't hate you. Dad, doesn't hate you; that's ridiculous. I'm sorry you feel bad, even if it is over some guy you should have never given the time of day to. You're better than him. Seriously. Count your blessings."

"It doesn't feel like I have any," she whispers.

Oh, fuck. She sounds like she's going to start crying again. Damn it.

"Come on, change into your suit. We can hang on the beach. You can keep your eye open for some rich rock star that'll make you forget all about, whatever the fuck his name is. Al Dick? All Dick? Ass Lick? Alex? I forget."

She shakes her head. "Personality-wise he might have been 'all dick', physically it was more like 'small dick'."

"There's the harsh, take-no-shit, sister I know," I say as I applaud her slowly. I offer her a hand and pull her to her feet. "Come on, let's enjoy this chunk of beach our father is paying a handsome sum for us to enjoy."

"You read too much, dork."

"You're probably right."

***

I fish my board shorts out of my duffle and start back to the bathroom.

"Don't bother. I'll turn my back," Jess tells me as she paws through a suitcase large enough to smuggle a baby hippo home in. If they had hippos in Mexico that is.

I pause. I'm shy about my body. Junior high gym class was agony. I was 'pudgy'. That was how mom labeled me. Plus, I hit puberty on the late side. As a freshman in high school I was just starting to really get pubic hair and armpit hair. If junior high was agony, freshman gym class was torture. Alex was in a weight-lifting class the same period. He wasn't dating Jess yet, not that that would have made a difference. I should probably thank him. He was the primary inspiration for not only having dad outfit the basement with free weights but actually using them. If I forced myself to really look in the mirror, I thought I probably had an okay body but the word "pudgy'" was what floated through my thoughts.

I stayed away from high school gym classes, after the required freshman year course was a nightmarish memory. It's not that I'm not athletic; I just can't stand high school jocks. The past couple of years I spent a lot of time at a local gym, one no one in our rarified social strata would dream of stepping foot in. There were guys from my school but not the ones that lived in my neighborhood. And that was fucking great as far as I was concerned. I discovered that 'roided up bodybuilders could be as unpleasant as high school jocks but they tended to cluster together, drawn together by their gravitational mass no doubt. Kasem was in my grade. His dad, Kovit, was from a small village in Thailand. His dad was small, probably only 5'5", but get him in a ring and holy shit. He taught Muay Thai but combined it with Kali he'd learned living in the Philippines. Anyone who thought they could push around Mr. Amudee was in for a very bad surprise.

My brain told me I wasn't a pudgy little fuck anymore but my mind couldn't accept the fact. I didn't want Jess to think I was some kinda little spaz who still tried to hide in his locker to change, which is probably what she'd heard from Alex. Trying to act as if stripping with my sister in the room was no big deal, I pulled off my tee shirt while I kicked off my sandals. I thumbed open my shorts. I don't have much in the way of hips, so once they were unbuttoned they basically fell to the floor. My boxers are unbleached, undyed hemp, another thing I owe Kasem for turning me on to. Hemp breaths better than cotton and after a few washings is softer. They last forever. The pair I'm wearing is probably three years old. I hook my thumbs in the waist band and slip them off. As I'm reaching for the board shorts lying at the foot of the bed, I notice that Jess is watching me in the mirror.

For a split second, I freeze, fighting the urge to drop into a crouch and throw my hands over my crotch. I'm pissed that I let her fool me. I wait for her derision. None comes. Her eyes, in the mirror, are fixed on my crotch. Huh? The realization makes me uncomfortable and at the same time causes something to stir in my belly. Instead of picking up my shorts, I lean across the bed and pull my duffel closer. I rummage around, pretending to look for something. She wants to spy on me, fine. The stirring in my gut gets a little too strong. I don't want to pop a boner in front of my sister so I grab my flip flops out of the duffel and drop them on the floor. I pull on my shorts, and look down to tie them. I look down but my eyes are on the mirror and the way my sister's eyes are still fixed on my crotch.

She looks flushed. It's probably still from her crying spell. Although, I feel warm myself. I pluck a book out of my bag and sit down in the chair by the bed. I open it at random and pretend to read. I haven't even started reading the damn thing yet. I continue to peek at Jess in the mirror. As I sat down, she had given a little start and began to paw through her bag again.

"Don't look," she tells me.

So, of course I do.

She unzips the back of her sundress and lets it fall off her shoulders. She stoops to pick it up. As she turns to lay it out on the bed, I quickly look down at the book. The shapes on the page make no sense, form no words I can read. I seem to have picked up a book written in Farsi. I risk a peek. She's smoothing out the dress, standing there in her bra and thong, she smoothes out a dress that will go straight into the laundry bag.