Little Sister by Patricia MacDonald Page B

her hand down on the table. “Mind your own business.”
    Beth put down her fork and stared coldly at her sister. “I was just making conversation. This may surprise you, but civilized people often make conversation at dinner.”
    Francie’s eyes glinted behind her glasses, and she gripped her fork so tightly that her knuckles were white.
    Andrew stood up from the table. “That was really good, babe. But I’ve got to get going.”
    “No, don’t go,” Francie wailed.
    “Thanks for having me,” he said to Beth with just the hint of a sneer on his face.
    Beth nodded stiffly, unable to meet his eyes. Francie stood up and slammed her chair against the table. Without another word to Beth she followed Andrew out of the kitchen.
    “Good night, Andrew,” Beth said. There was no reply from either of them. Beth sat alone in the kitchen, staring at the salt shaker and forcing down her dinner. After a minute she heard the front door close and then the sound of her sister’s footsteps heading up the stairs.
    “Francie,” she called out.
    There was a moment of silence, and then a sullen voice said, “What?”
    “Get in here and clean up this mess. I’m not going to clean up after you and your little friend.”
    Francie stomped into the kitchen and began to throw the plates into the sink.
    “What a bitch,” she muttered.
    “Pardon me,” said Beth, “I didn’t hear you.”
    “I wasn’t talking to you,” Francie snapped.
    “I didn’t hear you when you called me for dinner either,” said Beth.
    “I don’t have to call you for dinner.”
    “No, obviously.”
    “Thanks for ruining everything,” said Francie. She turned and jerked the faucets on full blast. “Bitch.”
    “I’ll do my dishes later,” said Beth, getting up from the table.
    She went into the living room and sat down in a chair by the window. She picked up a book and pretended to read it, but her heart was pounding, and the words were a blur on the page.
    Very mature, she told herself. You really handled that situation beautifully. Why didn’t you just dump their plates in their laps, just so there would be no mistaking how you felt? What’s a good temper tantrum without a little food throwing? And all this because they ate a hamburger without waiting for you.
    Beth put the book face down on her lap and turned her head to look out the window at the night sky. The stars seemed to swim before her eyes.
    Suddenly she heard the water stop running in the kitchen. After a few minutes she heard Francie coming down the hall. She felt an urge to call out to her, to try to make up. It had been wrong to spoil the evening, to run Andrew off, now for the second time. But as she saw Francie pass the doorway she could not force the words out. Francie started up the stairs to her room.
    “Good night, Francie,” Beth said, but her voice was harsh. She had not meant it to sound that way.
    Francie kept going and did not reply.

Chapter 6
    ANDREW FELT THE CHILL OF THE NIGHT cutting through his coat as he walked, head down, his body angled forward. It was as if icy hands were closing around his narrow chest, squeezing him, making it hard to breathe. The walk itself did not tire him. He was used to walking. He walked everywhere. But he was hurrying to get back, and the food from that miserable dinner roiled in his stomach, threatening to rise up and choke him.
    Car headlights appeared behind him, in the distance, and Andrew whirled around, sticking out his thumb. The car whizzed past him. “Fucking bastard pricks,” Andrew muttered after the car, and jammed his hands back in his pockets. He smacked his arms against his sides as he increased his pace.
    He forced himself to go faster and faster, sometimes breaking into a run, until he could actually feel himself sweating despite the cold temperature. The night was still and quiet but not safe. He tried to clear his mind of everything but his progress. But every now and then the trees would rustle, and it seemed to