Of course, this brought out her impish good-natured-ribbing cool old sis vibe that had sat dormant. Along with a liberal push of the speed limit around a mountain bend. It brought a yelp from Paul, cradling sodas in her arms, a yelp from a higher register than the monotone she had been keeping during the car ride. There was an indecipherable look to Rebecca before Paul went to chewing ice from her emptied drink.
“That’s still got to hurt quite a bit,” Rebecca said. “I’d be paining for months after lip piercings, let alone chewing ice is bad for your teeth.”
Pauline crunched louder until she swallowed. “They don’t hurt that much.” She rolled her tongue behind her lower lip. “Freaked the crap out of mom though. Dad just let out a long sigh.”
“I’m sure he’s seen worse at the club,” Rebecca giggled. “But that’s the only piercings you’ve had? No belly button rings, no tattoos, no—”
A cold glare from Paul silenced her. “Why is it,” the younger sister said, edge to her voice, “that you up and dropped out of the orchestra to teach for no reason?”
“Well, that, hmmmm.” Rebecca’s nervous hum had risen to B-flat. “Okay, how about we promise not to ask about what each of us were doing before we got here?”
Paul didn’t press her on it so the car quieted so only the chorus of ‘Crimson & Clover’ could be heard from the dash mounted iPod. The pseudo-silence kept up for most of the song before the younger Spillum spoke up again.
“So this Buttercombe, that’s the school mom went to?”
“I guess it would be,” Rebecca nodded. Their mother had never really talked much about the school, once way back in the day that had been repeated when Rebecca mentioned the school she would be teaching at/Pauline was transferring to, their destination on this drive. Their mother’s minimal mention of the academy was almost mysterious after learning the private school had many families that went there generation after generation.
But now both of the Spillums were going there at the same time. Rebecca as an instructor in the expanded music department roles of Choir and Orchestra, the latter being her main forte but she’d been involved with plenty of choir arrangements as well. And Paul was going to transfer in at the Sophomore level. Last Rebecca remembered it sounded like her sister’s grades were decent, the time to transfer was ‘fortuitous’ but given they’d just promised not to pry into their pasts apart she didn’t make any further comment. This chance for a fresh start was long overdo.
They passed a sign posting the last distance to Buttercombe Academy. Rebecca thought more about their lack of knowledge about the school until now even with a family connection. “I guess Buttercombe hadn’t been known for its music department back then. They are now, quite eager, and within a sea of applicants I must stand out so, yeah.” She snuck in a long drink of her next slush, sour green apple, to quiet more guilty pangs about her blossoming years that denied Paul the chance of an average childhood. She hurriedly tweaked the subject. “But doesn’t this place look posh, and so acclaimed too.”
A noncommittal shrug from Paul, nursing her own slush, black raspberry. “Who knows. Whether it is better than my last school or not.”
“Now cheer up some Paul,” Rebecca said, not wishing to chide. “This opportunity is going to be something better. For both of us. And something more permanent.”
Another noncommittal shrug. “We move around a lot. It’s what we do.”
Hearing that from her kid sister was almost heartbreaking for Rebecca if she hadn’t been forced to mature so quickly. Plenty guilty, still, as she grasped for good qualities about Buttercombe they could glean from the brochures. “But don’t the uniforms look snazzy. Looks more comfortable than what I was forced to wear.”
“I hate yellow.”
“But isn’t the skirt checkered pattern? You love checkers.” And in a conspiratorial tone: “Maybe the uniform has a bow on the blouse.”
“Blah. Ick.”
Rebecca took a hand from the steering wheel to ruffle Paul’s hair. “But you used to love bows, you always wanted me to teach you fancy ways to tie your ribbons.”
“Stop,” Paul tried to say grumpily, though she was betrayed by a smirk of genuine amusement. It dropped once she remembered she was meant to be putting on a front of apathetic angst to survive this car trip.
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