<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Your older sister, Diana, writes about food in New York City.\u00a0 She takes small bites, smelling, looking, poking with her fork.\u00a0 She writes 100-word reviews about escargot and blueberry bergamot and foie gras made from ducks raised on sustainable farms.\u00a0 When she visits you in Boston, where you are doing an internship, you take her to a sushi place in Back Bay.\u00a0 You drink green tea from a cup without a handle, burning your fingers.\u00a0 She arranges sashimi and slices of eel on a plate, brushing them with oil so they gleam.\u00a0 She takes photographs.<\/p>\n
\u201cLook at this salmon,\u201d she says, \u201cIt\u2019s shiny and buttery.\u00a0 Look at this eel.\u00a0 It\u2019s limp and tired and dry.\u201d<\/p>\n
You don\u2019t admit that you can\u2019t tell the difference.<\/p>\n
She sighs and pushes the fish to one side of her plate.\u00a0 She picks up rice with her chopsticks and drinks more tea, her pinky sticking out.\u00a0 She asks you to describe your spicy tuna rolls the best you can.<\/p>\n
\u201cI don\u2019t know,\u201d you say. \u201cI guess they\u2019re good.\u201d<\/p>\n
She smells them.\u00a0 Even without putting one in her mouth, she knows what to say about them.\u00a0 Seeing her do this makes you hungrier.\u00a0 You eat more sushi.\u00a0 The wasabi burns your nose.<\/p>\n
\u201cWe just did an article on Ken Orringer\u2019s new place,\u201d she says. \u201cThey make a great clam ceviche.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cClam?\u201d you ask.\u00a0 \u201cI thought ceviche was made with fish.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cClam,\u201d she says, scribbling on a notepad.\u00a0 \u201cClam is the new fish.\u201d<\/p>\n
Diana is beautiful because she takes her time with colors.\u00a0 Earlier today, you watched her tracing her eyes with a black pencil, similar to what you did in a charcoal drawing class once.\u00a0 Then she applies three different shades of brown eye shadow.\u00a0 “Smudge and blend,” she says, “just smudge and blend.”\u00a0 Diana can be overwhelming, up close.\u00a0 Blush with gold shimmer on her cheeks, hair blow-dried to perfection, and then, the finishing touch: her shirt ever-so-slightly un-tucked, as if by accident.\u00a0 Her lips, hair, and skin are glossy, like paint that never dries.<\/p>\n
A few months ago she said to you, \u201cReally, if you just waxed, it would make a huge difference.\u201d\u00a0 At first you were hurt.\u00a0 Your mother always says you take these things too personally.\u00a0 But then you tried it.\u00a0 You and Diana both left the salon with your eyebrows done.\u00a0 She looked rejuvenated, her face somehow brighter, but your brows looked sparse and the skin above your eyes was smooth and red and shiny, like the steaks that your father used to buy at the supermarket.<\/p>\n
\u201cHurts like hell,\u201d you said.<\/p>\n
\u201cBeauty is pain,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n
You still know that she is prettier than you.\u00a0 All your life it has been that way.\u00a0 She\u2019s the pretty one, you\u2019re the smart one.\u00a0 You\u2019re also the nice one.\u00a0 You repeat this to yourself every time you begin to resent her.\u00a0 You remember how once, when you were younger, she told you that if you weren’t sisters, you probably would not be friends.\u00a0 Things are different now, though, because she\u2019s sick.<\/p>\n
The next morning you walk her to the station and she complains that it\u2019s cold.\u00a0 She\u2019s wearing a skirt meant for summer, with yellow stockings.\u00a0 When you hug, she shivers, and you can feel her backbone beneath her cardigan.\u00a0 And then off she goes, and you lie on your bed and listen to the same song eleven times.\u00a0 At the station, she has probably bought herself a coffee.\u00a0 No cream, no sugar.\u00a0 You know she doesn\u2019t eat in front of people on public transportation, or anywhere.\u00a0 You should have given her something for the trip, though, just because.\u00a0 An apple, a handful of grapes, something.<\/p>\n
It was cold and a little damp last night when you and Diana had disappointing chai from that place in Harvard Square. \u00a0You sat together and watched the last trickle of students make their way to the library, the stars above just barely visible.\u00a0 You didn\u2019t try to point out constellations, no, not you, that would be clich\u00e9, show off-y. \u00a0Both just stretched your necks and stared and stared, knowing that it was starless nights in New York mostly.\u00a0 You sat on the wide columns not saying anything because you didn\u2019t know what to say, and let your feet dangle over the edge, feeling dangerous, feeling like you could see the whole world from there.<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 —<\/p>\n
Your internship is at the Museum of Fine Arts.\u00a0 You wear a badge that says Ask Me About Art!<\/em> but usually people just ask you where the restrooms are, or when the caf\u00e9 is going to open.\u00a0 You like it because it\u2019s quiet, and during your lunch break you wander around the galleries, looking at Rembrandt and Monet.<\/p>\n The other intern is Blake, a cellist.\u00a0 He’s a tall guy with glasses, and he wears lots of denim and plaid.\u00a0 In line for lunch, he starts talking about the Mendelssohn piano trio, D minor, number something, Opus something.\u00a0 Chromaticism, syncopation.\u00a0 You don\u2019t get it. He hums a few measures of the first movement, pressing his fingers against his forearm as if holding down the strings of his cello.\u00a0 When he sings it, you can almost hear it, and even though he is touching his own arm, you feel it on your skin.<\/p>\n \u201cAnyway,\u201d he says, \u201cHow\u2019s your sister doing?\u201d<\/p>\n You think about how she ate ten or twelve grains of rice the last time you saw her.\u00a0 You won\u2019t admit this to anyone else, but you suspect that she throws up the food she has to eat for her job.<\/p>\n \u201cShe\u2019s okay,\u201d you say.<\/p>\n \u201cI\u2019m really sorry,\u201d he says, and he looks like he really is.\u00a0 He takes your sandwich from your hand and pays for it.\u00a0 When you drop your napkin, he picks it up, throws it away, and gets another.\u00a0 He does not believe in the five-second rule, not even for paper products.<\/p>\n —<\/p>\n That weekend, your dad calls.\u00a0 \u201cI\u2019m organizing the bookcases in the living room,\u201d he says. In the background, you can hear shuffling and then a thud.\u00a0 This means you\u2019re on speakerphone.\u00a0 Since you\u2019ve been in Boston, he\u2019s been taking on home improvement projects: new tiling in the second floor bathroom, wallpaper in the kitchen, and now bookshelves.\u00a0 \u201cAlpha order by genre.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cGreat,\u201d you say.<\/p>\n \u201cWell listen, I don\u2019t want to scare you, but, Diana\u2019s home.\u201d<\/p>\n Diana never goes home except for Thanksgiving and Christmas.\u00a0 She gets bored the minute the plane touches down.\u00a0 You realize that this can only mean one thing: This is it.\u00a0 You picture yourself pulling weeds in the front yard, an empty bedroom beside your own.\u00a0 \u201cMy God!\u201d neighbors would say softly, and \u201cTerrible.\u201d<\/p>\n You ask, \u201cWhat happened?\u201d<\/p>\n Your father clears his throat even though he doesn\u2019t have to.\u00a0 \u201cWell,\u201d he says, \u201cShe fainted the other day.\u00a0\u00a0 But she seems to be doing much better.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cHm,\u201d you say.<\/p>\n He says, \u201cShe may have to go in for treatment again.\u201d<\/p>\n Treatment is an entire country away, it seems.\u00a0 It takes just as long to get to California as the UK from where you live.\u00a0 You breathe in, you breathe out.\u00a0 In a magazine, you once read that when you think you\u2019re about to cry, you should think of as many words as possible that start with the same letter, as fast as you can.\u00a0 It\u2019s a distraction technique.\u00a0 You hold the receiver away from your mouth so your father can\u2019t hear you breathing.\u00a0 California, cantaloupe, catharsis, cold, click, calm.\u00a0\u00a0 <\/em><\/p>\n —<\/p>\n You take a week off from your internship, writing to your boss with these symptoms: Nausea, starvation, depression, and a diva complex.\u00a0 Then you delete the whole thing and just say you\u2019re taking a vacation.\u00a0 At your parents\u2019 home in South Carolina, Diana is waning.\u00a0 She is withering; she is wincing, whining, wallowing.\u00a0 As if to make up for her, you create things: A watercolor of the oldest tree in the yard, an elephant of clay, pencil sketches of your own hands.\u00a0 You make forty-eight Italian wine cookies, rolling purple dough into ping pong balls, which you then flatten into imperfect circles, dusting the tops with sugar.<\/p>\n You remember summers on the backyard swing set, and your mother\u2019s voice calling you in after you and Diana caught the first of the fireflies.\u00a0 And now you are painting your family on a large canvas.\u00a0 Your mother with her laughing eyes and apple cheeks.\u00a0 Your father’s quiet gaze and his salt and pepper beard. \u00a0Diana stands in front of them in her tank top.\u00a0 You paint the tiniest lines at the corners of her eyes, the way they look when she smiles, her cheeks full and pink, like your mother’s.\u00a0 And of course, you’re beside her, nearly a head shorter, in your denim jacket.<\/p>\n On a magnetic notepad on the refrigerator, your mother records your sister\u2019s lunch: 1 serving of steamed tofu and brown rice.\u00a0 1 serving of broccoli with garlic.\u00a0 1 glass of skim milk.\u00a0 Such food doesn\u2019t sound like anything your sister writes about when she is in New York.\u00a0 When your mother hugs you, the smell of food is on her apron.\u00a0 She has been crying, and she turns away so you can\u2019t see her start again.<\/p>\n Outside, your father mows the lawn.\u00a0 Although he complains about this, you think he must secretly enjoy it, the smell of grass and the solitude, the ritual of it.\u00a0 Later, he comes in for a glass of water and then goes upstairs to watch Argentina play soccer against Real Madrid.\u00a0 When you run up to call him to dinner, he is praying for her, holding a blue rosary and counting off Hail Mary\u2019s between thick fingers.<\/p>\n You’re surprised to see him looking not at the TV, where Argentina has scored one point and Madrid zero, but down at his hands with his head bowed over his lap.\u00a0 You have never seen your father pray, except at Mass, and even then, he will shuffle you all out of the pew one song early so he doesn’t miss a game.<\/p>\n You sit beside him for just a minute and bow your own head, wondering if this will get His attention.<\/p>\n —<\/p>\n Dinner is pork chops with apples and onions, roasted tomatoes, crusty bread and butter.\u00a0 But Diana won\u2019t eat any of this.\u00a0 She disappears to the bathroom and then comes back to open a can of fat-free chicken noodle.<\/p>\n At the table, your dad says, \u201cTake that last tomato, Di.\u201d<\/p>\n Diana reaches over and nudges it with her fork.\u00a0 Juice squirts out.<\/p>\n \u201cYou can have it,\u201d she says to you.<\/p>\n \u201cNo, you eat it.\u201d<\/p>\n She leans towards you.\u00a0 With no makeup on, her skin looks sallow, her body just a pole for her sweatshirt.\u00a0 Under the table, she kicks your ankle, wearing her ratty bunny slippers, the ones she wore in high school.\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cI don\u2019t want it,\u201d she says.\u00a0 You know she can taste it in her mouth already.\u00a0 She knows the ratio of oil to balsamic vinegar, the reason the skin wrinkles in the oven.\u00a0 For the first time, you notice the crescent-shaped scar on the back of her hand.\u00a0 You know this means she\u2019s been gagging herself; it\u2019s one of the signs that they tell you to look for, on the internet.\u00a0 You tear your bread into pieces.<\/p>\n \u201cSo many Americans can\u2019t get enough vegetables,\u201d your father says.\u00a0 \u201cMom was working all day in that kitchen.\u201d\u00a0 They are exactly the types of comments the therapist told him to avoid.\u00a0 This has nothing, she had said, absolutely nothing, to do with who eats vegetables or who cooks the food.\u00a0 This is about Diana and Diana only.\u00a0 Your father didn\u2019t agree.\u00a0 Nothing is ever about one person.\u00a0 He swirls the wine in his glass, and a little spills over onto the table.\u00a0 Your mother\u2019s eyes meet yours as she pretends not to notice.<\/p>\n Your father crosses his arms and continues.\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cI didn\u2019t really eat them when I was a kid.\u00a0 Fresh vegetables are expensive.\u201d<\/p>\n Diana gets up to take her dishes to the sink.\u00a0 Her chair scrapes against the floor, and when she runs upstairs to her room, you can hardly hear her steps.<\/p>\n —<\/p>\n In the morning, you go to Mass with your father.\u00a0 Sunlight streams through the stained glass windows, and you breathe in the smell of incense, the pipe organ so grand that you feel the bass in your chest. \u00a0You expect to feel calm when you enter.\u00a0 Instead, your stomach flutters.\u00a0 You don\u2019t know what to do with your body when everyone is saying the Angelus.\u00a0 The woman beside you extends her hand during the Nicene Creed, eyes closed, and you find yourself wishing you were moved in the same way.\u00a0 When in line to receive Communion, you think about how your sister refuses to eat bread.\u00a0 You wonder if she would make an exception for the Body of Christ.\u00a0\u00a0 Your father spends a long time on his knees, his head bent over the pew in front of you.<\/p>\n On the drive home, he mutters, \u201cIf she was feeling dizzy, she could have said something.\u00a0 We could have helped her.\u00a0 Why didn\u2019t she say something?\u201d<\/p>\n The night before, Diana had fainted again.\u00a0 Although it happened fast, you saw the moment like a how-to video, exaggerated and slow.\u00a0 She was wearing her glasses and dark blue pajamas, shiny like silk.<\/p>\n \u201cI don\u2019t know,\u201d you say, but you\u2019re not sure he can hear you with the windows down.<\/p>\n \u201cEight months, and she hasn\u2019t gotten much better,\u201d he says.\u00a0 \u201cAnd He knows, I\u2019ve done the best I can.\u201d<\/p>\n —<\/p>\n Back in Boston, Blake picks you up from the airport.\u00a0 The car radio is turned on low, and he doesn\u2019t bug you when you don\u2019t say anything for the entire ride.\u00a0 In your apartment, he begins tuning right there in your living room.\u00a0 All you know is that as he plays, the sound is warm and mellow.\u00a0 Mexico, muffin, milk, moose, mustache, Massachusetts, melt, melancholy.<\/em>\u00a0 He stops playing and you let out a breath.\u00a0 You don\u2019t clap.<\/p>\n \u201cWell,\u201d he says.<\/p>\n \u201cMagnifying glass,\u201d you say.\u00a0 You meant to say \u201cmagnificent,\u201d but the words were coming too fast.<\/p>\n He smiles.\u00a0 \u201cThat was the prelude from the Bach Suite in G Major.\u201d<\/p>\n You like the idea of a pre- anything, especially the beginning of something sweet and major.<\/p>\n For dinner, you and Blake walk to Chinatown, which smells of Sichuan pepper and garlic and things being fried, even after ten at night.\u00a0 You sit in a near-empty restaurant and order.\u00a0\u00a0 Your nose runs from the heat.\u00a0 Everything is salty and greasy and good, and the woman who brings your food sets down each plate down with a clatter and something not unlike a yell.\u00a0 You try to yell back, in the very little Mandarin you know, but she doesn\u2019t seem to care.\u00a0 You pick up pan-fried noodles with your chopsticks and get broccoli stuck in your teeth. \u00a0The special is the steamed whole fish with ginger and scallions, and you pull meat off the tiny bones with chopsticks.\u00a0 Afterwards you drink tea in cups without handles and talk about your sister.<\/p>\n You estimate that you\u2019ve eaten more tonight than she has in half a year.\u00a0 You talk about her grace and her poise, her good taste in clothes and food and everything else, but also her habits that haven\u2019t changed since you were in high school: She still carries eyeliner in her purse and reapplies at lunch.\u00a0 She always makes a reservation and insists on being fifteen minutes early.\u00a0 She calls her friends “babe” and she used to call you \u201csis.\u201d \u00a0You never thought you would, but you miss the way she used to stop you at the door to adjust your hair.<\/p>\n —<\/p>\n Diana goes to treatment.\u00a0 And you worry, and you call your mother, and you pray, not that you mean to but it comes out by accident, scribbled lines in your journal.\u00a0 Please God please<\/em>, and why God why<\/em>, and so forth.<\/p>\n —<\/p>\n You visit Diana when she\u2019s back in New York.\u00a0 She looks better, less dull\u2014but maybe that’s just foundation. Her housemates throw a party at her place in Brooklyn, and in the kitchen, a table is littered with bottles of wine and baking cups.\u00a0 You made cupcakes with cream cheese frosting, and you watch as she takes a single bite\u2014a treat so rare the corners of her mouth turn up\u2014then gives you the rest.<\/p>\n She licks frosting from her fingers.\u00a0 \u201cWant to light a sparkler?\u201d\u00a0 She hands you a lighter.\u00a0 \u201cLet\u2019s go out on the roof.\u201d<\/p>\n Before you can answer, she turns, the heels of her boots smacking the floor.\u00a0 You follow her up the graffiti-covered stairwell.\u00a0 She pushes the door open against the wind and steps out onto the concrete.\u00a0 You reach out to touch her back, but she doesn\u2019t feel it through her coat.\u00a0 \u201cI\u2019m going to light it now.\u00a0 Ready?\u201d you say.<\/p>\n The sparkler hisses and sputters, a tiny fire against the gleam of skyscraper windows.\u00a0 White pinpricks stud the air, then vanish.<\/p>\n She frowns, her lips the color of raspberries.\u00a0 \u201cThat was short.\u00a0 Must have been a cheap one.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cDo you know what makes the sparks silver?\u201d you ask.<\/p>\n \u201cNo.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cAluminum.\u201d<\/p>\n For once, you don\u2019t think, I\u2019m the smart one, I\u2019m the smart one<\/em>.\u00a0 She rests a hand on your head, the first time she\u2019s touched you in months.\u00a0 “Nerd,” she calls you, then, \u201cLook.\u00a0 You can see Manhattan from here.\u201d<\/p>\n The smell of burnt charcoal clings to the air. \u00a0Other people are climbing the stairs now.\u00a0 You hear them pointing out skyscrapers and saying There\u2019s the Chrysler, that one\u2019s the Woolworth, there\u2019s the <\/em>Times. It\u2019s a starless night in Brooklyn, of course, but still you know they are there, and you look and look into the night sky, and trace the constellations with your eyes.<\/p>\n Hunger Originally published in LETTERS Journal Your older sister, Diana, writes about food in New York City.\u00a0 She takes small bites, smelling, looking, poking with her fork.\u00a0 She writes 100-word reviews about escargot and blueberry bergamot and foie gras made from ducks raised on sustainable farms.\u00a0 When she visits you in Boston, where […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":8422,"featured_media":0,"parent":0,"menu_order":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","template":"","meta":[],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.bu.edu\/236magazine\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/1313"}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.bu.edu\/236magazine\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.bu.edu\/236magazine\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/page"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.bu.edu\/236magazine\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/8422"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.bu.edu\/236magazine\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=1313"}],"version-history":[{"count":9,"href":"https:\/\/www.bu.edu\/236magazine\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/1313\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":1341,"href":"https:\/\/www.bu.edu\/236magazine\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/1313\/revisions\/1341"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.bu.edu\/236magazine\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=1313"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}A Kundiman Fellow, Catherine Flora Con received her MFA in fiction from BU in 2013. This year, she was honored to be a writer-in-residence at Porter Square Books, where she completed a coming-of-age novel full of music and mischief.\u00a0 “Hunger” was a finalist for the\u00a0Baltimore Review\u00a0<\/em>fiction prize a few years ago, and was featured on an episode of the Racist Sandwich podcast.<\/h5>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"