Chapter 4: The Thing in the Bottom of the Box
We had dinner after — the school rented out the back room of Carlucci's, the Italian place on Elm that does the prom every year because the owner went to our school in 1987 and never quite got over it.
Danny had the chicken parm.
He always has the chicken parm.
He announced this to the waiter before the waiter had finished saying hello.
Mom had the salmon.
I had whatever was in front of me.
I don't remember eating it.
What I remember is that the wooden box was still on the table between us, and at some point during the salad course I realized I hadn't looked inside it properly.
I'd only seen Danny lift the bird out.
I hadn't looked at what was underneath.
"Danny," I said.
"Is there anything else in the box?"
He was cutting his chicken with the focused precision he brings to anything that requires a knife and fork.
"Look," he said, without looking up.
I lifted the lid.
The bird had been sitting on a piece of folded paper.
Notebook paper, the wide-ruled kind he uses for school.
It had been folded into quarters and pressed flat, and you could see that it had been folded and unfolded many times — the creases were soft, almost worn through at the center.
I looked at Danny.
He was still cutting his chicken.
I unfolded it.
It was a list.
Written in Danny's handwriting, which is large and careful and slightly uphill on the page no matter how many times Mom buys him lined paper with a red margin.
At the top, in letters bigger than the rest, it said: *REASONS MARIANNE IS THE BEST SISTER.*
There were thirty-one items.
I got through the first five before my throat closed.
*1.
She never makes me feel stupid.*
*2.
She explains things twice if I need it and doesn't make a face.*
*3.
She let me name our cat even though she wanted to name it herself.*
*4.
She came to every single one of my Special Olympics practices even the boring ones.*
*5.
She told Tyler Marsh to leave me alone in sixth grade and he did.*
"Danny." My voice came out wrong.
"Keep reading," he said.
Still cutting.
*6.
She doesn't talk about me like I'm not in the room.*
*7.
She asks me what I think about things.*
*8.
She taught me how to make scrambled eggs.*
*9.
She always knocks before she comes in my room.*
*10.
She cried at my graduation from middle school and tried to hide it but I saw.*
Mom had stopped eating.
She was reading over my shoulder.
I kept going.
*14.
She never told anyone about the time I got scared at the mall and cried.*
*17.
She reads the same book twice sometimes so we can talk about it.*
*19.
She always says goodnight even when she gets home really late.*
*23.
She makes me feel like I matter.*
I had to put the paper down.
"Twenty-three," I said.
I wasn't talking to anyone.
Danny set his fork down.
He looked at me directly, the way he does when he wants to make sure something is received correctly.
"That one took me the longest to write," he said.
"Because it's the most important.
But I didn't want to put it first because then you'd cry before you read the rest."
Mom made a sound beside me that was not quite a laugh and not quite anything else.
"How long have you been working on the list?" I asked.
"Since Christmas," he said.
"The bird took longer.
But the list took more thinking."
He picked his fork back up.
"You can keep it," he said.
"I have it memorized."
I looked down at item thirty-one.
The last one.
*31.
She is going to college in September and I am going to miss her every single day but I am not going to tell her that because I don't want her to feel bad about going.
But I wanted to write it down somewhere so she knows.*
The room at Carlucci's was loud with other tables, other families, other prom nights happening all around us.
Someone across the room was laughing at something.
A waiter dropped a tray near the kitchen and everyone looked.
I folded the paper back along its worn creases.
"Danny," I said.
"Yeah?"
"I'm going to miss you every single day too."
He nodded once, like this confirmed something he already knew but was glad to have confirmed.
Then he picked up his fork and pointed it at my plate.
May you like
"You should eat," he said.
"You barely touched it."
