When it was starting to get a bit crazy he said, ‘All right, Livvo,’ (that’s what he calls her) ‘when you’re ready just jump off, keeping your weight even.’
‘Sweet!’ she screamed with excitement.
Of course, being a Barber she did the exact opposite. She took more of a one-footed flying leap off the skateboard, and as she was mid-air, under his breath Api said, ‘Oh, fuck! Not like that.’
She hit the ground like a sack of shit.
Mum, Dad and I didn’t flinch, as this was a common occurrence.
But Api was worried, and strangers who saw and felt the thud were concerned too. People ran over to see if she was OK, and a lovely homeless man who was sitting nearby offered her his walking stick.
I’m pretty sure Olivia laughed so hard she farted.
I’m a lot more precious than my sister. I wouldn’t be caught dead on a skateboard; I’m flat out trying to swing myself on a swing set without freaking out. I’m scared of everything. I check the bath for sharks and even mentioning the word ‘snake’ has me lifting my feet off the ground and placing them higher than my head.
This is a red rag to a bull for my sister: pissing me off was her job description as a teenager, and she was bloody good at her job. She’s the funniest person I know; she can laugh at herself like no one I’ve ever met.
Whenever Olivia and I see each other she still wants to wrestle me. Partly because she knows she can beat 50 shades of piss out of me, but mainly because she knows I’m going to scream her name, ‘OOOLLLIIIVVVIIIAAA,’ like Oprah does when she introduces a celebrity, while I throw my arms around like a helicopter to keep her away from me.
We went to different schools most of our lives.
Olivia went to the local public school, and was cool and awkward and fitted right in. I was more challenging and needed a smaller school with more attention. So I was off to the local private Catholic school that had only been open for a year.
Not surprisingly, we weren’t the best of friends growing up, as I didn’t understand the Keanu obsession (I was more of a Jonathan Taylor Thomas kind of gal) and there were only so many times she could tolerate me screaming at her through tears: ‘You just don’t get it, Olivia! The Spice Girls ARE better than The Beatles!’ But I loved her the regular little sister amount.
Over the years we have become really close, super-close. We talk to each other at least five times a day, have been known to have Skype dinners with each other and our families (we live in different states) and have entire conversations only using dialogue from Bad Boys.
Even though we didn’t have much in common as kids, we would hang out in the Costume Room Dad built us and talk about everything from which Corey she would marry, Feldman or Haim, to how plausible it was for me to wear the wedding dress from the ‘November Rain’ film clip to my own wedding, ‘because I really want to play to my strengths and show off my legs’. I was eight.
I remember a specific day in the Costume Room that changed my life forever. Olivia was using a blunt pencil to carve the lyrics of ‘Riders on the Storm’ into the chipboard floor, and I was wrapping myself up in tulle, humming along to ‘Anything You Can Do’, when she dropped a bomb.
Olivia: Hey, I need to tell you something.
Me: OK, want to make up a dance first?
Olivia: No, this is important.
Taking the sequinned bowler hat off my head, I was all ears.
Me: What’s wrong?
Olivia: If I tell you this you have to promise not to tell Mum or Dad that I told you.
WARNING: If an older sibling says they have information they want you to know but you can’t let your parents know you know, run for the fucking hills with your fingers in your ears screaming: ‘NOT LISTENING, BITCH!!!!’
Me: OK.
Olivia: You have to pinky-promise not to tell ANYONE.
Me: Fine.
Olivia: And if you keep the promise I’ll let you sleep in my room for a whole week.
This was just getting better and better: a pinky promise, street cred from my big sister AND permission to sleep in her room for a whole week. Let’s do this!
We pinky-promised and I braced myself for the biggest moment of my life.
Olivia: Ready?
Me: You betcha!
Olivia: OK. We have a brother.
I froze. I slowly put the tulle wrap back on the rack, next to the sequinned bowler hat, and walked over to her without blinking.
Me: UM, WHAT?!
Olivia: Yep, we totally have a brother. His name is Michael.
Me: Where is he? Is he upstairs?
Olivia: He’s dead. He died of a terrible disease.
Me: Oh, my God! What?
Olivia: He died of leukaemia.
Me: I don’t know what that is.
Olivia: It’s blood AIDS.
I started crying, I was so sad. The thought of having a brother was awesome, and I was so invested in this idea, then hearing he had died, and of something as terrible as blood AIDS, I mean, you can’t make this stuff up.
Olivia: It gets worse.
Me: How?!
Olivia: When Dad built this Costume Room he knew we would love it and be here most of the time.
Me: Dad’s so nice.
Olivia: So they buried Michael under the Costume Room so we would feel connected to him.
And with that she smiled, walked out, and closed and locked the door behind her, leaving me in there on my own, with dead fake Michael’s ghost.
That was the last day I ever went into the Costume Room. Mum would be up all night beading our costumes, and I loved sitting and watching her, imagining myself dancing around wearing her intricate craftsmanship, but as soon as Mum asked me to quickly go down to the Costume Room to grab something for her, the dream ended. I would
