Dialog exercise

“Where have you been?” My sister’s voice was infested with worry, although she gave no sign of moving from the kitchen table.

I sighed, rather inaudibly. “Out,” was my reply.

“Out,” my sister repeated, as if she were trying to grasp the concept that her brother could have possibly spent time with someone other than himself.

“That’s right.” I opened the refrigerator and grabbed the last carton of chocolate milk. Sitting across from my sister, I opened the carton and took a swig. I caught her looking at me, and I stared back at her. I knew what she was going to say. Tonight she would give the lecture of how afraid she was whenever I went out without her notice.

“I thought we talked about this kind of thing,” she said, not taking her eyes from my face.

I raised the carton to my lips. “We have,” I replied before chugging the chocolate milk once more.

“And…” my sister waited for a reply.

“I don’t know what you’re getting at.” I set the empty carton on the table and started slowly twirling it around with my fingers. At seventeen years old, it was ridiculous to me that she was still afraid of being home alone.

“I’m just trying to figure out what happened.”

I sighed once again and stopped fiddling with the chocolate milk carton. I looked her in the face, and slowly leaned forward, my hands clasped in front of me.

“Go ahead,” I mumbled.

My sister looked down at the pencil and paper that lay before her and started to tap the eraser against the lined notebook. “That doesn’t help. You said you would help, at least.”

I chuckled and leaned back, fiddling once more with the empty milk carton on the table. “Sure,” I said, still smiling.

“Okay, that’s what I’m talking about.” My sister’s tone became a bit more irritable as she dropped the pencil onto the paper in utter disgust.

“What’s what you’re talking about?”

“That I just can’t deal with this kind of…” My sister’s voice trailed off as she scrunched her eyebrows in concentration. Her elbows on the table, she hid her face in her hands and muttered, “Forget it.”

I leaned forward, placing my hand on my sister’s arm. This scene played over and over every night, and although I knew that she would never tell me what was truly bothering her, I asked, “What?”

My sister shook her head, still hiding her face behind her hands. “Forget it. Nothing.” She leaned back against the chair, away from the touch of my hand. She looked at me once more , let out a discouraged breath of air, and shook her head. “I’m leaving,” she said as she slowly rose from the chair toward the door.

I surprised myself when I heard my own voice plea with her. “Don’t.” I had also risen from my chair and was standing there, begging with my eyes to make her stay.

“Well,” she began, trying to explain her sudden flight from the kitchen. No doubt that it had to do with how frustrated I was making her. I loved my sister. I wanted so badly to explain to her how proud I was of her that she was trying to get of her drug dealing friends, and how lonely I knew she felt. I wanted her to know that she was my only source of comfort and friendship. I wanted her to know that I truly did care for her and that I loved her very much. I just didn’t know how.

“Just don’t leave,” I slowly uttered the words, trying so hard to get them off of my tongue and past my lips.

My sister’s hand slid from the doorknob and back to her side. Her eyes became wet with tears, and they stared back at me. Through the wet curtain, I could see in her eyes that her mind was turning and slowly beginning to figure that I truly cared for her. All the things that I had wanted to say aloud were being said silently through my heart, and she could see them.

“No?” She took a small step toward me.

“No,” I replied. And in a moment, we were embracing, grateful to the other
that they were there.