Your History of Silence

“S-A-T-U-R-D-A-Y night,” Vienna sang cheerfully, dancing in her seat as much as she could without accidentally injuring her sister.

“Stop that,” Charlotte huffed, leaning away from Vienna and checking that her hair was still okay. She had gone to get it done at a new salon and it was curling softly around her shoulders. She was dressed in a knee-length, pale pink fit-and-flare with champagne-colored heels.

“Party pooper,” Vienna scowled, leaning back and crossing her arms over her chest. She was garbed in a fitted black dress that came to mid-thigh. She wore high-tops on her feet and a studded wristband on her right arm. Her hair was loose and fell down to the small of her back like a dirty-blonde curtain.

“Do you have to dress like that?” Charlotte asked, looking warily at her sister’s outfit. “You know Mom and Dad don’t like it.”

“Who cares?” Vienna replied. “It’s my body, it’s my life. I’ll dress how I want to.” She frowned and looked down at her dress. “Well, as much as I can.”

Vienna had been plagued her whole life by her mother’s standards of how girls should look and behave. She did her best to monitor what her daughters purchased, personally approving every dress, top, and skirt. Jeans and shorts weren’t allowed. Tank tops and t-shirts were few and far between. Vienna had been working a part-time job to be able to afford the few rebellious pieces that she owned – a studded wristband from Hot Topic, a black bra and panty set from Target, a studded belt from Walmart and what she’d saved up the longest for: her classic, Converse high-tops.

Charlotte didn’t have a single rebellious bone in her body. She was glad to have her mother with her to approve her every appropriately feminine fashion choice. She wore delicate silver or rose gold jewelry and every last pair of her shoes were a soft, girlish color and style. But Charlotte’s conformity didn’t stop there. She also participated in every activity that her mother suggested, although she didn’t always excel at them – she had plodded through piano lessons for nearly ten years and still couldn’t keep an audience awake at any of her recitals.

“Do we really have to go to this place?” Vienna asked, staring out the window at the passing buildings. “It always stinks of smoke and everyone’s up their own ass.”

“No they’re not!” Charlotte exclaimed. “People are always very nice to me there.”

“Yeah, to you.”

“They’d be nice to you, too, if you weren’t so…”

“Original?”

“Rebellious,” she said, her nose scrunching as though she had said something profane.

“Come on, Charlie, you can’t spend your whole life living like a clone of Mom,” Vienna insisted.

“Don’t call me Charlie.”

“Oiy,” Vienna sighed, rolling her eyes. “Seriously, it’s okay to let loose sometimes, you know.”

“We’re ladies, Vienna. We should act like it.”

“Why? You’re killing yourself trying to be the perfect ‘lady.’ You practically never do anything that you want to do and, when you do, Mom finds something wrong with it and you stop doing it. You need to choose things that you like.”

“I do things I like!” she protested.

“Even if Mom doesn’t like them?”

Charlotte went silent at that, pursing her lips and glaring out the window. She was quiet until their limo pulled up to the restaurant, a swanky little place called Suzanne’s. They waited for the driver to open their door, then slid carefully out of the car. The streets were unusually crowded for this part of town, but that was to be expected on a Saturday night in May – it was almost summer and people were excited for the quickly warming weather.

As they stepped into Suzanne’s, the maître d’ swooped down and took their coats from them. “Do you have a reservation?” he asked, his voice affected the way high-class people sometimes talk. Like he was speaking while clenching his teeth together.

“Yes, reservation for Rousseau, please,” Charlotte said timidly.

“Yes.” The man looked down at the reservation list, pursed his lips, then snapped his fingers. At his summons, a man wearing a nice suit appeared at his side. “Rousseau, party of two.”

“Right this way,” said the waiter, setting off into the dining area. The restaurant was dimly lit, hazed with smoke, and crammed so full of tables that it was almost impossible to walk between tables without elbowing someone in the head. He led the girls to a table near the back and made a show of pulling out Charlotte’s chair. By the time he was seated, Vienna had already sat down in the opposite chair. “Here are your menus. Your waiter will be with you shortly. Feel free to take advantage of our complimentary salad bar.”

“I’m surprised they have anything complimentary. Look at how much they charge for a freaking soda here.”

“Don’t say freaking.”

Vienna rolled her eyes and looked down at her menu. The girls were silent for a few minutes, speaking only when the waiter came to take their drink orders. Vienna ordered a Sprite and Charlotte a water, no lemon.

“Still afraid of calories?” Vienna teased, after making a soft moaning sound upon taking a sip of her soda.

“I’m delegating calories,” Charlotte said, irritated. “If I skip the soda and salad, I can have a little dessert.”

“Or you can give up on the idea of a size zero skirt and have a salad, soda and dessert.”

Charlotte ignored this and instead said, “Should I have the wood-grilled salmon or the roasted half chicken?”

Vienna shrugged. “I’m having a burger. Why don’t you skip dinner and just go straight for dessert? Save you even more calories. And then you can go barf it up afterwards.”

“Don’t joke about eating disorders, Vee,” Charlotte scolded, folding her menu and setting it on the table. “I think I’ll have the chicken. It comes with risotto.”

Vienna leaned back in her seat, clasping her hands behind her head and looking toward the salad bar. Their father had requested a table in the small non-smoking section, so they almost couldn’t smell the cigarette smoke wafting from the larger part of the restaurant. “Ugh.”

“What?”

“I want a salad, but I’d have to walk next to that really smoky table to get to it.”

“So?”

“So it stinks. I don’t want to smell like smoke any more than I have to.” There was a brief silence, then, “Any way you’d go get me a salad?”

“Yes, I will,” Charlotte responded. Vienna had known she would, because one of their mother’s frequent lessons was to always be as helpful as possible. She smiled contentedly as her sister got up and headed for the salad bar. “Don’t be long!” she called after her.

Charlotte, already pretty annoyed by Vienna’s earlier teasing, ignored her and continued to walk away.