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A weeping willow tree stands in a white-gated backyard with branches swaying in the summer breeze. Small bodies and draped legs spread out across a pastel-colored blanket. Little girls filled with moxie twist thick braids and ponytails and chew watermelon-scented bubble gum. In the distance, an old Disney princess radio plays Natasha Bedingfield, drowning out squabbling parents from the upstairs bedroom window they never remember to close. A red arrow spins, searching for a rainbow color number to land on, and the ambiance fills with eye rolls, groans, and snorting laughter. The tiny man we named Wilfred moves to four and up the narrow ladder to square fourteen. My mind wanders off as Chatty Clara takes her turn, and you bump me in that annoying little sisterly way you always do when you try to talk to me in code but are way too obvious about it. 

After the last bell of sixth period, Mavis Lee, the boy from pre-algebra third period, asked to meet behind the gym on the last day of school. He sat in the seat ahead, and sometimes, it was hard to pay attention during lessons because I’ve never liked math, even though I’ve never been bad at it. Dad always got frustrated and yelled while helping me with homework when I was little, so I guess out of spite, I just don’t care to do anything related to the subject. I still help you though, because none of it is your fault.

 Since January, I’ve noticed the bottoms of Mavis’s earlobes curl inwards, and I’ve had the strangest secret obsession of wanting to nibble at them. He’d look cute with pierced ears. Mavis’s hair is the same color as the black turf we played on during gym time. He wears rectangle-framed glasses that slide up and down the bridge of his long and slightly round-tipped nose. Behind a board filled with formulas, when bored, he would rest back in his chair just enough for me to lean a little close to him. Sometimes, I would breathe a little close on his shirt collar, and I’m pretty sure he would notice but just wouldn’t say anything about it. 

While initially watching Sandra do tumbling because she plans to try out for cheerleading at the high school, at some point, I began watching Mavis play tennis. Mavis is exceptionally good at it, and our school has no tennis team. One day before spring break, I was watching him intensely. His forehead glistened with sweat, making him shine like a golden and bronzey colored egg. His forearms tensed back and forth with piercing veins that looked like the veins of a leaf. I found myself thinking it wouldn’t be too bad if I could trace those veins. I never realized I was standing and gawking at Mavis because Sandra was yelling to get my attention for a while, and it stopped everyone in their tracks. Sure enough, Mavis stared back at me inquisitively with racket in hand mid-serve. Since that day, Mavis and I always found ourselves looking at one another no matter where we were. We had never spoken or anything before; we were just fascinated by the inquisition. I was surprised when he asked me to meet him behind the gym on the last day of school. 

It’s your turn! You’ve been so out of it lately.

It’s because she’s in love, in love with Mavis Lee!

Shut up, I’m going.

The arrow lands on six—square sixteen and back down the chute to square six. Last night, while playing Uno sitting in the center of our shared bedroom in our mix-match pajamas, you asked me what it meant to be in love. I don’t know if I’m a good big sister to you because I never feel like I tell you the right things. I told you love is just a construct, which was something I read in some depressed man’s think piece. Truth is, Mom and Dad are the first examples of what it means to be in love, and frankly if they are what it means to love, I don’t want anything of it. I don’t want that for you either. I can’t yet tell the difference between what it means to love or just really like someone’s company. 

You weren’t born yet, but I remember when I was much younger, and Dad and Mom liked being around each other. At night, I would hear Marvin Gaye sing and sneak down to the bottom of the stairs. I’d peek around the wall at them both, slow dancing and whispering sweet nothings filled with admiration and promises now broken. I remember when you were born. At first, things seemed fine, but at some point, Marvin Gaye was replaced with sharp tongues and your head-splitting cries. That’s all you know. I get why you are worried at a young age.  I’m older, and I sometimes worry, too. 

Mavis writes me poems stuffed in little brown envelopes that smell like textbooks. I watch him from the guest bedroom window late into the evenings every other week. Stopping by on his bike, he blends the envelopes under the day’s mail and quickly hurries off down the street. His latest for me was about this marble his older brother gave him that reminded him of my eyes. I think what I feel for Mavis may be love, but if I say it, everything will change. I tell him all my problems, and he listens attentively. He says that parents are complicated, but they are still just people. Parents still have complex lives outside of our own as their children. Mavis knows how it feels to question the true capacity of love and whether it’s just a figment. Something he thought until meeting me. He says it’s okay if my mouth doesn’t know how to form the words I love him yet.

The front door slams in the distance. You and I quickly dart in the direction while everyone else continues playing unsuspectedly. We hold hands, peering over the gate. Dad has a duffle bag draped across his shoulder. I rub your hand in mine like I always did when you were a baby. I can feel the anxiety and questions brewing inside you. I feel it in me, too, because I know you’ll ask me again what’ll happen to us, and I have no idea what to tell you. Dad sighs deeply, and I can tell he’s been crying because his face is flushed, and he looks almost sunburned.  Before leaving he kisses us goodbye, whispering in my ear to be a good big sister, look after mom, and he will be back home soon.  Chatty Clara yells for us to come back and play as we watch the brown pinto wagon take off over the hill.  As we walk back, Mom, on a daisy-decorated tray, brings out a fresh pitcher of lemonade and cupcakes. 

It’s the last turn of the game, and the red arrow lands on five. Clara’s piece lands on square eighty and up the ladder to one hundred. She cheers with excitement while Sandra, Laney, you, and I give polite smiles. Clara is so competitive, but I don’t mind her for it. Mavis calls after dinner to check in and see how I am doing. He wants to take me to this vintage bookstore in town, and his older brother can drive us. He says you can come along if I want to bring you. I do think I love him. I don’t see why not. 

At night, you ask if we will have to move away and get split up. I kick off my summer sheet and grab a purple Now and Later on my nightstand. I tip-toe across the room and sit on the side of your bed. I watch as your little fingers unwrap the sticky paper. My mind drifts, watching your little face contort while chewing into the grape flavor substance, making exaggerated noises.  I wish I was a better big sister to you and could give you better answers. 

I hear Mom on the telephone through the vents mixed with your light, childish snores into the night. She whispers that she’s sorry and to come back home soon.  Somehow, I know it’s Dad on the other end of the phone. Come to think of it, no one has ever left fully before, at least not indefinitely. Most of the time, after a big fight, Mom may leave for two to three days, and Dad plays all the board games I want with me until I want to sleep.  Dad would maybe be gone for a few hours, but never any longer. You weren’t born yet. Trying to make sense of it was a bit of a doozy to do on my own. 

As the ceiling fan spins slowly, circling the dry summer heat, my thoughts climb the ladders of different compartments in my mind like little Wilfed in our Chutes and Ladders game. I search for calming memories I can tell you about our parents to ease your little mind. I want you to have a memory of love not being so complicated and being like one of our many fun board games, even if it is a farfetched fantasy.