“Now me.” Nicole took the Carter button and jabbed the pin into her thumb so hard I thought she would need stitches, though only a small bead of blood appeared. She pinched until the drop spread to an impressive size and I did the same.

“We should say something,” I said.

“Like what?”

“Y’know, do some kind of vows.” I contorted my palm outward so the blood wouldn’t spill.

“Okay,” Nicole said, “say them and I’ll repeat after you.”

I took Nicole’s other hand, the one without the blood, and moved so that our knees touched. The only vows I knew were the ones I’d heard Judge Merrick perform at Daddy and Anna’s wedding.

“I, Jackie, take you, Nicole, to be my blood sister.”

“I, Nicole, take you, Jackie, to be my blood sister.”

“For richer or poorer.”

“For richer or poorer.”

“In sickness and in health.”

“In sickness and in health.”

“Till death us do part.”

“Till death us do part.”

Nicole motioned to me, crooking her bloody thumb. I raised my thumb in response. Carefully and ritualistically, we aimed our thumbs at each other’s until they met.

“Amen,” I said.

Nicole nodded.

We pressed our thumbs tightly together. Now we’d be sisters, there for each other forever, no matter what happened. I imagined my blood seeping out of my veins and into hers; my cells becoming part of Nicole’s body and hers becoming part of mine. I didn’t know where to put my eyes. I was afraid if I met her gaze, I would blush or giggle and break the spell. I focused on the wall where Anna’s pictures and 3-D Jesuses and saints had hung. All that remained were squares of bright flower print trumpeting out from the surrounding faded wallpaper.

“Jackie!” Anna’s voice rang out and we both sprung apart as if we’d been caught doing something naughty.

I wiped my thumb against the leg of my jeans. “Call you tonight,” I said and ran down the stairs to where Anna was waiting, tennis skirt blowing around her legs. With a frantic gyration of her hands, she nudged me into the backseat of the limousine where Daddy sat, his face burrowed into a folder of papers.

“You want to give us the heart attack?” she chided. “I thought you ran away!”

I turned around in my seat and craned my neck to find the garage window where Nicole still sat, one cheek pressed up against the glass, waving. I waved back and made the finger-swirling gesture of dialing a telephone. Then, as our limo rolled over the speed bumps, past Mr. Jackson and the guardhouse, and out the Colony gates, I bid farewell to the beach, the ocean and Malibu, the souls of my feet still sandy in my shoes.

INT. BEVERLY HILLS HOME

1981 – 1983