My two sisters are my undisputed best friends. Molly is two years and one day younger than me with dark chocolate eyes and brown hair liberally mingled with red and gold. Leah is four and a half years and two days younger than me; she has sparkly brown eyes and a mane of brown waves. We have all kinds of fun together, not the least of which is laughing at our own antics.
The latest craze is learning the waltz. They look up the instructional videos for each step online, and proceed to practice until “The Blue Danube” is perpetually stuck in everyone’s head. Mind you, we have no brothers, so they must practice with one another. As the taller, Molly usually gets to dance the man’s part. Since I am taller still, I always dance that part. My sisters often practice in unusual places, for instance, the top of the driveway, which seems to rather shock our little subdivision.
You see, a particular red truck visits our next door neighbor nearly every day. Occasionally it tows a trailer, more often not; sometimes there’s only a young guy driving, and sometimes he has a person with him who might be his younger brother. The first few times he drove by, I was weeding the flower beds. We exchanged waves, and my sisters and I took to calling him “the guy in the red truck.” We saw him once when we were taking the dog for a walk in the evening. He said, “Hey, y’all,” politely, and I said, “Hi.”
One afternoon we astonished him and his companion by standing in a group on the driveway, talking sister stuff. Why exactly they gave us such strange looks is beyond me. Three girls wearing skirts standing on the driveway having a nice talk who waved politely when they drove by. What’s so strange about that?
But last night, Molly and Leah topped it all. The sky was growing dark, and I was busy inside. Under the sliver of new moon, my sisters practiced their waltz–the balance step, in particular. Headlights approached, slowing to a crawl when they reached the house before ours. Leah’s hand tightened on Molly’s arm. “It’s the guys in the red truck,” she whispered.
My sisters stopped their waltzing, still in their proper positions, and Leah gave the guys a bright smile and a wave. The passenger had his window rolled down. As the truck crept by, he turned all the way around in his seat, staring as if my sisters were complete lunatics. Naturally, Molly and Leah burst into laughter.
Leah came running in to tell me, complaining that she was “dying,” by which I knew there was a good story coming. As Mr. Bennet says in Pride and Prejudice, “What do we live for but to make sport for our neighbors, and laugh at them in our turn?”
Of course, we do live for much more than that, but I don’t think there’s any harm in a bit of clean fun like waltzing at the top of the driveway. And I hope the “guys in the red truck” get a laugh out of it when they get over their shock. We sure did.