I never mention my sister anymore; I haven’t got the time for explanation. I have three brothers, the Wall Street CFO, the chef, the chemist. If this were China, maybe I’d only have one brother. During summers, he’d go to camp for eight weeks, come home smelling like mud and grime and two months without soap. One with nature, he’d say. And I went from three brothers to one to none. Dad always hoped I’d be smarter than him; my nose was always in a book on a Friday night while by brother’s nose was eskimo-kissing all the girls. The boys have better genes. I don’t wear jeans— khakis and skirts are the way to go. If you wore shorts, the paint would stick to your legs and Dad would have to get the paint remover and you’d reek of alcohol until the next day. There is a difference between appreciation and understanding. Dad appreciates my creative efforts, but he does not understand art. He hangs my paintings on the wall, spending more time admiring the positioning of the frame than what lies within. My brother sends me dressing room pictures before buying outfits. What is a “Kate Spade” and how do you explain the difference between yoga pants and leggings? Am I a hipster he wants to know. I’m not homogeneous as the world you’re a genius but anyone with your IQ can be a scientist. I’d steal the show but there’s no money in writing anyway everybody’s hanging on the last rung of the monkey bars until they see I’ve switched my major except Dad. If you crunch numbers all day will the numbers grab the last bit of sanity left in you and wring it out like a towel drenched in the mistakes and half-forgotten dreams of dead statesmen and poets?