Life with My Sister Madonna Read Online Free Page A

you for giving me this opportunity. Love you.
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    T HEY SAY THAT those whom the gods wish to destroy, they first make mad with pride. They also say that what the gods give, they can also take away. Tonight represents the high point of my life, but in the future both sayings will epitomize not a god, but a goddess—my sister Madonna.
    She will become mad with pride, with fame, with the oleaginous pandering of the sycophants, the mindless adoration of the masses. And what she has given me—the joy of creating with her, of being with her, of loving her and being loved by her—she will ultimately take away.

ONE
    The great advantage of living in a large
family is that early lesson of life’s essential
unfairness.
    Nancy Mitford
    I AM ELEVEN years old and just another of the eight Ciccone kids about to have dinner with our father and stepmother, Joan, in the harvest-yellow kitchen of our home on Oklahoma Avenue, Rochester, Michigan. We are squashed around the dark oak table—just recently stripped and restored by Joan, and still stinking of varnish—and we are happy because we know we are getting chicken tonight.
    My four sisters are all wearing variations of maroon velvet dresses with white lace collars, all made by Joan from the same Butterick pattern. Madonna hates hers, but Joan has told her to “shut up and put it on” and has made her wear it anyway. Another night, Madonna might have run to our dad, and he’d probably have given in and let her wear something else, but tonight he was at a Knights of Columbus meeting and arrived home just in time for dinner.
    As always—not because we are poor, but because Joan is frugal—she has only made two chickens to divide between the ten of us. I feel as if I’ve spent half my life fighting to get the breast, which I love, but failing, simply because I’m too slow off the mark and everyone else beats me to it. Tonight, though, I’ve made up my mind that I’ll get the breast at last.
    But before I can swing into action, it’s my turn to say grace.
    We all stand up and hold hands.
    I take a deep breath. “Dear Lord, thank you for this beautiful day. Thank you for all my brothers and sisters.”
    My elder brother Marty, who has just been caught smoking in the basement and has been disciplined by my father, snickers.
    My younger sister Melanie—born with a silver streak on the left side of her hair, across her left eyebrow and left eyelash—assumes I’m sincere and flashes me a tender, beatific smile.
    My elder brother Anthony, who is coming down from a bad peyote trip and is still clutching Carlos Castaneda’s Separate Reality , closes his eyes tightly.
    My sister Paula, always the underdog, makes a face.
    My baby half sister, Jennifer, gurgles.
    My baby half brother, Mario, in his high chair, plays with his rattle.
    My father and my stepmother exchange a quick approving glance.
    My older sister Madonna lets out a loud, prolonged yawn.
    I glare at her and go on.
    â€œThank you for Grandma Elsie and Grandma Michelina. Thank you for our father and for Joan. Thank you, dear Lord, for the food we are about to receive, and could I please have a chicken breast tonight?”
    Everyone cracks up, even Madonna.
    I strike out. I don’t get the chicken breast. Not quick enough off the mark because I am still heartily laughing at my own witticism. Poetic justice, I suppose. But at least I don’t go hungry—because no matter how often my sister Madonna has portrayed herself as the quintessential Cinderella and insinuated that Joan was our wicked stepmother, Joan has never starved or mistreated us.
    On the other hand, she doesn’t believe in lavishing expensive food on us either. She always reserves any delicacies—Greek olives, Italian salami, expensive cookies—for her guests, whereas the kids’ biggest treat is granola. Whenever Joan isn’t around, no matter how much else