“Oh, and I should tell you now, I’m not going to buy any cookies,” I said in my practiced, nice-but-firm voice, the one I used when I informed my mother I would not be joining the family for Easter dinner.
“You don’t have to buy cookies,” Jane said in a bizarrely amenable way. Jane — the consummate saleswoman — always has a strategy. After another bite of curry, she said, “But you do have to Twitter about the cookies.”
I knew it was cruel, but I couldn’t keep myself from indulging in a little sisterly sadism. “Although tweeting is a real hassle,” I said, “I’m happy to do it, but it’s kinda uncool that you put me in this position.”
A look of guilt-stricken horror came over Jane’s face. But only for an instant, before she caught the glint in my eye. “Whatever,” she said.
“Freak,” I said.
“Yeah, I know. But you’re still going to tweet about it, right? I’d feel so bad if — ”
“Yes, yes, I know,” I said. “Consider it done.”