She was nestled amongst the blankets and pillows, her brown hair tumbled around her smooth, round face.
"Der-Der, come on," I said, shaking my nine-year-old sister by the shoulder. "You have to get up."
She said nothing, just rolled over and buried her face deeper into a mass of fluffy comfort.
"You have to get uuuuup," I accosted her a second time, still to no avail. "You little hobo! I've never known a child who sleeps in until eleven o'clock!"
She turned again, her eyes twin slits of tiredness and irritation.
"What do you want?" she croaked with all the fatigue of a middle-aged waitress called out of bed to cover a shift in the dead of winter.
"You're going to the movies," I said. "And it's considered bad form to still be asleep when your ride gets here."
She sat up and considered me a moment, then opened her hand and with her right palm lightly cracked me on my left cheek. Then she opened up her left palm and did the same thing to my right cheek. This pattern, so rhythmic I took it for a game, continued for several cycles before I broke in, "Pie, what are you doing?"
Her expression and voice were completely flat.
"Slapping you in the face," she answered, and sauntered out of bed.