My sister was always the pretty one. Born only a year apart, we were inseparable until she sprouted boobs at the age of thirteen, and Spencer Jameson claimed her as his girlfriend. After that she changed from my mud-diving, softball playing big sister into some high heeled, mini skirt, stuck up diva. She bought mountains of hair sprays and skin creams and makeup. She layered her face with so much guck that I couldn’t even see her freckles anymore.
“A face without freckles is like a sky without stars,” my mom told her one day.
“Spencer says my freckles make me look twelve.”
“You’re thirteen,” I said.
“Exactly.”
When high school came, not only were we not close, we hated each other. When I was fourteen, Miranda cut off my bangs in my sleep. When she was fifteen, I filled her pillow with pudding. Eventually our parents gave us our own rooms and we fell into a mutual disownment of each other.
One Saturday, my best friend Jenny slept over. We were in the kitchen making late night coconut macaroons when Miranda glided into the kitchen.
“Ugh. What is that horrible smell?”
“Coconut,” I answered. She bent down and started digging bottles out of the freezer. Her booty shorts rode up so much that half her ass was hanging out. We could clearly see the Texas shaped birthmark on her left cheek.
“Why don’t you leave something to the imagination, Miranda?” Jenny said. They’ve never gotten along, even when we were tweens on the same softball team.
“If you’ve got it, flaunt it,” she said. “But I can see how you wouldn’t know anything about that.”
“I swear to God I will kicked your shiny bleached a—”
“Okay, that’s enough,” I said. With a smirk, Miranda slipped silently out the door, vodka in hand.
“I’m gonna teach that bitch a lesson,” Jenny said.
“Dude, that’s my sister.”
“And I’m so sorry for you. But don’t worry, this will be fun.”
Late that night a piercing scream shattered the silence of the house. We sprinted out of my room and found Miranda howling in pain in her bathroom, clutching her face.
“What happened?” My dad shouted.
“My face! Oh, God, my face!” My mom knelt in front of her and pried her hands away from her face. It was splotchy and swollen and red. Her eyes were wet and bloodshot. She didn’t even look like a person. At the hospital, the Doctor told us she had a severe allergic reaction to coconut.
“We managed to save the skin,” he said, “but there’s going to be significant scarring.”
I wasn’t allowed to see her for a few days. When I finally was, I did so reluctantly. She was sitting up in her bed, focusing intently on knitting a scarf.
“Hey,” I said. No response. I tried other pleasantries, all to no avail.
“Look, Miranda. I’m so sorry we switched your face wash with coconut. I had no idea you were allergic. You have to know I’d never hurt you on purpose.” She kept ignoring me.
“You’re my sister. I love you.” She kept on knitting. She did not look up.
Realistic Fiction
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