Every Single Week

     

Every Week

            My sister and I share a room, a violin teacher, and a shoe size.  We are together much of the time, and too much togetherness creates friction, so we fight.  We fight about whose turn it is to vacuum the carpet and who left the dishes on the dresser and who gets to use the bathroom mirror first this morning.  We fight a lot about who gets to wear the favorite shoes to church.

            “You wore them last week.  You have to let me wear them,” she says, sliding her feet into one of the shoes.

            I did not wear them last week.  I wore the ugly sandals.  If she didn’t take her turn to wear the shoes, that’s not my fault at all.  She missed her turn, and now it’s my turn.  “It’s my turn,” I say as I grab the shoe off her foot, almost yanking her off the bed.  “These go with my dress, you wear something else.”

            “All the other shoes are gross.  I’m not wearing them,” she insists.

            I yell.  She cries.  Mom threatens to take the shoes away if we can’t work it out this very minute with no more meanness.  I am bigger, taller, heavier and meaner, so I get to wear the shoes that day.  There’s no fun in wearing the shoes when my sister is so upset.  This will be the last time I wear these shoes.  Those sandals aren’t so bad, really.