My Sister Tried to Kill Me

It began like any other school day. We were both trying to hog the mirror from the other and tempers were beginning to flare. I’m sure it really wasn’t my fault.

I had been the only child for four years and had gotten all the love and attention from everyone. When this tiny new creature came to live in my house, I noticed how everyone’s perspective immediately changed.

“Isn’t she precious?”

“Look at that perfect little nose!”

“All that gorgeous dark hair!”

And she was, dang it. She was a beautiful baby. I had been born bald and was wearing blue cat-eye glasses to correct a crossing left eye by the time I was one and a half years old. My mother would put me in pink ruffled dresses and superglue pink bows to my slick head until I was two, to no avail. People would still admire the “little boy”. It didn’t help when hair finally did grow upon my bowl-like head, it was a tangled mess, much like honeysuckle snarling around branches in an immature forest.

What’s more, Geri loved everyone. Especially the elderly. She would always run up and hug them around the neck and kiss them on the cheek. They adored her. Then, as if on second thought, the person doing all the gushing might look at me, a homely little thing, and say,

“Oh, yes, you are a . . . a . . . uh, a . . . sweetie too, aren’t you?”

How could I not develop a complex? Children know the truth!

Geri had a huge heart and was a peacemaker. I started resenting her and began showing my hurt and disgust in the only way I knew how. By the time I was in school, I was becoming mean to my sister. I became an expert at psychological and verbal torment, flinging things like:

“You’re really adopted.”

“They love me more than they love you.”

I locked her under our stairs until she promised to kiss a friend’s brother. I met a cute boy in the ocean and made her give him her rented raft. These were daily occurrences. Every time I would do or say something less than nice to my sister, if my mother caught me, she would invariably say:

“One of these days, she is going to learn to pick up something and hit you in the head with it!” Adding, “And when she does, I’m not going to say a word!”

But she still didn’t and I knew I could continue to take advantage of her. Except when someone other than I picked on her. Like the time a much larger neighbor was bullying her and I leaped on the girl. We were rolling around in a ditch, the big girl on top, punching me. The next thing I knew, my tiny, first-grade sister had jumped like a spider monkey in the middle of the girl’s back, yanking her long, fuzzy, red hair. We might still be there if the girl’s aunt hadn’t pulled up and broken it up.

It was well into my high school years before the tables turned. One morning, just like any other school day, Geri and I were arguing over sharing our tiny bathroom. I’m sure it was something terribly important like I wanted the brush she was using, or we couldn’t both see in the mirror at the same time that was the crux of the problem. I shoved her and she pushed back. I called her a b*tch and just as my mother had always predicted for so many years, my sister turned on me. That spider monkey reincarnated and she flung me into the bathtub. On my way down, I hit the faucet and turned scalding water onto me. I screamed and went through an entire melodrama, complete with tears, feigning being hurt. Thank God, my mother and boyfriend (who was waiting to drive me to school), ran into the bathroom to save me. I don’t know how we all managed to fit into that tiny room not much larger than a telephone booth, but I’ve heard it said when there is a crisis, people have been known to lift vehicles off those smashed under it. I’m sure that is what happened that morning my sister tried to kill me. The adrenaline rush caused us to act with superhuman strength and abilities.

My mother turned the water off as my boyfriend gingerly pulled me from the tub. Me? I was still stunned my evil sister almost killed me. The villain? She had moved into the hallway, rolling her eyes, with a villainous laugh.

My boyfriend shot daggers her direction and yelled, “You could have scalded her to death!” I was grateful for his concern and defense of me.

My mother calmly said, “It was the cold water.”

Like that made a difference. Intent should be 9/10ths of the law.

So she went from pacifist to standing up for herself. I gained some respect for her and our relationship began to change. It took a couple more years and me moving out before we could become best friends. Or we were, until I found out she had been using my toothbrush to scrub combs and hairbrushes every time she cleaned them. Thank God it wasn’t the toilet. Come to think of it, I had a lot of sore throats, growing up.