The Favorite Sister

Jessica had always been the favorite sister. It was sometime late July, the summer before sophomore year, that I realized. It was just like any other day, music turned up to full volume, the sun ablaze in the cornflower-blue sky. According to Mother, even the trees rose to this occasion, standing tall, donning their best verdant hues, as if they would be chastised for not living up to their leafy potential. I had always yearned to see the magic of summer, but I never truly understood the appeal. In the stories, the birdsong drifts as well as any lingering summertime pollen and comes as magical as the deep south jazz, always bearing gifts of wonder. To me, the air was always sticky and heavy, like a forgotten jar of honey left in the sun. In the relentless heat, even the green tinged water appeared to be suffocating, the leaves unmoving, and the petals scattered in a haphazard manner, afraid to even blink. The oppressive sunrays seemed to smother any semblance of joy, turning laughter into a mere sigh.

But Jessica, oh, to Mother's joy, she was the embodiment of summer. It was as if she lived for it. Her laughter was always light, dancing on the breeze like fluttering butterflies. While I felt trapped in the humid haze, a panting dog yearning for some shade to collapse under, she somehow managed to outshine the sun. Her warmth and sunbeams effortlessly wove through the dense foliage of Mother's suffocating grip. A part of me has always secretly admired her. While I would float rose petals as bonny boats hoping my dreams would cling on as happy passengers, she would dance in summer's golden embrace. It was as if in the sun's caress the leaves and even Mother would bow down to her, whispering their secrets. Where I saw only sweat-soaked discomfort, she discovered hidden treasures, like fireflies painting the night with their ethereal glow, or the taste of sweet watermelon juice dripping down our chins. Jessica was the summer I longed to understand. How is it that the hot sidewalk only has her dancing along a little faster? How is it that she feels like a cool breeze in the ever stifling air?

Year after year, as I had watched her twirl in the dappled sunlight, laughter echoing like a chorus of cicadas, I never minded being second favorite. If anything, I understood it. How could someone not be simply mesmerized by her? In fact, the summer before seventh grade, I remember religiously following her around everywhere, curtsying and trying to follow her light footsteps to the market, around town, and in the courtyard. Braces glinting in the sunlight, I would try and flash everyone the trademark half smile of Jessica, stumbling around. To the townspeople, it was like a comedy. Everyone would look on with admiration of Jessica, a sneer directed my way. The townspeople whispered in awe. The grandparents smiled in wonder, pointing to their own grandchildren about how they should carry themselves with the same grace. To the boys, Jessica was a vision, a mirror of their daydreams, a summer fantasy. With the muscle of a footballer and the blessed fat of a baby, all the guys would slick back their hair the day when Jessica was coming to the market. It was as if no matter how many golden wands of knee high grass I weaved through, she was the sister that left a trail of enchantment. While I was the chameleon stumbling around in this supposedly idyllic world of hers, she effortlessly made all those plastic billboard-princesses look as paper thin and inferior as they are.

Mother's expectations had always been like a tightly wound corset, squeezing the breath out of any possibility of comparison. We were just too different. Jessica was the kind of girl who would look dainty even in a graphic tee full of slurs. Her voice was clear as the summer breeze, her hair flying, and her soft curves accentuated in the midi summer dresses she loved. There was a sort of 'princess' to her. Softly gazing out from under her long blonde bangs, Jessica was like a snapshot out of time. Her hair blowing in the breeze, youthful face turned towards the sun, her eyes shone the color of wet Earth, as if they were polished amber in the first rays of dawn. Hidden under those golden locks, softly reflecting the warmth of the sun, was a nose so freckled that the brown splotches overlapped much like fall leaves after a windy night. Jessica's smile was always warm with a hint of mystery. I wanted so badly to be her. No matter how hard I tried to emulate Jessica's effortless radiance, I was always the shadow, a guest, dependent upon the shining sun, a passing flicker to become nothing at all under the starlit night. My attempts to imitate her grace were like a fledgling bird attempting to soar alongside a majestic eagle.

But as the summer sun painted the world in hues of gold and amber, I started to not mind being the silent observer, basking in the glow of Jessica's enchantment. The summer before eighth grade, I even reveled in the warmth of her presence, content to admire my own sister from afar. To my mother however, the conductor of symphonies, I would always be a wayward cello, a disobedient note, discordant in a symphony she meticulously composed. Her critical gaze could peel paint from walls and crumble the sidewalks on the street. Like a sculptor chiseling away at a masterpiece, she had relentlessly tried to shape me, molding and refining until I resembled her ideal vision of a dutiful daughter. And just as the trees feared the wrath of autumn, I feared the disappointment in her eyes, a storm brewing behind a façade of forced smiles. But I promise, I really didn't mind being second favorite. While Jessica was the sun, I was content with being the moon, bathed in her borrowed light, casting a gentle glow upon the world. Deep down, I had always wanted her life, her ability to touch even Mother's heart.

But as the summer before high school came along, I started to realize that Mother is right. I would always be the '404 page not found' error that makes people want to slam their heads on their desk, but perhaps, just maybe, I could be something even more extraordinary. I could be the favorite artist of my own life, painting my own masterpiece with strokes of defiance. I could be the 404 not found that sparks curiosity and urges others to question if what they seek lies beyond the realm of expectations. I might not be more than the rambunctious raven in Mother's eyes, a misfit in her world, but I realized that doesn't stop me from dreaming. This summer, as I delicately tread behind Jessica, curtsying to the rhythm of her laughter, I'm dreaming up new graffiti, new vibrant mosaics of the world I imagine. I'm dreaming of not the supposed perfect world in a mansion behind the cold steel gates, yet hopscotch, with stolen chalk and the sun beating down. I'm dreaming of not the expensive bike rides and ski trips every winter, but the squares on the crumbling street, numbered, awaiting child's play. It wasn't the perfect straight lines of the schoolyard grid, the squares were varied and imperfect. The stones were easy to come by, along with the mud and the sticks. Each number on the grid would be a different color. And even after a hurricane, the outline would still be there, a ghostly shadow of the washed out game that lay at my feet before the heavy rains pounded the city. Most of all, I would dream of the people I met, the carefree teens who taught me more about life, both good and bad, that my Mother could never teach. Each summer, my dreams somehow were always different, hopscotch with a different set of people or hopscotch at the pier of our other summer house, but it was that one day late July that I realized something. It was always that the chalk was stolen and the stones were free.