Favorite
I like my second oldest sister, Alecia, but not because she’s nice to me. She usually isn’t. I like her because she’s tough and thinks up things for herself. When people ask Alecia what’s her favorite color, she says, “Orange.” She doesn’t think of all the colors there are to consider, wonder which ones will get their feelings hurt if she doesn’t choose them, and then pick the one that probably never gets picked. That’s what I do. Afterward, I feel bad for the way that I chose it. I think the color must know I only picked it out of pity. And maybe that makes it feel worse than not being picked at all. Alecia knows her favorite color and says it. If it changes, she doesn’t explain why. The next time you ask her, she might say, “Purple.” She doesn’t even care that everybody loves purple, and you shouldn’t love the color that everybody loves because that’s too much favoritism for one color.
Now, my favorite color is whatever Alecia’s favorite color is. If hers changes, mine changes too. But then she notices I’m doing it and shouts, “Quit being the same as me!”
When we moved to our new house, I thought I might get to share a room with Alecia. But Mom put me with Alaina. I don’t hate Alaina and I feel bad for wanting Alecia instead, but sometimes I do hate Alaina. She doesn’t listen and she always acts bad when Mom and Dad aren’t around. I hate her for not listening and for thinking she can get away with everything. She can’t. No one can. If they do, they shouldn’t.
Mom tells me, “Stop keeping score!” But I can’t help it and she can’t stop me.
I am always keeping score, in private.
When I empty the dishwasher, to me, it isn’t right to put the new clean dishes right back into the front of the cupboard, while the other ones who have been waiting to get used have to stay in back. They may never get picked if someone doesn’t do what I do, which is to bring the glasses, bowls, and cups from the back of the cupboard to the front, sliding the warm glasses and cups fresh from the dishwasher past to wait for their next turn. Whoever sets the table will take the dishes from the top of the stack of plates, so I lift the whole stack in the cupboard, dinner plates and smaller plates, and shove the clean ones underneath. The sound of plates scratching plates bothers my teeth and I scrunch my face and clench my jaw to get through it. When that’s done, I rotate the silverware too. But this is a more annoying job since there’s so much of it, and the forks and spoons have to curve perfectly under and on top of one another in a wobbly stack.
Sometimes I’m lazy and I don’t put the effort into making things fair. I feel bad for the cold dishes in the back and it’s hard to think that they might have feelings. So I tell myself they don’t have feelings. They are not even alive. But that never makes sense because, if I was a cup or dish, I would want my turn. I would be grateful that the person emptying the dishwasher is making sure that things are fair, and that I will get my chance.
Riding in Dad’s Jag
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