Sisters

“Have you seen my shoes?” I ask you, poking my head into what used to be our shared bedroom.

You haven’t changed the décor much since we got our own rooms.

The walls are still hot pink and royal blue with our silhouettes painted in white. Our silhouettes from that picture our mom took of us in our old backyard. The one with the lake running through it.

Do you remember?

You were two and I was seven. It was the day we were out playing in the yard, and Cookie ran away. Mom was helping us look for our dog, and I guess she thought our tiny round faces, all scrunched up from squinting under the Florida sun were cute, so she took a picture.

That’s what’s painted on the wall. Right in the middle. Over the stripes of pink and blue.

It’s an unfortunate combination. We picked the colors when we were a bit older (but still little). I was ten and you were five.

We argued about it. I said you were too young to pick a color, that pink was for babies, and that blue was cooler than pink, anyway. You said I was being a meanie.

Mom said the room was going to be pink.

Dad said we could just do both.

It was the pricier option, and in retrospect, the worst idea ever, but we stopped fighting after that. We even helped paint the room before the artist came to paint our silhouette.

But you probably won’t remember that.

“What shoes?” you ask absently, looking at me through the mirror. You have pictures of your friends outlining it. There's a boy there that I don't recognize.

You’re getting ready for a party.

It’s so weird to see you do that.

You’re twelve.

Mom and Dad don’t have an issue with it, because you’re only twelve and what kind of trouble do twelve year old's get into? Just look at me. I was twelve and I went out and never got into any trouble.

(That’s what they think. I’ll tell you the stories when you’re older, so I know for certain that you won’t snitch on me)

But my behavior aside, it’s still weird to see you get ready.

You’re putting makeup on.

You’re doing your eyeliner the same way I do mine.

We have the same eye shape.

You have glitter on your chest and in your hair and on your arms. I think you’re wearing Mom’s perfume, too.

You’re twelve.

“The black ones,” I say. I’m going out too. I’m going to a restaurant with my friends. Unlike you, I don’t have millions of contacts in my phone, so I don’t go to parties often. They’re not even fun anymore. You’ll understand why soon enough.

“With the red laces?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m wearing them tonight.”

I look down, and there they are. You’re wearing my shoes. Since when have we been the same shoe size? I swear a month ago I was an entire size bigger.

“You can’t just wear my shoes without asking,” I say, leaning on the doorframe and eyeing your outfit more closely to see if you’ve stolen anything else from my closet.

You haven’t.

You keep looking at me through the mirror, “Can I borrow your shoes?”

I click my tongue, “Too late for that, gimme them back, I should’ve been at the restaurant like, an hour ago.”

“Fuck you,” you say, kicking my shoes off your feet, “You suck.”

I pick them up from where you tossed them at me, “Yeah, yeah, you can just borrow the white ones. They’ll look better with that top, anyway.”

“Fine,” you say, following me into my room.

It’s boring compared to yours. My walls and the floor tiles blend together in a scalding white. My furniture is cigarette-ash gray. There are no paintings of our childhood photos in there. It smells of sage and a bit of weed, but you don’t know about that.

“Whatever, just don’t let ‘em get dirty. If they get dirty, I’m killing you in your sleep.”

You roll your eyes at me and we put our shoes on at the same time.

You back away from me and give me a little spin.

“How do I look?” you ask.

You look like me. We have the same dark brown curls falling in the same pattern, the same almond eye shape (from Dad), and we’re the same height.

You have your eyeliner sharp like I do. Our hair’s styled the same way: half-up and half-down. We’ve both got glitter sparkling over our collarbones. It’s like I’m looking through a funhouse mirror.

You’re like a me from an alternate reality.

“Like a disco ball,” I say.

You roll your eyes again, “Yeah? Well you look like a nun, but for Satan, not Jesus.”

I guess you’re right. I’m wearing a tulle skirt and a long-sleeved shirt. Both inky black. The only other color I have is red, from my shoelaces and my lipstick.

“At least I look cool, you look like someone from an Aeropostale magazine.” I say, crossing my arms over my chest.

“Are you saying I look basic?”

“Obviously.”

“This is the worst day ever, I’m going to kill myself.”

“You’re so dramatic,” I say, then laugh.

You laugh with me. It’s not even that funny, but we’re gasping for air now, our body glitter catches my hospital-white lightbulb and sends shards of gold and silver across the walls.

My room looks a lot less boring now.

We’re still laughing, and your eyeliner’s fucked because you’re tearing up. Our hair is getting frizzy, and I might’ve swallowed a sequin from the seam of your jeans.

I’m dizzy now, and my stomach hurts. You’ve got a hand on my shoulder to steady yourself.

I almost want to say I love you, but that would be weird.

So instead, I say, “You look cute,” and hope you understand.