“MUM! Jessie’s being a copycat again! She keeps stealing my clothes!”
I was sick and tired of my little sister. She wasn’t young enough for it to be cute, but she was old enough to know better. She knew exactly what she was doing and that fact pissed me off.
Why couldn’t she develop her own style? Why did she have to follow mine? More importantly, why did she WANT to follow mine? It was crazy, out-there and absolutely ridiculous most of the time. It wasn’t for shy people like her. She just didn’t have the confidence to pull it off.
“MUM!” I yelled again in frustration. Not only had she taken my clothes, the little brat had also raided my accessories drawer and stolen my studded wristband.
I’d had enough.
I stomped down the stairs into the kitchen where I knew my mum was making breakfast. It was also where I knew Jessie would be. I was going to have it out with her. She was not leaving the house wearing my clothes.
I found her eating cereal, wearing not only my clothes, but enough make-up to render her almost completely unrecognizable.
“What the fuck?!” I said out loud.
“Samantha, language please!” my mum warned me. She gave me that look that only mother’s can do: the raised eyebrow that means, ‘say it again and you are grounded for a month.’
Jessie looked up at me through long, fake lashes and blinked her baby blues.
Hell no, I thought, she isn’t going to get out of this one using her eyes like she normally does.
“Jessie, take off my clothes. You are not leaving looking like that.”
“Looking like what?” she asked, trying to sound innocent. She scooped another spoonful of cereal up and popped it into her mouth looking like an angel, albeit a kind of fallen one.
“You’re wearing my clothes and you look like me and that’s just not cool, Jessie,” I said.
Just at that moment our older sister, Regina walked in.
She raised an eyebrow. Clearly she was getting tips from our mum.
“Looks like somebody is wearing your clothes, sis,” she said, stating the obvious.
“No shit,” I said.
Mum raised the eyebrow. I needed to back off slightly or at least, modify my language.
“Why do you even want to look like me? Why don’t you want to look like yourself?” I asked her.
Jessie sighed. “Because,” she began, “Peter Portland said he thinks you’re super hot and since I like him so much, I figured that if I looked like you, maybe he would finally like me.”
I frowned. Peter Portland? The jock? He didn’t have a brain in his head and my sister’s IQ was off the charts. Why would she want to date someone who was clearly an idiot? More to the point, why didn’t he want to date my sister? She was gorgeous. Suddenly this wasn’t about her wearing my clothes anymore. This was about someone hurting my sister. Sure, I teased her all the time, but that was different, we were family. Someone had hurt one of my family members and he was going down.
“You don’t need to make someone like you,” I said. “If he can’t see you’re gorgeous just the way you are being you, then he’s a fuckwit.”
“Samantha! What did I say?” my mum said in exasperation, throwing her hands up in the air. “Last warning.” She pointed her finger at me and left the room.
Just as we thought she’d gone, she poked her head around the corner again.
“But Sam’s right, he is a fuckwit,” she said.