So she isn't the nicest little girl in the world. Okay. Neither am I, and if either of us were, we wouldn't like each other. She kicks and screams and makes me jealous that she's still little enough to do these things. She makes me jealous that I didn't do them when I had the chance.
Amy is pretty, but only in that babydoll way. Her eyes are too big and very blue, dark blue. Her nose is small and swoops up fast, like blink-and-you'll-miss-it. Her lips are thin and not pink, but deep like roses. When her skin gets pale in the winter, her eyes and lips turn dark like bruises. Her face could be nicer, sweeter to look at, only because she spends too much time crying and doesn't know that her face is pretty. She just twists up, twirled like bunching cloth, and screams for things. She doesn't care in the smallest way what she looks like or what people think. I am jealous of this too. Even if she is bad.
My little sister gives people a hard time- even my parents, even me. I can't say she was spoiled more than me or Lucy, but she acts that way now. When she catches sight of a lightup toy or a sour candy she will beg for it, on and on until it's gone from talking to crying to screaming. She will not stop until somehow we give in. She is ruthless in that way. When she gets it she will hug you, all melting and sweet, and the sugar and honey in her eyes makes you forget how angry she was. Okay, you'll say, okay. And everything is okay for a little while.
An old woman talked to my sister once. She leaned in close with her crinkly pale skin and her washed blue eyes. Why are you crying, she asked, what's wrong? My little sister looked up with still-angry eyes. Her tears were drying and her skin was still red. She couldn't remember why. She didn't ever know.