Three days later, Rachel rode it into a ditch and bent the front wheel.
“I didn’t mean to,” she cried. “I just wanted to try it. You never let me try anything.”
My mother bought me a new wheel. Then she told me I should share more with my little sister.
When I was seventeen, I bought a dress for my senior prom. It was dark green satin, the color of pine trees, and it was the most beautiful thing I’d ever owned. I bought it at a department store two towns over with money from my job at the pharmacy.
The week before prom, Rachel borrowed it without asking. She wore it to a party. She spilled red punch down the front.
“It’s just a dress,” my mother said, when I cried. “Don’t make a big deal out of it. You know how
Rachel is.”
I wore my cousin’s old blue dress to prom. It was too big in the chest and too short in the arms.
And when I was nineteen, home from college for the summer, I started dating a boy named Kevin.
He was sweet and funny and he played guitar badly. We went out for six weeks.
