Yours Truly 2016 / Cascadia College / Bothell, WA | Page 97

Learning to be a Sister
Pickle is my biological sister.
We met on Saturday.
Well, I’m in India, so we met online.
Um, there aren’t possibly enough words
to describe it all. It’s happy and new and
strange and exciting and emotional and
really really good, but hard, but still good.
Okay, that’s enough, I’m sure there will be
more to say later!
Myspace entry
5/18/2006
***
Being a sister doesn’t come naturally to
me. Except the bossy parts. At thirteen, my
baby sister Allison got her first bikini. It was
bright pink and yellow. I stood outside the
dressing room, and said, “Mooom, why is
she allowed to wear a bikini? I’m the oldest,
and just got one. It’s not fair.”
By the time she was sixteen, my huffy
repertoire of overprotectiveness expanded
from eye rolls and dramatic sighs to overt
threats to beat up her boyfriends. I’d follow
her into her bedroom, saying, “Tell what’shis-name that you have a 6’1 sister at home.
A sister with a fight reflex,” followed with,
“Besides, you’re not allowed to date until you
are twenty-seven. Dad says so.” She’d laugh
good-naturedly, which made her bright blue
eyes sparkle. Clearly she did not understand

Jenna Fox

that I wasn’t actually joking. With a flip of her
long brown hair she’d prance out the door
to homecoming or prom in an obviously too
skimpy and sparkly brand-new dress.
***
My roommate’s bedroom was airconditioned, so after she’d leave for Hindi
class, I’d sneak into her room, lights off, and
fire up the internet, my lifeline from Delhi
to my friends back home in Washington. To
pass time that day, I typed random names
into the Myspace search bar. My fourthgrade crush, only two pictures uploaded.
My ex-boyfriend from high school wasn’t
registered, so I spent a few minutes scrolling
on his sister’s page, looking at pictures of the
dogs she had recently groomed. Then on a
whim, holding my breath, I typed a name I
had gathered over once-a-year birthday
cards sent via the adoption agency. All the
details were right.
I didn’t mean to find my sister. I was
looking for our mom.
***
During the hard, dark year, my dad
worked across the mountains, only coming
home on weekends, and mom worked a split
shift. Standing 5’11 at twelve, and looking

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