But you can't help who it is that you fall in love with, whether they are older or younger, taller or shorter, completely opposite or just like you. My sister looked concerned for my potentially broken heart.
My friends told me I had no chance with a junior. It wasn't surprising that before long I was positively giddy about him. and he always hugged me good-bye before he left. He talked to me as he talked to everyone else, not like a kid, not like his friend's little sister. One in particular would have long conversations with me before leaving to do whatever sixteen-year-old boys did (it was still a mystery to me). My sister's friends were tall, they were funny, and even though my sister was persistent in getting rid of me quickly, they were always nice to me as she pushed me out the door.Įvery once in a while I would luck out, and they would stop by when she wasn't home. They couldn't drive and they didn't wear varsity jackets. But the freshman guys who were my age, whom I had spent months giggling over at football games with my friends, suddenly seemed so young. I had recently become very aware that boys, in fact, weren't as "icky" as I had previously thought, and that maybe their cooties weren't such a terrible thing to catch after all. I had a constant parade of sixteen-year-old boys going through my house, stuffing themselves with food in the kitchen, or playing basketball on the driveway. I had always thought that my sister had good taste, but never more than when she started bringing home guys. She told her, as I started my first day of high school wearing her clothes, that one day she would laugh and remind me of how she was always the cooler of the two of us. My mother continually reminded her, as I entered junior high wearing her new hair clips, that it was actually a compliment to her sense of style. It was a trend that continued year by year and, except for a few bruises and threats of terrifying "haircuts" while I was sleeping, one that my sister handled with tolerance. Likewise, when I was ten and she was twelve, the earrings and make-up that she was slowly being permitted to experiment with held my attention, while my former obsession with catching bugs seemed to be a distant and fading memory. Her "big girl" treasures were much easier to break, and much more appealing. It made little difference that I had a trunk overflowing with dolls and toys of my own. When I was five years old, I took an extreme liking to my sister's toys.
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