Flash Fiction: A lesson (and class) in brevity

I took a flash fiction class this last semester, and aside from being really interesting and fun, I found a way to write fiction, somthing I've never succeeded at before. I think writing longer fiction taxes my imagination too much--as a nonfiction writer, I'm not used to having to make things up. Well, not used to making everything up. It was the same in theater, actually. So long as I had a script, I could improvise. If someone said, "Make up something," I was completely at a loss.

So it goes with writing. Someone tells me to make up a story with characters and plot and development and scene and setting, I'm stuck. But ask me to write just a scene with one interesting character who does something unexpected, I can tell a whole story, and enjoy it too. So I'm going to post over the next little while the pieces of flash fiction I wrote this semester, and I'd very much appreciate any feedback. Though I can do this kind of fiction, I'm still learning how to do it well.

Final Essay—Part 2

I smiled to myself as I thought about that first kiss, hesitant yet sincere. But other less perfect memories quickly followed. I remembered lingering just outside the psychology classroom door, waiting for Scott after our class. We had gotten back our midterm tests in AP Psychology and he had not done well. He was trying to talk our teacher into letting him retake it, but Mr. Downs was notorious for not giving second chances when it came to tests. I would have stayed in the classroom to offer Scott some moral support, but he had been a little distant that day and I didn't want to annoy him by hanging around. Looking over my own test, I was surprised and pleased to see I had only missed one question out of fifty, the highest score in the class. Mr. Downs had mentioned that only one person had received missed only one question, but he hadn't said my name. I started to smile, but then I thought of Scott and his score. My smile disappeared as I realized that my success would make him feel worse.

I stuffed the test into my backpack, leaning against the blue lockers along the wall while hundreds of students filled the halls going to lunch. It was the middle of our senior year at Orem High School. Scott and I had been "boyfriend and girlfriend" since our first kiss four months ago, but there hadn't been too many kisses since then, mostly just holding hands when people weren't looking and always sitting by each other at lunch and during movies. Scott was a slow mover, but I didn't mind too much. What mattered was that Scott liked me, had picked me out of all the girls in our group of friends. I could be patient and go at his pace if that's what he needed. Just knowing that I had been chosen was enough. And it was enough that I got to see him every day, since we had almost exactly the same class schedule. We usually went over to his house after school to work on our homework, provided we didn't have rehearsal for one of the school plays. We always ended up at his house because Scott didn't have a car, so I would offer to drive him home after school. It was that much more time to spend with him.

I was just thinking about peeking into the classroom to see how things were going when Scott appeared, scowling. "I'm so frustrated!" he exclaimed, walking down the hallway toward his locker. "I don't know why I can't get a good score in that class. I do fine in all my other classes. But this just, I don't know!"

"I know," I said sympathetically, matching my pace with his. "That's so annoying. They're just hard tests. We just need to study more, that's all. You'll do better next time, I'm sure."

"Probably not," Scott said bitterly. "I think I'm getting worse on every one. I'm just stupid or something."

"No you're not! Don't say that," I protested.

"I got a 68% on that test!" he exclaimed. "That's practically failing." We were at his locker and he was throwing books around and trying to sort through the mess of papers in his backpack. Suddenly he looked up at me. "What did you get?" he asked, almost suspiciously.

I shrugged, trying to keep my face nonchalant. "I did okay."

He snorted. "Yeah, right. Little Miss Perfect. I bet you were the one to only miss one, right?" I shrugged again, a little stung by his sarcasm. He snorted again and slammed his locker shut, heading for the cafeteria where the rest of our friends would be eating lunch.

I tried to think of something to make him laugh, anything to distract him from his bad mood. "Well, it's probably because I don't fall asleep during class every day," I gently teased, poking his side playfully. To my surprise, he batted my hand away and pulled back. "Sorry," I said, taken aback. "Scott, I'm just teasing."

"I'm just tired, okay? I can't help it." He seemed genuinely upset by my comment. He wouldn't look at me and seemed to be trying to put some distance between us. Something was up.

"Scott, what's going on? Why are you so upset? I was just teasing, I'm sorry it wasn't funny, I was just trying to make you laugh…" I was at a loss for how to fix the situation.

He sighed and stopped just outside the cafeteria doors. "I'm sorry," he said. "I'm just…I'm upset about the test and I…well, I need to talk to you about something."

My stomach dropped. Those were never good words. "Okay," I said slowly. "Let's talk."

We moved off the side, out of the way of students going to lunch. "Okay, well, I…I don't know how to say this," Scott began, fidgeting with his backpack straps and looking anywhere but at me. I didn't say anything, just waited patiently for him to continue. "I guess it's just…Well, but it's not about you…" Scott took a deep breath. "Okay, here it is. I…I think I like Natalie."

I felt like I had just missed the bottom stair, falling forward unexpectedly. I tried not to let anything show on my face, I just nodded once, slowly, but inside I was curling up into a ball of hurt. Natalie was my best friend. She was cute and skinny and fun; of course he liked her. He always flirted with her a little, but they were both flirty people so I had tried to not let it bother me. I hadn't wanted to be a crazy controlling girlfriend. But still, I hadn't seen this coming.

Scott seemed to be waiting for a reaction, so I just said, "Okay…?"

"I'm sorry," he sighed. "I know this isn't fair, but I just…I've been thinking about it and I think I like her, and…" He trailed off. I nodded again. I knew how uncomfortable the situation was for him, so I searched for something to say to help him out.

"Well, uh," I was trying desperately to keep my voice under control. "I don't know what you want me to do….I guess…do you want to break up?"

"No!" he exclaimed. "That's the thing, I still really like you too. I don't want to break up. I just…like you both."

The hurt was a little lessened, but it was still there. I nodded again. I still didn't know what to say. He seemed to be waiting for me to come up with an answer, a solution to this unsolvable dilemma. "Well, I…don't know. Okay," I finally said. "I need to think about this. Why don't we just…go to lunch and we'll talk about it later?" Scott nodded quickly, relieved. "I'm just going to go to the bathroom," I motioned down the hall. "I'll meet you in there."

We parted, both glad to get away. I walked slowly down the hall, still in shock. I had no idea what to do or how to fix this. I went around in circles in my head, wondering what to say, how to feel, where I should sit when I went back to the cafeteria. I felt so deflated, so let down, so…not enough. It hurt to know I wasn't enough to keep his attention, to make him happy. I didn't want to break up with him; I still liked him, I still wanted him to like me and trust me and need me. I needed to be needed.

I didn't know then that it would only take Scott a couple of days to decide he didn't actually like Natalie, or that in spite of that he would continue to flirt with her, or that he would do the same thing to me again the next year with a different friend. I didn't know that I would forgive him every time he did something hurtful, or that he would hurt me many times over. Even if I had known those things, I don't think it would have changed anything. I wasn't one to try to find a way out. I tended to stay with people and jobs and problems until the end, too unsure of myself to be without something to hang on to. There was security in never switching lanes. I still needed him and I needed the validation of being in a relationship, imperfect though it was.

 

    As I remembered those heartbreaking moments, I asked myself why I stayed with him for so long. Was it really out of a need for validation and a lack of self-confidence? Was it just out of habit? I knew part of it was that I didn't want to hurt him. He was so insecure; I just couldn't bring myself to call him out on his actions. And every time he came back to me after flirting with one of my friends, I couldn't bring myself to reject him the way he had rejected me.

I thought about the last time I had seen Scott before his mission. It was late when Scott and I pulled up in front of my apartment building. He was leaving on his mission the next day, so we had gone on a last date—dinner and a play—to spend some time final time together. We were silent as Scott turned the car and headlights off and took my hand. I had wanted to avoid saying goodbye for as long as possible, but I knew it couldn't be put off much longer.

    "Kate, I…I want to ask you something," Scott began, looking down at our hands.

    "Okay," I said slowly, wary of where this was headed. "What is it?" I prompted when he didn't answer right away.

    "I'm not sure how to say this…" He let out a deep breath. "I've just been thinking a lot, and I just….You are so important to me. I am so grateful that someone as amazing as you could love someone like me." I began to protest at his self-directed insult, but he cut me off. "No, let me finish. It's just that, I want you to always be a part of my life. I can't even imagine my life without you."

    My heart started thumping heavily in my chest and I felt panic take hold. I wasn't prepared for this, couldn't tell where it was headed. What was he going to ask me? What was I going to say?

    "I know two years is a long time, but I don't want to lose you," he went on as he finally looked up and made direct eye contact with me. Oh no, I thought wildly, is he going to propose? "So I have to ask you, will you wait for me?"

I stared at him, almost not comprehending. Not a proposal, but close. By asking me to "wait" for him, Scott was asking me to not get married while he was gone, to still feel the same about him when he got back so we could pick up where we were leaving off. It wasn't an unusual thing for a soon-to-be-missionary to do, but I was not ready for it. I knew a lot would happen in two years, and with our limited communication, it would be hard to keep our relationship strong. I didn't know if I would feel the same in two years, nor did I want to promise something I wasn't sure I could do. I knew all of that, but when Scott looked at me, apprehension and vulnerability written all over his face, waiting for my answer, how could I say no? How could I say goodbye like that? I couldn't.

    "Yes," I finally said, "as best as I can, I'll wait."

 

***

But I didn't wait.

I sat and looked at my phone and thought about those words—I love you—and all I could think was, why am I saving this? I thought about my "perfect" romance, remembering how much I had put into my relationship with Scott and how little I had gotten out of it, and I saw that there was nothing perfect about it. We were imperfect people in an imperfect relationship but I had excused it, time and again. Why? Because I thought that being in a relationship was more important than being happy? I had subconsciously been trying to fulfill all the expectations I had for my life, built on what I felt my religion and my community expected for me, but I had lost myself along the way.

I didn't want to sacrifice the rest of my life to a marriage that wouldn't make me happy just because everyone expected us to get marred. Marriage was still important, still the goal, but what about the other life experiences? What about school? What about traveling? What about being happy, feeling loved, not worrying if he would get bored with me? What about valuing my own experiences for what they were instead of only noticing what they were not?

I knew I didn't want to marry him, didn't want to wait for him or be in a relationship with him again. I realized I had known it for a while, even if I was only now admitting it to myself. But I had still been keeping it as an option, almost like a kind of back-up plan. That's not fair, I realized, to him or to me. It wasn't fair to put my life on hold just in case things worked out with Scott. And it wasn't fair to him for me to be dishonest about how I felt.

So why couldn't I let it go? Why did I still have this text saved, a reminder of all that our relationship was and wasn't? What was I so afraid of?

I was afraid that he was my only chance for getting married. He had chosen me, not consistently, but always in the end, he had chosen me. I was afraid of being alone, afraid that I wouldn't be able to make it on my own strength even though I had been the one supporting both of us for so long. I was afraid of hurting him like he had hurt me, knowing that this decision would break his heart. I had so many fears, but was it worth it?

Yes, I decided, it was worth waiting for a better relationship. I knew people weren't perfect and so relationships couldn't be. It made relationships terrifying, especially something as important and committed as an eternal marriage. It requires entrusting yourself so completely to someone else, making yourself vulnerable, in essence giving someone else a hundred ways to hurt or disappoint or betray you. Marriage means entrusting your whole, imperfect self over to another imperfect person and believing that person will value you, will protect you, will try not to hurt you. I couldn't believe that about Scott, but I believed it was possible. I believed I could find that imperfect relationship, just on my own terms.

In that moment, with all those thoughts and memories swirling around in my head, I was sure of one thing: I was not going to wait for Scott anymore. And suddenly it was clear that it wasn't just about Scott. It was about me moving on with my life, living my life, enjoying my life, and not giving in to expectation. I was choosing to be alone, yes, but I was the one choosing it. And I was choosing to value myself and my happiness. I was choosing to open my eyes to more than just that future, choosing to go outside the lines.

I read that text one last time—I love you—and then I deleted it, swiftly punching buttons so that I wouldn't have time to stop myself.

Final Essay—Part 1

Outside the Lines

 

I was six years old and driving somewhere with my dad. I don't remember why it was just the two of us, but I do remember that I got to sit in the front seat for a change. As we pulled onto the freeway, I was shocked and alarmed when I saw the other cars moving from lane to lane, and even more alarmed when my dad started to move over too.

"Daddy!" I cried. "You can't go outside the lines! That's cheating!" He laughingly explained that it was okay—that the lanes were for different speeds and anyone could move back and forth. But it didn't seem right to my little mind—I always tried to color inside the lines in my coloring books. We couldn't break the rules. How could we move off course and still end up in the right place?

As I got older, it became even more important to me to "stay inside the lines" and do things the right way. In high school, my friends would tell me I was "perfect" and I though I would deny it out loud, I was secretly pleased. But I also started to feel restricted by the label. I remember how I cringed every time I aced a test or a paper and someone said, "Of course you did. You're perfect." How I tried to hide my straight-A grades from people, how I tried not to talk about myself much at all. Even though I knew I wasn't perfect, I felt a lot of pressure to make it look like I was. Part of me was annoyed, frustrated, trapped by that word. But there was a part of me that knew that I could make it seem true. I could get the perfect grades, have the perfect color hair, be the perfect friend. But at the same time, I lived in fear that I would mess it up, that I would make a mistake, that someone would see through the "perfection."

***

I stared down at my cell phone, reading the words of the text for the hundredth time: I love you. It was October of my junior year of college at Brigham Young University in Provo, Utah. The date on the text was from more than eighteen months earlier, and it was from Scott. I had saved it for all those months but without really knowing why. Scott and I had dated during high school and my first year of college, and though things had never been perfect, it was the only relationship I had ever had. Now I was still in Utah and Scott was in England serving a mission for our church. In the Mormon Church, missions are two years long and the rules are pretty strict about not having contact with people back home—no phone calls and limited emailing. Even so, we had managed to keep in touch and stay connected through weekly emails.

I love you. I had held on to those words, pulled them out occasionally, though less and less frequently in the last few months. Being apart had allowed me to gain some perspective on our relationship, and with the time and distance, I had painfully come to realize that what my family had been telling me for years was true: it wasn't a good relationship. I had never believed them when Scott and I were together, always defending his actions and my decisions. I thought we had the perfect Mormon romance: he was my first date, my first kiss, my first and only boyfriend. We had been friends for a long time, through many ups and downs, and we were certain we could survive Scott's leaving to serve a mission for the Church. We had even talked about getting married some day while we were still in high school. If everything went according to plan, we would get married the summer after he got home from his mission. At the time, it was a good plan: a straight course to follow to reach the end destination.

But I wasn't so sure about that course now. I was absolutely certain about the end destination—I very much wanted to get married—but I wasn't certain I wanted to get married to Scott. In our religion, there is so much pressure to get married. Marriage is one of the most important aspects of Mormon life. I suppose it's important for most people, but for Mormons, it is everything. We believe in families and a lot of what we do is geared toward strengthening family relationships. We also believe that marriages and families don't end at death, but that they can be eternal, infinite. There is no "until death do you part," and that is something we do not take lightly.

In addition to the rules about serving a mission, there are many other standards of the Mormon church that make us seem a little peculiar: we don't drink, we don't smoke, we don't date until we are 16, and we don't have sex before we're married. All of the standards and beliefs of our church combine to create a culture that can sometime overshadow the beliefs themselves, especially in Utah, which is over 75% Mormon. When everyone believes the same things, everyone knows what you should be doing and how you should be acting. The standards of our religion seep into every aspect of life until what we consider morally right also becomes what is socially acceptable. And that means that the pressure to do what is right for your own conscience is compounded and complicated by the desire to look good in front of your friends and neighbors. Somehow God's judgment gets mixed in with public opinion and the result can be a whole lot of excess guilt if you don't do what is expected.

Because of our focus and belief in marriage as something divine and important, we tend to marry quickly and marry young. There are a couple of reasons for this, one being that we don't have any premarital sex, so our hormones tend to speed the process up. But more than that, it's instilled in us from day one that marriage is our goal, and while there are a lot of other good and important things in life, such as education and a career, marriage is top priority. But when it becomes the only goal, so many opportunities get ignored, discarded, and undervalued. In a culture so focused on marriage and families, being single almost becomes a mark of shame. Somehow it fosters the belief that you aren't a person until you are married.

As I sat on my bed, phone still in hand, I still believed that marriage should be the goal, but I was starting to wonder, at what cost? I looked at the text again: I love you. Was Scott's love really what I wanted? Why was I still hanging on to it? Could I bring myself to let it go, let myself go outside the lines?

 

I tried to remember the good times, the reasons I stayed in the relationship. Things like our first kiss, which had seemed magical at the time. Scott and I were on a walk, holding hands as we enjoyed the warmth of the evening and watched the stars come out. We were on vacation with my family at Capitol Reef National Park in southern Utah, and though the sunlight was quickly fading, the deep red and cream cliffs were still visible on every horizon. We were seventeen and it was the start of our senior year of high school. Though we had been awkwardly introduced by a mutual friend two years before, this was the first time that we were heading toward being "together." I was so happy to have some alone time with him, happy just to be holding his hand, happy to be pretty sure that he liked me. We rounded the last corner to go back to the house, when I saw a shooting star out of the corner of my eye.

    "Quick! Make a wish!" I squeezed my eyes shut tight. I wish…I wish for Scott for kiss me. I wish for it to be tonight. I wish, I wish....

    I opened my eyes and saw that Scott was looking at me with a strange expression on his face, something between anticipation indecision. "What did you wish for?" he asked.

    "I can't tell you that," I teased. "It won't come true."

    Scott looked at me, contemplating something. "I want to kiss you but I'm not sure how," he suddenly blurted out. He looked away, embarrassed. I tried hard not to smile too widely, mentally thanking the stars.

    "I don't know that I'll be much help to you," I said slowly, "but I think you should."

    He looked at me again, this time hopeful. I looked up at him, smiling and nervous and excited. But Scott, in his nervousness, started walking again. After a brief moment of confusion, I hurried to catch up and take his hand again. I wasn't going to let this moment go, but I wanted to let this be his moment. I would let him take the lead. After a minute, he slowed down and turned…and then kept walking. He did it again, then again. The next time he stopped, I fixed him with an encouraging smile and tightened my grip around his fingers, tilting my head up slightly. This was going to be it. I willed him some courage as he leaned toward me, his eyes on mine. I took a deep breath, willing him to complete the thought, fulfill the wish, kiss my lips—

    He swooped toward me, sudden and hasty. His lips were cold against mine, the period of an exclamation point, almost overlooked, swift and then gone. I didn't have time to take in the sensation before he started walking again, the relief immediately evident. I started walking with him again, but I wasn't sure what to think about the walking or the cold lips or the kiss…the kiss.

    I smiled as I realized what had happened. In spite of the stopping and hesitation, I finally got my first kiss, and it was from the boy I liked more than anyone else. And in my mind, that's all that mattered.

What religion were you brought up with?

I know this has already come up, but I keep returning to the basic question, What does it mean to be a Mormon? What does it mean to me? The prompt in our book says, "Dive right into the essence of your experience. No explanation." And I just keep asking myself, do I explain something so all-encompassing? It's not possible to completely separate my religion from the rest of my life. It's like when tried to paint with watercolors when I was in Elementary school and I used too much water. Soon all the paints ran together, mixing and shifting until it was all one undefinable color.

My first memories of my religion are of going to church every week when I was really little. I remember when I turned three and I got to go to Primary for the first time and sit on the little plastic chairs, squirmy and bouncy and not sure yet what was going on, only knowing that I was now with the big kids. I remember dresses with ruffles and lace and shiny black shoes and socks with a little frill at the top, clothing that was special because I only wore it once a week. I remember learning names of people from the scriptures, Moses and Abraham and David from the Bible and Nephi, Abinadi, and Helaman from The Book of Mormon. I remember learning the songs from the Primary Children's Songbook, songs about Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ and prayer and faith and stars and lilac bushes. I remember my parents singing those songs to me at night before I went to bed along with "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star" and "Inchworm" and "Mr. Sandman." Once when I was asked in Primary to pick a song for everyone to sing, I couldn't think of anything except "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star." The music leader just kinda laughed and told me to pick a church song. I didn't realize there was a difference because, for me, everyday life and church were one and the same, part of the same pattern and routine. I think every little kid thinks that everyone's life is like theirs, but I think that idea was reinforced by the fact that pretty much everyone I knew was a Mormon too.

Mormons have a reputation for being odd, and we know it. We call ourselves a "peculiar people" and it's something we're proud of. We don't drink alcohol, coffee, or tea; we don't smoke or chew tobacco; we don't date until we're sixteen and we don't have sex until after we're married. We don't watich R-rated movies and try to keep our language and jokes clean. We send out missionaries all over the world, and we don't pay our local leaders for all the time the put into their callings. We're really not that different from a lot of people, but we're so far over on the conservative and strict adherence scale, we forget it sometimes. It's a global church, with over 13 million members, but it's also very much focused on the individual and having a personal relationship with God, our Heavenly Father. Our wards become like extended families, everyone calling each other "Brother Herrick" and "Sister Maryon." We know about each others' lives and we are there for every part of it--births, deaths, illness, weddings, graduation, moving on and staying put.

It's a religion of sacrifice and obedience. The early members of the Church started in upstate New York, but because of persecution, they had to move to Ohio, then to Missouri, where they were killed, robbed, and ordered out of the state. The governor at the time actually made it legal to kill the Mormons. So again, they picked up and moved to Illinois, and eventually forced to trek across the country, finally stopping in Utah. This early history of sacrifice and persecution has been handed down to members now, become part of who we are as a Church and as a people.

There is so much hope and happiness in my religion, so many answers to difficult questions. There is support and comfort and joy, both from the organization of it and the gospel and doctrine of it. But it also asks a lot of us, and can become this tremendous source of guilt. It can feel like we have this extra responsibility to teach and preach and be better every day. It requires pretty constant effort and attention. And we can always be better, but the goal is perfection. We know we can't be perfect in this life, but we can in the next life and that's what we're working toward. It makes it hard to remember that it's okay to be imperfect here when the goal is always there.

This weekend is General Conference weekend, where we gather together as a whole church and hear talks and counsel from the head of the Church, a prophet of God, and his counselors and other leaders. In Utah, General Conference is basically a holiday weekend. Teachers lighten homework loads, families plan get-togethers, grocery stores sell out of ice cream, and most other businesses are really slow. We have two 2-hour sessions on Saturday, plus a meeting just for the men Saturday night, then two more sessions on Sunday. In Utah it's shown on TV so my family always made a big breakfast Sunday morning and watched the first session in our pajamas. I would work on puzzles while my dad caught up on his ironing, Rachel and Ethan sleepily watching from the couch and my mom listening from the kitchen. We turn on all the TVs in the house and usually at least one radio so that no matter where you go, you can hear the talks and music. Here in Pittsburgh I might be able to find it somewhere On Demand, but I'll probably end up going to our church building to watch it broadcast live from Salt Lake. My roommates and friends and I will probably go out to eat Saturday night, and we'll enjoy sleeping in on Sunday morning without any meetings to go to. It's a good weekend.

Lying: A Metaphorical Memoir

I don't want to say too much so as to save some questions for the discussion on Wednesday, but this book really challenged me. Even though we are told, from the very beginning, that this book is a metaphor, that we can't take it literally, I found myself believing everything Lauren Slater wrote. I took her experiences for what she said they were, got invested in her illness and her family and her identity. I think in the back of my mind I was trying to remember not to take it all at face value, but I had a hard time. Slater writes in such a lyric, convincing way. Until those moments when she would step out of the narrative and remind me that she might not be telling the truth, I was completely fooled.

Fooled is probably the wrong word, because she wasn't trying to "fool" anyone. But I did start to feel foolish for getting so involved and so invested. About halfway through the book I gave up trying to figure out what was "fact" and what was "fiction" and just got frustrated. What's the point of a memoir that doesn't tell you anything about the author? It's like the picture on the front cover. The woman is exposing herself but not revealing anything--or maybe showing us that there's nothing to reveal.

However, by the end of the book, my opinion had changed. I still wonder about writing a memoir in this way, but I think that this book did tell me a lot about the author, and especially about how she perceives herself. Identity is a slippery thing, and I was interested by her statement right towards the beginning that "what you wish is every bit as real as what you are." (pg. 5) I think it's true--we are made of our wishes and perceptions and masks and desires and experiences. What we wish were true is a very big part of who (or what) we are. And the way we see truth, the way truth is seen by us, is individual and revealing and defining as well.

Meet the family, part 2

My sister Rachel is two and a half years younger than me, and I think that might be the source of all tensions in our relationship. When she was born, as my parents have told me, I wouldn't go see my mom and new sister at the hospital. I was that angry that my mom had had another child that was taking the attention away from me. Maybe if I had been a little younger or a little older, I wouldn't have minded so much. As it was, I was used to being the only child, the star, the center of the whole world. A younger sister meant competition for love and time and attention. And so, I hated her.

That might be too strong of a word. I don't ever remember hating her or resenting her presence in our family, but I can't speak for my almost three-year-old self. My mom says that once she could hear Rachel crying and some kind of thumping sound, and when she went into the bedroom to find out what was going on, she found me rocking the wooden cradle against the wall as hard as I could, "trying to rock the baby." Whether or not I "hated" her and regardless of how long it did or didn't last, I think it's certain that Rachel and I had a rocky (no pun intended) start.

I've sometimes wondered what that must have been like for her. It couldn't have been easy to have me as an older sister. It couldn't have been pleasant to have a sister who was a bossy know-it-all, perpetually two-and-a-half years older and therefore more adept at everything. Constantly making her feel inferior. Taking the attention and talking the loudest. It couldn't have been encouraging to have a sister who was constantly achieving and succeeding, taking charge of games and playtime, asserting her authority. I must have made life a little bit harder for her without really meaning to.

Even once I wanted to be friends and get along with Rachel, the damage had been done. We could play together and make up games and stories peaceably, but it didn't take much for us to disagree and scream and hit, the game ending in tears for at least one of us. I don't get angry easily, especially as I've gotten older, but Rachel is the one person who can push my buttons enough for me to actually yell and need to hit something (I learned to hit my pillow instead of her). In my memory, she was hard to get along with when we were growing up, but now I can't blame her for trying to challenge the authority I assumed I had and trying to get some attention too. I don't think it was all my fault, but I'm sure that to a younger sister, I was simply insufferable.

In trying to put myself into her shoes, I am realizing that it must have been so hard to have an older sister that she probably looked up to not want to spend time with her. That is still the sorest point in our relationship. Try as I might, I know that I don't spend as much time with her as she would like, and I think she resents when I go to parties and movies and dinner with my friends. We are still learning to understand each other and forgive. Why is it the hardest to forgive the people closest to us?

As we got older, we learned to control ourselves and get along, but it was never easy. Our personalities differ in very basic ways. Think Elinor and Marianne from Sense and Sensibility. Elinor is the older, practical, logical, controlled sister; Marianne is the younger, more emotional, dramatic, passionate sister. But in actuality, they also have traits of the other, just as Rachel and I do. I can be wildly emotional and dramatic, and Rachel has a strong logical, organizational side too. The trick is getting us to match up sense with sense and sensibility with sensibility at the same time.

In trying to explain the problems, I am forgetting to include all the good stuff. Rachel and I found common ground in similar interests that we would become obsessed with and share. We went through a Les Miserables phase, Phantom of the Opera, the movie musical Newsies, Seven Brides for Seven Brothers, Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat, The Beatles, Josh Groban, The Lord of the Rings. There were many times when one or both of us would be confused or hurting and we turned to each other for comfort and help. In spite of our differences, we were still sisters and we loved each other. I don't think either of us wanted to fight as much as we did. And once I moved out of the house and we had more space, we were able to be better friends, to the point where she was able to come visit me here in Pittsburgh and we both had a wonderful time together.

Rachel is such a beautiful girl, it's a little threatening to me. She has always had a good sense of fashion and style, something that I learned late in my teenage years. She has a way of making a roomful of people laugh that I admire, and a passion for, well, everything that I envy. She is brilliant, currently working on becoming a neurologist. She has one of the most generous and caring hearts I've ever known, always wanting to help others and reach out to those in need. She also has an incredible musical talent that never ceases to amaze me. She succeeds as just about everything she does, and I am so proud of her. I don't know if I tell her that enough.

Sometimes she still rubs me the wrong way, just as I am sure I do the same to her. But we are friends, we are sisters, and I regret all the years we were not.

Tell me everything you know about ice cream.

Ice cream is delicious. Cold, smooth, texture, slip through my teeth and chill the roof of my mouth. Freezing my nose until it hurts. Flavor that slides down my throat and provides a delight that cools and warms and satisfies. Mint and chocolate, vanilla, strawberry, peanut butter, caramel, and chocolate syrup, chocolate sauce, chocolate shell, mixing and swirling and melting and cooling. Ice cream "hits the spot," an undefined place somewhere between my stomach and my heart, warm and savory and homey. Hand to mouth, bowl to spoon to tongue, scoop it up and around and down, and then again. Feel it, taste it, smell the cold radiating from the gooey mess. Carve through the rounded cream, the icy flakes. Find in their crystals solace, comfort, reassurance that it will be okay, that it is okay, that the ice cream will see you through, chill the pain, dull the ache, a cold compress to the wound that life, that friends, that a boy has disappointed you.

My friend Kellianne worked at Coldstone during high school. On afternoons when we knew she would be there, Natalie and I (and sometimes Manda and Shelly) would drive down to the store and get two "Gotta Have It"- sized bowls of Coldstone Creamery Ice Cream. I don't know why Coldstone tastes so good. The texture is creamy and smooth, and the consistency is thicker than regular grocery store ice cream. We always ordered minor variations on the same two kinds of ice cream. The first, Sweet Cream or Irish Cream with a brownie and caramel sauce. If we were feeling extra decadent, we would add chocolate fudge for another $.49. The second was a sorbet, usually Raspberry or Lemon, with real fruit in it, strawberries or raspberries. The lighter fruit balanced out the richness of the brownie/caramel/cream goodness. Kellianne was always happy to see us and we were more than happy to see her, especially because she usually gave us extra toppings "on accident."

I had a roommate named JaNae my freshman year of college who got a job at Coldstone, but she didn't give us extra toppings. That was okay, though. Going to see her was an excellent reason for going frequently. Natalie and I were roommates, and we still got those same two kinds of ice cream. Sometimes we'd try a new flavor of ice cream or a new combination of ice cream and toppings, but most often, we chose our standard favorites. When I broke up with Scott that first semester, I went to see her at Coldstone the next day to get my own "Gotta Have It" bowl. It was a consolation prize, a "I did something hard and now I get to reward myself" bowl of ice cream. I wasn't really wallowing at that point. I got the Raspberry Sorbet with raspberries added in. I ate some of it then, but it wasn't until later that night, after I had gone to a dance and realized that I was alone, realized that I was hurt and sad and angry, that I finished the whole bowl. By myself. I curled up on our ugly student housing couch in my pajamas, bowl in one hand and spoon in the other and cried as I watched Hillary Duff's "A Cinderella Story." It was a pathetic moment, but the ice cream was my only witness. It was there for me, soothing my tears and fears and not judging me.