Evelyn vs Me

Screams and gnashes. Hair pulling and threats. Sisters loathing, hating, abhorring, disliking more than anything else in the world. It was a wonder that we were able to live underneath the same roof for even a day, let alone our entire childhood existence.

Evelyn and I had the worst case of sisterly rivalry.

In between the few days that all went well in the world beneath that sloping farm rooftop, between the calm and the serenity of a Sunday morning, where all in the house were asleep, quiet, unmoving. Between those real precious moments, there was an animosity that grew with each and every interaction.

Of course, reader, I exaggerate. But anyone with a sister knows exactly what I mean.

Evelyn came in, came into the bedroom I shared with Sarah, Nell, Christina and baby Gina, screeching and raging like a hopeless woman lost in tears over the horrific plight she was unfortunately caught up within.

"WHO RIPPED MY PURPLE TANK TOP?! BARBARA, DO YOU KNOW WHO- [even louder now]- WHO RIPPED MY FAVORITE PURPLE TANK TOP?!"


There was no escape possible. No sneaky door to pull open or chandelier to swing from. No grandiose battling that only Mr. Toad and his cronies, Moley, Ratty and MacBadger, could  muster.

Shoot.

I cowered on the top of my bunk, pulling the blanket up close to my chin, the tattered Babysitters Club book I was reading flopped over on a lost page at my side. My off-white, greased-from-use Granby Public Library card bounced out of the paperback and fell pitifully to the ground, attempting a not-so-masterful escape.

I gulped. There was only one thing I could do here.


"I didn't do it! I didn't do it!" I kicked back the blankets and scuttled backward toward the wall. "You musta ripped it in the washer machine!"


No matter. Evelyn lunged up the rickety rockety ladder leading up to the ceiling-kissing bed, throwing herself at me. The end was clearly near. As near as her fingernails.

I hurled myself off the bunk bed and ran out of the room, screaming at the top of my lungs-- a blood curdling scream that rattled the windows and shook the floor beneath me.




Barreling down the stair with Evelyn in hot pursuit, I shot out the front door and flew over the gravel driveway and out into the side lawn. The Blessed Mother Mary, standing stiffly and planted,  looked patiently at me, her graceful hands clenched in prayer against her holy bosom. I hoped it was in prayer for me.

I dared a peek behind me. There she was. Evelyn, standing atop the stair overlooking the driveway, screeching at me in an inaudible and clearly angry language. There was no time to decipher. I fled into the back field, barefooted and gangly legged, running from the fury that was my older sister.