Learning how to read. Always being told that she learned how to read when she was three. I'm five. I can still barely recognize my written name. "C'mon Ness, sound it out," she says. She's trying hard to be patient; well, as patient as Jenna can be. I try to sound the word out again. I fail. Again. She huffs and storms off to read a Nancy Drew novel. I decide that I hate her for being better than me.

Learning to tie my shoes. She tries to be patient with me, but is failing rapidly. Across, under, pull. Now loop, wrap around, push this lace through, pull . . . No, Ness, pull!" She heaves a huge sigh (Jenna? Heave a huge sigh? Never!). "Here, let me do it." I let her tie my shoe. I decide that I hate her for being less clumsy than I am.

She graduates from elementary school. She's valedictorian, gets all these awards. She's going to Hunter College High School. I graduated from kindergarten the year before, barely able to read, and she's receiving science and English awards. She also writes all kinds of short stories, called the "Peppers and Onions" series. I hate her for being so smart and talented.

I'm watching a New Kids on the Block video. She sits with me until our mother comes in with the mop and starts making fun of the dances. She gets up and mimicks the dances with our mother. I pout, she laughs. "Oh, Ness, listen to some good music," she says, right before she goes upstairs to talk to one of her junior high school friends and listen to the Mamas and the Papas. Later, I steal the tape. I want to be just like her.

She's in a play. It's a remake of A Midsummer Night's Dream. She plays Titania, Queen of the Motorcycle Faries. She's got big hair, lots of makeup, and she gets to wear tattered shirts and ripped jeans. She's so cool. I'm going to be cool, just like her one day.

Mommy dies. She doesn't cry. All she does is eat ice cream, and talk to her boyfriend on the phone. I resent her. She got to see Mommy more than me. Why can't I be fifteen? She holds me on her lap at the funeral, cries with me a little, mostly wipes away my tears. She promises to always take care of me. I believe her. I wish I had her strength.

She graduates from high school. She's going to go to Sarah Lawrence, become a writer. I'm wearing the dress she gave me for my birthday. She walks down the aisle to the stage, shorts on under her robe, Birkenstocks on her feet, a cane because she'd injured her knee playing football; the cane we've all seen. I hope I'm that cool when I'm in high school.

She quits school, I move in with her and Rob. I turn sixteen, decide that I hate myself and that it's easier to let other people to make my decisions for me. I don't show up to school for two months. My sister finally receives my cut list, and promptly enrolls me in a school close to home. I begin to hate her again.

We're at the only Tor Christmas party I've ever been to. I'm a junior in high school, she's worked at Tor since I was eleven. Linda Quinton has convinced her to let me borrow the brand new sweater that she'd bought, so that I'd look nice. She won't let me drink, but people slip me beers anyway. She pretends not to notice. We dance together at some point. I leave before she does. She hails a cab, gives me some money, goes back inside. I begin to think she's cool again.

Off to Rome for a wedding. I get to go to the pubs with everyone, because I'm legal in Europe. She buys me gin and tonics, as well as some shot called the octopus, and tries to save me from myself. I'm a drunken mongoloid. She gives up. The next day, she calls me "la pulpa." I'm her octopus. I realize that I love her.

I graduate from high school. She's late (Jenna? Late? No way!). I get the science award. I'm just as shocked as she is. I receive my diploma. She couldn't have missed this for the world, especially because she didn't help me get ready for my prom. After the ceremony, all she can say is, "It's about time, kid." I think she's proud of me. I'm going to try really hard to be like her one day.

I've been dismissed from college. I hate school, don't know why I'm there, don't want to bother. I know that I'm smart enough, I just don't care. I call her to tell her while I'm up at West Point, with my boyfriend. She's disappointed, but acts like she doesn't care. I can't bear the disappointment. It's even harder than my own.

My birthday. I turn twenty. We go to Chat and Chew for dinner. I was supposed to get ribs. I don't even get presents. We remember my tenth birthday, how she bought me a Vanilla Ice tape. The waitress comes, and she flirts. She is shameless, making eyes and smiling a lot. I tell her to get the waitress's phone number. She blushes and says no. Flirts some more. I offer to get the woman's phone number. She nearly shrieks at me. "Kid, if you do anything to embarrass me, I'll kill you." I have fun with her.

Valentine's day. I go to Tor, hoping to beg some lunch out of her. I'm job hunting. She makes me photocopy something for her in exchange for lunch. I complain, but only because I'm the kid. I can do that. We go out and talk about how guys suck, I show her the gift I bought my boyfriend. She makes faces, gagging noises, tells me I'm lame. I smile; I love her.

March 4th. Sunday night. I call her from work. She tells me of her adventures in New Jersey the night before, of trying to get to a party, but the person who was supposed to drive her and Will didn't answer the door. She gets tired of waiting, they decide to head back to Brooklyn to play darts. She tells me what she's making for dinner, pasta with bacon, broccoli rabe, ricotta cheese. She's a terrific cook. I'm planning to have macaroni and cheese. I ask her if I can move in with her if she moves out. She laughs at me, I assume that means no. I tell her about a conversation I had with my boyfriend. He asked me if I thought that my sister knew everything. I had looked at him like he was crazy, and said, "If she doesn't know something, she'll know who will." She laughs, tells me we'll hang out the next weekend, and hangs up so she can eat dinner. I am still in awe of her.

The next day, I'm at work. I get a call saying that she's in the hospital, intubated, in a coma. I leave work, panicked. I get there, I see her. That damn asthma. Why did she forget to refill her allergy meds? I'm absolutely terrified. She'll wake up, the nurses say. I hope so. I'm lost without her. I realize I've left my leftover macaroni and cheese in the fridge at work.

Later that week. She's brain dead. That brilliant mind isn't working anymore. She's never going to wake up. I need to make some decisions, wish she were here to help me. I can't leave her that way. She hates hospitals, can never get a decent night's sleep in them. I decide to donate her organs and tissues, anything to keep somebody else from feeling the way I do at this moment, and then take her off the ventilator. It's the hardest thing I've ever had to do, ever will do. I'm alone with her just before the surgery. I start to cry. I tell her how much I love her, how much I'm going to miss her, that I'll take good care of the Rod-man (Is there anybody who didn't know that little bear?). I remind her of all the things she taught me. I'm sobbing. I can't take the pain that's where my heart used to be. There's just this huge gaping hole. Who's going to tell me I smell? I remind her of the promise she made me when I was ten. How can she break it when I'm only twenty? What am I going to do without her? It's over, it's ended. At least I got to say good-bye and tell her I love her.


Vanessa Felice