Heather

You had not planned the evening to go this way. It was only meant to be a small prank. But it feels to you like you have traded your soul to the devil in return of a broken one. Now, as you stand before the shattered remains of your mother's fine china plates (and the culprit, your sister), you think perhaps it's all finally come to an end.

Hurried footsteps fill the air. Then a gasp.

“What have you done?” Your mother exclaims, rushing over to help your sister up, who had tripped over her own foot and fallen into the cabinet just moments before.

“Are you okay? Let me see.” Your mother examines her knees and hands for cuts.

Panic is visible in your sister’s eyes. She swallows hard.

“What happened here?”

The corners of your mouth lift in a small smile. How would she wriggle her way out of this one?

“We were leaving the kitchen,” your sister says, “and…” she swallows again, her eyes darting around the room and then land on you, “and she stumbled over her foot and pushed me.”

You uncross your arms, your mouth opening and closing in a moment of shock. Your sister comes to a stand and stares at floor.

“Oh..” your mother sighs and looks at you with those eyes. Eyes full of pity. She looks down to your shoes, to see if you have them on the right way around or if your laces are done up properly.

“No!” You retaliate, pinning your sister in place with your stare, “tell the truth.”

She shuffles on her feet, wringing her fingers behind her back. That is something she would do, you think, crossing your arms again.

“It is the truth,” she says, speaking to the ground.

“No,” you repeat, with more conviction this time, “tell Mum the truth.”

“It’s okay,” more footsteps approach now, “as long as you girls aren’t hurt.”

“But Mum that’s not it,” you protest, “I didn’t do anything.”

“I know, honey,” she says, “it’s not your fault.”

“You don’t understand,” you turn to your sister, who is still avoiding your eyes. “Please tell the truth,” you beg her.

Your sister shifts her weight from one leg to the other. She steals a quick glance at you, hoping for an escape. You simply nod, lips pressed in a tight line.

“Everything okay?” Mr. Harvey, your soon-to-be father, asks.

You watch as he exchanges a knowing look with your mother, indicating at the mess on the floor and the two of you. You, in particular.

You tap your foot, “well?”

Your sister stands straight the second Mr. Harvey arrives. With a stoic expression, she fixes her gaze somewhere behind you and says, “Heather stumbled and pushed me into the cabinet.”

All patience leaves you like air from a balloon. You step over the mess your sister had created and push her for real.

“Hey!” your mother is between you in a flash, “I am not having this right now,” she says sternly, her body shaking from poorly contained frustration.

“But—”

“Go to your room.”

“But she’s lying—”

“Right now!”

Before you can cry and embarrass yourself further, you stomp out of the kitchen.

*

“Can’t you walk any faster?”

Heather trails behind you in your backyard, pigeon-toed and arms behind her back.

“But Stacey, what are we doing?” she asks, her eyes slightly glazed over as if she were in a world of her own.

You roll your eyes and lean against the oak tree, crossing your arms. The leaves create blotches of dancing shadows all around you.

“I already told you!” You exclaim, throwing your hands up in frustration. If only Heather ever paid attention, you think. You study her. She has the same hair as you, long and brown and thick. And braided like yours. Only, yours is neat and falls straight down your back. Heather’s is loose and lopsided and tendrils of her hair frame her face. You share the same green eyes, too. Only her eyes always seem unfocused and blank. You stand straight and she hunches over. You speak loud and smile at everyone. She sticks to herself and you don’t remember the last time you saw her smile.

“Why can’t you be more like me?” You ask to no one in particular.

Heather looks at you, contemplating something you wouldn’t know.

You push off the oak tree and say, “okay, let’s go over how to behave when Mr. Harvey comes over for dinner tonight.”

Heather stares ahead with a blank expression.

“Have you already forgotten?” You roll your eyes again, “this is important. You know what this means for us, right? For our family? For Mum?”

The house looms behind Heather, big and daunting and empty. You recall the times you would play in there with Heather and your father. She had always been closer to your father than you ever were and it irked you a little. You would spend some afternoons building forts, or playing hide and seek or riding on your father’s back pretending to be a knight. He would carry you over his shoulder and zoom around the room until you felt giddy with laughter and joy. That was a few years ago, when your family was complete. Before your father passed away.

You don’t know much of what happened because you weren’t home. But Heather was. It was as if he had taken a part of Heather with him when he left.

You shake your head, dismissing those memories. Now, with Mr. Harvey, you have a chance to get everything you lost back. Or at least a little part of it. You know he would like you, everyone liked you. But Heather… You watch her kick the ground with her foot, her brows furrowed, her shoes the wrong way around again. What will Mr. Harvey think of her?

She looks up at you and, as if reading your mind, straightens her back and crosses her arms, mimicking you.

An idea pops in your mind. Perhaps it would work. Perhaps you might even see Heather smile again.

“I know,” you say, “let’s prank Mum. Let’s swap roles for a day.”

How hard can it be, you think, to be Heather?