Jack of All Trades

Jack of All Trades 

My name is Jill Ossy and God has never dealt me a good hand of cards. 

Standing outside my exemplary picket-fenced house, I wonder if my parents really know who Marjorie is. 

Do they know she flits past boyfriends faster than a cheetah?

Flunks her maths exams?

  Gets high on marijuana behind the bleachers? 

No, of course, they don’t.

Marjorie can only be one thing in their eyes: perfect. 

And I?

After seven hours of strenuous school, I practice ballet and work at my part-time job in the local library.

I spend ten hours, tops, at home. Most of that time is spent sleeping. 

So, in actuality, I’m only at home for about two hours. 

Even then, those two hours are hell. 

I cannot begin to describe the hierarchy that inhabits my household. 

My parents are the King and Queen. 

My sister is the obedient Ace. 

And I’m the Jack, the one they laugh at. 

***

The first time I realized my parents favoured Marjorie was the day of the Maryland Youth Ballet Competition, a competition I trained 2820 hours for. 

It was also the first competition my family would attend. 

All morning, my silly eight-year old self wore a grin stretching from ear to ear. 

I woke up at 7:00 AM, four hours earlier than when the competition began. 

As we piled into Dad’s minivan, however, Marjorie puked over the backseat which held my ballet costume and backpack. 

Mom screamed—something she never did when I was sick—and ushered Marjorie back inside. Dad followed, hot on their heels. 

I stood in our gravel driveway, staring at my twin’s orange and pink vomit. 

Were we still going? I desperately wondered, tears in my eyes. 

Suddenly, an idea dawned on me. 

I raced to the garage, grabbing a bucket and an old oil rag. 

Sloppy bit after chunky bit after mushy bit, I cleared the vomit out of Dad’s car.

Now we can go.

I dashed back inside with renewed excitement, but then I saw Marjorie laying on the living room loveseat, a green tinge to her skin. 

Mom held a basin under her chin, her eyes roaming Marjorie’s face with concern. 

Dad was in the kitchen, pouring cherry Tylenol. 

“Mom?” 

Marjorie chose that exact moment to upchuck the rest of her breakfast, drawing Mom’s attention away from me and back to her. 

“Oh, sweetheart,” Mom crooned, patting Marjorie’s raven hair. 

“We need to go. It’s almost 11:00.” When she didn’t respond, I whined, “Mooooom.”

“Jill, don’t you see that your sister is sick?” Mom snapped, not taking her eyes off Marjorie. “Ballet should be the least of your concerns right now!” 

I wanted to say, “Of course I see that she is sick—I cleaned her vomit from the car.” 

Instead, I burst into tears, escaping to my room. I punched my pillow before falling into bed. 

Unfair. Unfair. Unfair. 

At 11:00, I heard a knock at the door. “Jill, honey, I didn’t mean what I said.” 

But the words were out in the open. 

The venom had already spread. 

***

It’s fifteen minutes until showtime and Marjorie still hasn’t shown up. 

Behind the curtains, it’s easy to assess the crowd. I know my parents are amongst them somewhere—they took special time off work to watch her perform. 

The crowd is restless and excited, wondering whether this teenage rendition of the Nutcracker will be a waste of their time. 

I assure you, if Marjorie is playing Clara, then yes, it will be a total bombshow. 

But I—a six time Youth Grand Prix Ballet winner and A+ drama student—will bring the show to success. 

Auditions began five months ago. 

I practised all summer for my time to shine and Marjorie just swooped into auditions without even telling me. She stole Clara from me, and I was left with the role of a mere background dancer. 

I should’ve expected it. Marjorie always steals what’s mine. 

That’s why I’m begging God, for once in my life, to deal me some good cards. 

“Ms.Ossy!” Ms.Lea, the director, shouts, weaving her slim body through the mass of bodies that are tech crew. “Where is your sister? Why isn't she here yet?” 

“I don’t know,” I tell her. “I really honestly have no idea where she is.” 

Ms.Lea eyes me suspiciously. I can tell that she’s never really liked me, but I don’t give a fig. 

I don’t need her affection to win the race. 

Ms.Lea looks down at her neat clipboard and her mouth twists into a painful-looking, cherry-coloured pretzel. 

“I could play her part,” I offer, inconspicuously, not daring to let my hopes up. “You know, if Marjorie doesn’t make it.” 

Ms.Lea’s eyes manage to narrow even more. “Oh, I think she’ll make it,” she intones with an annoyingly soft lilt to her voice. “Marjorie is responsible. She’d never miss a show unless she was physically incapacitated or indisposed.” 

She emphasizes the last four words, trying to get a reaction out of me. We hold stares, neither of us willing to break. 

Finally, Ms.Lea looks away, hurrying to attend to a backup dancer who lost her costume. 

I make a beeline for my dressing room. 

***

Like I said before, I'm a Jack. 

I’m a Jack of all trades, to be specific—I can dance, act, and improv on the spot. 

But, nobody takes my eleven years of dedication seriously. 

Not Ms.Lea, my parents, or my classmates. 

No, of course, Majorie is always better. 

I used to wonder if I were prettier, I could be an Ace like Marjorie. 

But I stopped dreaming long ago. 

Marjorie would never, in a billion years, let me taste a sliver of her spotlight. 

Maybe it’s revenge for when I tried to eat her in the womb, but it isn't my fault I almost absorbed her fetal tissue. 

Sometimes, though, I wish I had. 

*** 

The first tendency toward Marjorie came while swimming in our pool. She was relaxing on a flamingo floatie in the two-piece bikini I always wanted. 

I, on the other hand, used the pool for its intended purpose: swimming. I'd just begun practicing butterfly strokes when Marjorie yelled, “Would you stop?” 

“What?” I gasped, coming up for air. 

“Stop,” she repeated, “You’re ruining my tan.” She slipped her cheap sunglasses back on like Elle in Legally Blonde, fully expecting me to leave. 

A fierce urge to flip Marjorie overboard consumed me. I wanted to see her stupid face when she fell. Feel her regret for hurting me. 

Instead, I took a deep breath and left. 

I’d get my revenge eventually. 

***

I look so much like her. I think, staring into the vanity mirror installed in Clara’s dressing room. Funny, isn’t it, how background dancers don’t even get their own dressing room? 

They resort to hiding in empty ones. 

You know what people say when parents lose a child, they can’t bear to look at their other children? 

Well, it works the same way for murderers; they can’t bear looking at the person they killed. 

Or maybe it aggravates them. 

Who knows? 

Well, I suppose I do. 

Marjorie was a pain in the ass who deserved what she got. 

It all started when she was blow-drying her hair. 

Perfect raven hair, I thought grumpily from the couch where I watched Full House. I picked at my own straw-like hair. 

We had to leave in twenty minutes, but I didn’t care. It wasn’t like my role was important. 

I turned my attention back to the screen. 

In the middle of one of Joey’s deep belly laughs, I heard a loud thump from upstairs.  

I rolled my eyes. Probably just Marjorie being careless again. 

“JIIIIILLLLL!” she screamed in her fake soprano voice. “Get the first aid-kit!” 

I dragged myself off the couch, wondering why she had to be so attention-seeking when everyone already adored her. 

 By the time I reached Marjorie’s room, she was on her bed, clutching her ankle. “It hurts. I think I twisted it.” 

From where I stood at the feet of her queen-sized bed, she looked so helpless, her tan skin barely covered by her drying-towel. 

Her “Let’s Make the World a Better Place” pillow was calling my name. 

All the pent-up hate I harboured against her came crashing down on me as I slowly grabbed the pillow. I didn’t look at her as I brought the pillow down on her face, stifling her screams. She kicked and clawed, but I held firm. 

Her breaths disappeared under my touch.

Nothing had ever felt better.

Soon, I felt her arms weaken and her legs grow limp. 

In a hurry, I slipped her body under the bed. 

I’d bury the evidence when I returned. 

I felt sorry, of course, but Marjorie had brought this upon herself. 

It was fate that spun this ending for her—I was just the executor. 

***

The costume is a tight fit. 

Marjorie weighs—or weighed, I should say—eight pounds less than me, but I make it work. 

I go on stage; pinched toes, restricted waist, heavy makeup, and all. 

Nothing could stop me. 

Many of the cast members didn’t like the idea of me replacing Marjorie, but I could care less. 

Adrenaline pumps through my veins, my face flushes, and I am filled with dazzling white stars. 

I will show everyone that I am not a Jack. 

I am the Ace of Spades—the prettiest and smartest. 

A tinge of regret dogs each of my lightweight leaps. I could have been here a lot sooner if it weren’t for all those Marjorie-loving germs permeating my world. 

They did this to me. 

My parents. 

Ms.Lea. 

The cast.

Their jealousy was their downfall. 

Jealousy

Jealousy 

Jealousy

Jill Ossy.