Five years ago, my sister died. I was eleven when it happened. She was driving down the highway and a semi came barreling at her. Slamming on the breaks, she slowed down quickly, but not quickly enough. She crashed straight into the semi. The truck driver was fine, but the crash left the car crushed with my sister inside. Mom always told me that her last words were, “I love you guys… tell Ash I love her so much…” and with that, my mom watched Samantha, my sister, die. We looked a lot alike; we both had dark hair and bright eyes, very slender. But we looked a lot different at the same time. I was a bit more bony than she was and my eyes were a bright green whereas hers were a light, almost clear blue. She was eighteen when it happened, on the way to Target to prepare for her first year of college.
To this day, I can tell it hit my parents really hard. My mom looks at me, sometimes clucking her tongue saying, “My, you’re just like Sam… I could only swear…” then she’d walk away from me quietly. My dad, on the other hand, was a lot more loud and angry about it. Not only did he refuse to use a car, he also converted to veganism temporarily until he realized that he enjoyed meat daily. After that, he decided that he’d start a fund for teen drivers who were killed. Then he started to shout angrily about almost anything. Football games, high gas prices, it didn’t matter to him. As long as he could release the anger he felt over his perfect daughter being destroyed.
Even though Samantha and I looked a lot alike, we have totally different personalities. She was a vegan, straight A student who volunteered and was generally very quiet. I’m a straight up meat lover with all A’s and B’s (usually on the lower end), dark, and loud. I’m totally on the music scene where Samantha was always lacking a good CD. Actually, from what I can remember, she never listened to music at all… When Samantha died, she left an amazing reputation for me to try to live up to. And I think it’s virtually impossible seeing as we’re totally opposites.
My mom tried to get me to be like Samantha, perfect straight part in the middle of my hair, clean cut clothes, always really sweet looking. Unfortunately for her, I turned out with a part way on the right side of my hair constantly streaked with some odd color, ripped, off the shoulder, rugged clothes that demonstrated my teen angst. Of course, I wasn’t the perfect dream child my mom thought I’d be: a carbon copy of Samantha. I remember the first day we went back to school shopping and I picked out some of the things I wanted. She was appalled by my first total outfit: a black crop top, a bubblegum pink tank to go under it, and ripped skinny jeans. To top it off, I paired it with black-brown combat boots. She glanced at the outfit choice, glaring at it slightly before saying, “Interesting, Ash… wouldn’t you like something a little more girly?” I shrugged, letting my grey hoodie fall off one shoulder. “Let’s go look at some skirts and dresses, okay?” I nodded, knowing that she’d win the battle and, eventually, the war. She always did.
It’s the first day of school, and I’m dreading it. Junior year. As I struggle to pull a pair of dark skinny jeans on at six in the morning, I think about what could happen this year. I always dread the academics of school, but what I dread more is the social life. How popular will I be this year? I never know. I’ve learned not to care, but it still hurts sometimes when people look at me strange.
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