Little Girls

When we were both little girls and we still wore pink ribbons in our hair, we both took ballet lessons and I was better than you. You stumbled over your four-year-old's legs, still chubby as a last reminder of babyhood; whereas I, tall, elegant, and just turned six, danced gracefully on the points of my toes, and I was a snow-princess and everyone looked at me for a change.

The ballet teacher, Miss Malloy, frowned at your dancing. She didn't allow you to leave the bar until long after the others, and she criticised you in front of everyone until your face flushed red. She liked me, though. When I performed my pirouettes for the class, she applauded and encouraged the other little girls to copy me and told me that one day I would be a great ballet star. Never one for false-modesty, I agreed with her.

What bothered me, though, was the fact that you didn't really seem to mind that I was better than you. You didn't like being laughed at, but when Mum told us that I had won the lead role in the end of term performance, you just dimpled prettily at me and ran off to play with your toy ponies. You always preferred ponies to ballet, and when you wanted to be nasty, you told me that I looked like a horse, and I cried so that Daddy would be cross with you for a change.

Your long, red plaits streamed out behind you as you ran off, and I was jealous then, even though I had just won this small victory which should have proved to Mum who was the better daughter. I envied your hair, even though mine was shiny and blonde and perfect and made me look like the most wonderful doll in a toy-shop window. But I wanted your red, wild hair which got into your eyes and mouth and fell all over your face and made Daddy call you his "little fireball".

I followed you up to your room and laughed at you. I told you that you were awful at ballet, didn't even deserve to be in Miss Malloy's class. I said that it was a good thing that I was good at ballet so that at least ONE of the Evans girls didn't embarrass the family in public.

You looked back at me, eyes reproachful. And, although I felt like the nastiest person in the world, I was pleased, because this meant that I could hurt you - you weren't immune to my bullying as I had thought.

Your eyes, though. I wanted them, too. My eyes were blue like a film star's and our grandmother always used to say that I was lucky because the boys always liked a girl with blue eyes. But your green eyes shone like a mysterious lantern, which always lit up at the prospect of learning something new. They sparkled in a way that I could never get mine to and when people passed us together on the street, they were always drawn to you like moths to a flame, just because of your big, round eyes.

This made me angry, because together with your eyes and your hair and your sweet, honey-filled dimples, you were a pretty girl, and pretty in a way I couldn't be. I had my blonde hair and my icy blue eyes and my poise, but I was always pristine and immaculate. You were adorable when you were covered in mud. Daddy said that we were the prettiest girls in the world and could both easily be fairy-tale princesses, but I knew, as did everyone else, that in fairy-tales it was always the youngest daughter who was the most beautiful.

I thought about all this as I watched you watch me and before I knew it, I had snatched up one of your toy ponies - dark synthetic mane, brown felt fur, home-made lace saddle - and snapped its leg off, just to show you that I could. You cried, of course, and Mum came upstairs to find out what was going on and she saw the horse's leg on the floor and she picked you up and put you on her lap and you snuffled into her blouse and she asked what had happened.

It was an accident, I told her. I stamped my foot on the floor for emphasis, and let a tear leak out of the corner of my eye.

Mum believed me, because you and I were sisters and sisters love each other and never fight. She pulled me over to her lap and we both sat there, being hugged. I poked you with my finger so she couldn't see.

She promised you a new toy pony, and then she turned to me and said we should both have a new pair of ballet shoes as we were going to be such big girls, performing in a ballet concert. You turned your eyes on me, half-wondering whether I was going to confess to being a horrid little girl who had struck out maliciously towards her baby sister.

I said nothing, and I kept quiet until I had followed Mum downstairs and she asked me what colour ballet shoes I would like, and I told her pink with beautiful shiny sequins on. She hugged me and asked me what she was going to do with me. She was laughing, but I didn't understand that she was joking. I thought she was making fun of me, which angered me, but I didn't say anything.

Mum laughed at me now - she always laughed when I was sulking. She said I was like a little rainbow - always pretty and pleasant after being in a stomping thunderstorm of a temper. Rainbows were pretty, so I was pleased and didn't mind so much that I was being laughed at. I skipped off to my room to play with my dolls and pretend that we were all famous ballerinas.

At that first ballet performance, I sparkled. My hair was in a bun, just like a real ballerina, and I had my beautiful shoes and a pink tutu which had been specially made for me, and I danced like an angel, receiving a standing ovation. Your hair kept falling out of its bun into your face, and your costume didn't quite fit and you tripped over your feet five times. And yet, when the performance was over, Mum and Daddy came up to you first to give you a hug and tell you how proud they were of you, and I was left watching you smiling up at them. Your face was a sunbeam and you were a flower-fairy, displaying your messy prettiness and announcing to everyone, "Look! Look at me!"

And once again, everyone looked at you.