I claw my index finger like it’s the ruthless pirate’s silver hook.
With one arm around her tiny body, I scoop her up and flop with her onto the king-size bed that will stay empty once again tonight because our parents are at another charity thing, which they do almost every weekend. I catch her right before she makes it to our parents’ bedroom and would have slammed the door in my face, no doubt. “She’s screaming because the ugly Captain Hook is on the hunt for little princesses again,” I snarl, before putting Paulina back on my bed and chasing after a squeaking Brittney Renae, who makes a dash for the hallway and, in her polished, dark-red, patent-leather shoes, runs for her life. The house was saved, but its west wing needed reconstruction and my sisters bugged me to paint the sitting room walls candy pink to cover the smoke marks. Dad draped a blanket-Mom’s favorite cashmere quilt-over the wooden house and extinguished the flames. It caught fire when we lit some candles on Christmas Eve a few weeks ago. The Barbie Dreamhouse didn’t burn down…completely. “Why is Paulina screaming like the Barbie Dreamhouse is burning down again?”
She waves her glowing pink fairy wand that has a star tip in my face. The chiffon buckles angrily, and I wonder if she’s been sitting on the floor with her dolls for the past half hour. Only this one’s wrapped in her purple fairy dress that has a pair of net wings attached at the back. She knows I would never really do it, but the threat works every time.Īt that moment, the exact likeness of the five-year-old on my legs comes walking through my door. Immediately, I stop tickling my baby sister, sit down on the bedside, and put her on my lap, giving her one of those you-do-that-and-I-rip-off-your-stuffed-bunny’s-head looks. “Angel! Angel, stop! I’m gonna pee my pants!” A LAUGHING BUNDLE of strawberry blond hair squirms on my bed.
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