The Third Sister
One autumnal afternoon, the Third chased after her sisters with a metal rake from the garage. She loved to terrorize (different from the Oldest, who was easily antagonized). The four circled, screaming, the Third laughing, around the perimeter of their suburban Central Jersey home. Everything cracked-- the dead leaves, the faint snap of the fireplace indoors, the occasional charge of the high-tension power lines no less than 15 feet from the driveway. And then, mid-circle, the Third was abruptly halted. Her maniacal laughter immediately turned to a long, urgent exhale. The wind had been knocked out of her, rake shaft near impaling her sternum. To this day, she still has a keloid in the shape of a little hot dog in the middle of her chest.
The Third doesn’t take anyone’s shit. Ruthless, creative, a little ADD, a little OCD. Boys were afraid of her because they knew she’d break their nose with good reason. She dreams of solo motorcycle rides and crowdsurfing at shows. Anything with a label on it must be forward-facing as to see the object's identifying text.
Her hair is full of cowlicks and can usually stand up on its own. The sisters called her Crookédo. She sports braces. The dentist told her while reclined mid-inspection, "Jesus. It looks like somebody threw your teeth in from a distance." Her boyfriend was killed in a hit and run as she and some friends were walking home after drinking Jäger by the big blue watertower in 8th grade. She has impulses to run away from home often, even just for a night or two, to sleep under the stars and feel everywhere and nowhere at once.