“No!”

“Tres bien, Sandy, non means no in French.” I scowled. Stupid, idiotic, perfect grades amazing Sandy. No one ever mentioned the ‘other Smith.’ They just saw Sandy, the perfect blonde flutist cheerleader who didn’t have anger management problems. I, the brunette soccer-playing percussionist (who liked to occasionally write emo stories) was shoved to a dark corner and stuffed into a box that was then shipped to the white slave trade in South America. Not really, but you get the picture.

“Mandy. MANDY!” Mademoiselle Lenoir yelled; and from the tone of her voice, it probably was not the first time.

“Je suis lire Mademoiselle. Faire me la bouche. Au revoir.” And I walked out of French, knowing that I had just talked myself into another week of detention. Oh well, what was one more week? (For those non-French speakers out there, I said, “I’m reading, Miss. Shut your mouth. Goodbye.”)

“Ms Smith, shouldn’t you be in class?” Dr Ultimate Poo (yes, that actually was his real name) the assistant principal asked me.

I put on a beatific smile and rushed through my treasure trove of excuses to find one I hadn’t used on him. “Um, Yeah, about that,” (put on an embarrassed face, bite your lip, concentrate) “I had a… feminine problem.”

“Um… Well then… Just go along to the nurse then…” he stammered, clearly out of his element. I smirked as he walked quickly down the hallway. Score one for the student.

I sighed as I walked. If my mom had gone along with her original plan to give away the second twin, I would be the center of attention. But no, after she saw perfect Sandy, she just had to keep them both. And I got stuck with a sister who outplayed me in everything except reading, writing, and soccer. Sure, she was in the advanced L.A. & Reading program too; but her mind was about as deep as a puddle on the sidewalk.

I decided to skip French. L.A. and Reading then lunch were right after, so I could have 30 min. to collect myself and play a prank on my sister. Hmmm… Got it. Perfect. If I played my cards right, she’d have to go home, therefore skipping 5th through 10th periods; and I would have some sweet alone time.
I snuck down the hallway to her locker and dialed the combination while glancing around furtively. 35-6-09, and give it a little spin after you open it. Her locker was as perfect as her life. I was about to fix that.

I carefully stacked her books, notebooks, and other school supplies at the exact angle so that when she opened her locker it would come spilling out. Then I jimmied her locker lock so she’d have to pull a little extra to open it. Finally, I stacked several rotten eggs, applesauce (she was allergic) and an open pudding cup on top of a greasy slice of pizza, which would all spill when she opened her locker.
Voila, instant go-home recipe. I squeezed myself into the empty locker next to her so I could watch all the action. I silently counted down the seconds until the bell rang. 5 4 3 2 1!!
3 days later

Well, I suppose it was worth it. Seven weeks of detention, two-month grounding from the ‘rents, and I had to scrub out her locker. All my soccer friends congratulated me, and it sowed the enmity between my crowd and hers even deeper. But, in an odd way, I was fine with the punishment. I had shown the school, (as she stood screaming at me in the hallway, and then collapsed into tears at the sight of teachers) that she wasn’t all she was supposed to be.


I fought the law, and the law lost.