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While I still laugh with a childish grin, my sister's face is crisscrossed with worry-lines, her expression soiled by pouts and tears when she thinks "they" can't see. Her scalp is threadbare from yanking out her locks in frustration as my baby ringlets bounce with joy. Her mind is plagued by a drive to be perfect, mistake-less, like "them," appreciated. I don't think of serious things as I splish-splash-SPLATT in puddles with my ladybug umbrella, but when I pull off my yellow rain boots she's there, red eyes and bleeding eye makeup impossible to hide. "Sissy," I want to tell her in my best indoor, teddy bear soothing voice "you were soooo perfect before you tried to be."

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