Step aside Cain- this sister is taking your place

This is the first draft of a personal profile I have to write for Intermediate Magazine Writing. We have to turn in two ledes (yes, it's spelled that way, Idk why), then the editor picks her favorite. So in the final copy, there will only be one.

Lede 1:  Everyone who watches horror movies cringes when the naive person goes towards the scary noise instead of running in the opposite direction. Everyone scoffs and says they would never act that way; they’d be the hero of the movie instead of being the victim, obviously. I was one of those people. Of course I’d be a hero- who doesn’t want the fame and glory that comes with saving someone? I, however, learned that being the hero when faced with death is not so easy. It turns out I have too much to live for, too many things to do with my life. I can’t risk losing out on my great future by putting myself in harm’s way, even if that means saving myself instead of someone else- even if that someone else is my sister.

           

 

Lede 2:  I’d say that I’m a good big sister. I’ve offered Tracy, my younger sister, my sage wisdom on growing older. Usually its unsolicited advice and her response is to groan and roll her eyes, but the point is that I try to be there for her. I lend her my ear if she needs to vent about a boy who’s being annoying, or I’ll give her a ride if she needs one. I’ll even occasionally buy her lunch when we’re out.

            But, looking back, I realize that none of those actions subtract anything from my life. I’ll only give her a ride if she begs; I only buy her food if Mom gave me the money first; I only listen if I’m bored or the tale seems particularly juicy. The things I do for her aren’t really selfless at all, but then again, I’ve only been in a position where I’d have to be truly selfless once, and I failed that test, failed it miserably, I’d say.

           

 Actual story:

 

            When I was twelve and Tracy was nine, we were in our backyard playing Around The World, a game that involves shooting a basketball from various positions on the court. It was a fun way to wait out the few hours it would take my mom to get home from work. Tracy and I always chilled together after school when we were that age- whether it was having an adventure in a nearby creek bed or riding our bikes around the neighborhood- we were always together.

            So we were throwing the ball, I was winning I’m sure, when all of a sudden through a window I see a red shoulder walk by the backdoor. I freeze. The hair on my neck stands and I can’t move.

            “Tracy, someone’s in the house.”

            “Shut up, no there isn’t,” she says, fear on her face, trying to decide if I’m telling the truth or am just a big sister messing with her.

            “No, I swear, I saw somebody walk by.”

            We both stand still, not knowing what to do. She looks at me for guidance, I look back at her, wanting her to choose our next move. Then, together, we stare at the window in the door, waiting for someone to run through it with a knife. No one does.           

            “Well, maybe I was wrong,” I say, still unsure, but hopeful. “Must’ve been my imagination.”

            Tracy reluctantly agrees that it was and we go back to playing. We’re tense and nervous at first, but soon that disappears and we’re back to bantering and having a good time. I’m about to make an amazing shot, when all of a sudden Tracy lets out this piercing scream that would put the Wicked Witch of the West to shame.

            My head whips to the window, where Tracy’s looking, just in time to see a flash of red shoulder pass by. I drop the ball. Each bounce echoes on the concrete. Thud. Thud. Thud. The ball is the only thing that can move.

            Suddenly, something inside us snaps. Time unfreezes itself. We take off running. We round the corner, leading us straight down the long driveway that ends in a wrought iron gate that has the “beware of dog” sign dangling crookedly on it. Oh, why didn’t we get a dog to go with the sign? I ask myself, but it’s too late to wonder about that. Once we open the gate, we can escape to our neighbor, who is a cop, and everything will be copasetic.

            But, after breezing past the corner, I realize that something is off, something isn’t right. That’s when I notice Tracy is in front of me, meaning I’m closest to the killer. This is no good. I’m too young to die. Without thinking, I reach forward, grab my little sister’s shirt, and pull her back. I didn’t want her to get hurt, but I didn’t even see her as my sister anymore, I just saw her as something that was in my way of survival.

            Now that my view’s better- meaning no immediate obstacles- I relax a bit. I can make it to the gate. I can make it to freedom. Then I hear Tracy’s familiar scream, breaking through the blind determination in my mind. I stop, turn around and see that I had pulled her too hard, making her trip. She’s on the ground with skinned knees, hand outstretched to me. “Help, Jess! Help me!”

            Naturally, I run to her. Like I said, I didn’t want her to get hurt, I just wanted to make sure I wasn’t the first one killed. I grab her sweaty, chubby hand; I’m about to help her up, when I hear the backdoor open.

            That primal fear grips me again. I don’t know why or how, but I drop her hand like it’s a tissue soaked in the H1N1 virus. I ignore her screams and tears, turn my back on the girl I have shared a room with; hugged when the fights between our divorcing parents got scary; read to when she couldn’t sleep; and run to the gate. Maybe I thought I’d get it open and come back for her, but I don’t think that’s true.

            I make it to the gate. My fingers work furiously, trying to get it open. “Oh please, please, let me live, I just wanna live!”  I pray while I shake the one thing keeping me from fulfilling my destiny, trying to convince the tricky lock to unhook.

            “Hey!” I hear. I release my grip. I turn and see the person in red is standing a few feet behind my sister.

            “Oh, hey,” I exhale in a wavering, relieved sigh/laugh combo. As it turns out, my mom had just left work early.

            I’ve had about nine years to reflect on this incident. Every now and then when I’m at a party and people want to be entertained, I’ll share it. I’m usually received with delightful laughs and an occasional reproachful face. The crowd that grows as I animatedly reenact the story always asks two questions: A) why did you have something to live for, but she didn’t? and B) Would you do the same thing again?

            The short answer for the first question is this: I’m destined for greatness. I’ve known this forever. It’s just in my gut. I’m going to be a best-selling novelist someday; it’s almost a guarantee. I’m sure Tracy has lots of goals, too, but they’re second to mine. People laugh scornfully when I say this “what a bravado you put on,” they say, but I assure them that while it may seem like I’m faking my confidence, I really, really do believe that I’m destined for great things, and if Tracy were too, fate wouldn’t have let her trip. But maybe I’m just young and naive and can’t fathom the idea that something someday won’t go my way.           

            The second question is a little trickier. Sure, I like to say that if I had a do-over, I’d pick Tracy up and toss her over the fence, leaving me to battle the evildoer. Honestly, though, I imagine things would play out in much the same way. Since her elementary school days, however, she’s joined the track team and has become quite the fitness guru. She’d beat me in a footrace, so I’d have to think of a more creative way to sabotage my sister’s survival in order to preserve mine.

            Hopefully I’m not put in this situation again, but if I am, I’ll make a New York Times Best-Seller novel about it. I’ll make her the hero, of course, who died while valiantly saving the big sister she idolized.

If you have any tips/comments I'd appreciate them!