"It’s true Penina needs to work on the middah of emes. But that doesn’t mean you can speak this way. We all have what to work on”

“Hey! Is that my sweater?” I point an accusing finger at the offending cream button-down. Penina looks straight at me and answers through a mouthful of breakfast, “No.”

“Yeah, right,” I mutter, making a face both at the utter grossness of her lack of manners, and to express my disbelief. I know for sure it’s mine. That little red stain, where my strawberry ice cream dripped and showed itself to be maybe one percent strawberries and 99 percent food coloring is still there, above the pocket. And she’s wearing it. My sister. What a liar. I turn away in disgust, and she continues crunching her cereal, very loudly and completely unremorsefully.

I mean, how could she? Not the wearing my sweater part, that is the sad reality of having a sister that is 13 months older and half a size bigger than you. Because she’s the one that’s half a size bigger, I refuse to share clothes with her, which means that we sometimes end up with doubles. That suits us both just fine. Except that for Penina, it means having two of the same outfit available for use, like when hers is in the laundry hamper. That makes me mad. But it’s more the lying that I can’t stand. She’s my older sister, for goodness’ sake. Shouldn’t she at least be embarrassed to lie outright?

Nope, this is not the first time I’ve caught her in the act. But whenever I tell my mother, she just sighs and says, “I wish you girls would just get along. Why can’t you share?” But that’s so not the point. It’s the lying that’s the point. I just explained that, didn’t I?

I go find my mother anyway. “Ma! Penina’s wearing my Zara sweater without permission! And when I asked her if it’s mine, she just lied straight through her cereal! She’s so mean! And she’s such a liar!” When I pause for breath, my mother looks up from the hem she’s fixing.

“Aliza, no need to yell like that,” she says quietly. “I know that it’s frustrating, and it’s true that Penina needs to work on the middah of emes. But that doesn’t mean that you can speak this way. We all have what to work on.”

“Yeah, I know. Sorry.” I look down, toying with the end of my French braid. I know that Ma is right, but it’s hard to control my anger when my sister does what she wants, and then goes her merry way, guilt-free.

The green skirt Ma’s hemming catches my eye. “Hey, that’s my skirt!” I exclaim, a tad too loudly. I bend down to take a closer look at the tag. It sports the letters A. M. clearly written in black sharpie. Just as I thought, it’s mine. My face turns red, and I struggle to contain my rage. “I didn’t wear this skirt in ages! It must be that Penina wore it! I just know it! She takes everything I own and ruins it to pieces. The hem never came down when I wore it!”

My remorse flies out the window, and I don’t stick around to hear more from Ma. But on my way out of the room, I see her shaking her head sadly, and I can almost hear her voice through the loud angry drumbeats inside my head.

“I just wish that you girls would get along.”