She was jealous of the Ambers.

There were four of them in her kindergarten class and Miss Jones had to give them a last name letter to keep them straight. Amber J., Amber B., Amber R., and Amber A. Two of the Ambers (J and A,) were best friends and always sat on top of the monkey bars together at recess. The other two weren’t best friends, but they were rich, and their moms packed Motts apple juices every day for snack time.

At nap-time the Ambers all had those amazingly plush yoga mats to sleep on, and they would all cuddle in a ball and fall fast asleep. Not Rajya. She’d sleep in the corner with her baby blanket on the hard floor and name the dust bunnies. Rajya J., Rajya B., Rayja R., and Rayja A. She’d never fall asleep until nap-time was almost over, and she’d always sleep on her bangs funny and they’d stick up for the rest of the afternoon.

Recess would come and Mikey tried to get Rajya to play Chase with him but she knew better. She scuffed up her chin trying to catch Alex Schmidt the last time she played Chase and had definitely learned her lesson. Instead she’d sit underneath the bridge on the playground and play fort with her imaginary friend, Bill Obviously. “Who are you talking to, Rajya?” “Bill, Obviously.” She’d do her best to keep one eye on the Ambers at all times, just in case they did anything she should know about.

It was Creative Wednesday and the class was finger painting hearts on cards to give to their mothers for Mother’s Day. The Ambers all sat at the Square table and took all the pink and red paint. Rajya was sitting at the Circle table and got stuck with green. She made her hearts anyway. Green hearts are unorthodox, certainly, but when Rajya took her card to the drying rack, she was sure that her hands were steadier than the Ambers. “Their hearts may be the right color, but they look more like blobs,” she thought.

Once, during lunch, Amber B. asked Rajya to come sit with her. “Hey Rajya, why don’t you eat with me and then we’ll go sit on the tire swing at recess.” Rajya did it and it was fun she guessed, but the next day she went back underneath the bridge because “Bill can’t hold the fort by himself.”

On Mother’s Day, Maaria was thrilled to receive a card from her daughter, even though she knew it was something all the children had to do during creative time. “Rajya, you did a fantastic job of painting these hearts!” she said to the daughter sitting on her lap.

“I love you Mommy,” the inside said. “Love, Rajya L.”

“You give me my shot, or I’ll give you my kn-knuckle sammich.”

“No, Jane.” Then, to me. “Now. In the Tahoe.”

“Stay, guys, hey. Hey! I’m not finished here. The jukebox hasn’t even-“

“Jane, you know it’s time to go home.”

The Getting-Jane-in-the-Tahoe procedure felt as second nature as cutting the crusts off of her daily PB&J. The way Chris caringly, but sternly, grabbed our sister by the shoulders and “helped” her into her seat, the way I waited in the driver’s spot, poised with the buckle, ready to pounce. We only had a few seconds of Jane’s disorientation to get her buckled before she’d realize we were ending her fun. She was faster than us when she was on alert, so if we missed our chance, it was useless.

Thankfully, we are on our game tonight. Before she can even hiccup, Chris has her door shut and I’ve snapped her seat belt in place. Ready.

Realization kicks in. “You guys! No! I’m NOT READY!”

Key. Ignition. Shift. Drive.

“You,” she turns to me. “Traitor.”

Every two Saturdays, Jane goes to Quick Nails to get a fresh manicure. When we were little girls, she would paint my nails on the weekends. “Just like Mom, Cece!” and “That’s what big sisters are for!”

Scratch. Chris disciplines. “Jane, Jesus Christ.” Then, to me. “Are you bleeding?”

I touch my face. “Uh huh.”

“Damnit, Jane.” Chris scolds.

“Oh, she’s fine,” Jane cackles. “I just wanted to have fun and you guys are f-fucking ruining it. Mom used to say there’s n-nothing wrong with having f-fun!”

“Mom was a drunk.”

Intersection. Red light. We stop. I hear an unlatching, then Chris from the back seat.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Chris tries to make his move but doesn’t unbuckle himself on time. Our sinewy sister is out of the car and has slammed her door. She is showing us the gleaming nail on her middle finger, and shouting silent words only she can comprehend.

Green light. We stall. Behind us, a honk, then two. I pull over as we watch our sister trot in a frenzied zigzag back towards Beaman’s.

Chris pulls out a pack of gum, unwraps and chews. We look after Jane.

“One of these days we won’t be able to take care of you.” Then, to me. “I’ll go get her.”