Lilac Flowers
During the day, she talks to me as if she hardly knows me, because you're my sister, and she's your best friend. Yours, not mine. We both know how much it would hurt you if you find out, and I know how much it would hurt her.
She sneaks up to my room at night, her hair smelling of the homemade lilac conditioner she uses on her hair, and her lips tasting like sweet cherries because of the magical lip-gloss you gave her. Sometimes I wish she'd wipe it off before she enters. It reminds me too much of you. She always reminds me of you.
(It's in the way she talks during the day, as well. She knows you so well. Your best friend. Yours. She borrows your make-up and she borrows yours.)
I don't use make-up; you tease me for that, sometimes. I don't like flirting with boys, either, so you tease me for that too. You never see that I'm trying, so, so hard to be like you. I'm supposed to be like you, but... we're more different than you can ever hope to grasp.
You're braver than me; you're prettier than me (even though we're identical); you're sweeter than me; I'm the plain one, the weak one, the quiet, studious one. The boring one.
So you'll never understand why she giggles with you during the day, and flirts with boys, and pretends to like all the things you do- perhaps she really does, and it's me she's pretending to.
But at night, these thoughts are banished from my mind, and I just want to sit there and hold her hand, and talk to her about anything and everything. And then she talks to me about anything and everything, and then she goes back to her room.
That's all, I swear. Maybe sometimes she kisses me quickly, lightly, on the lips, but only if she's not spent too long talking to me. I swear.
And then it's daytime again, and she says 'hello' to me, and even though I try to stop it, my heart leaps, and I wish inside that she would say something more, some acknowledgement of her nighttime visits.
But she never says anything else to me, because she's too busy putting on make-up, or gossiping with you. I tell myself that we should stop doing whatever it is we're doing late at night, with the gleaming moon shining down on us, making her eyes look as if they're full of light. Perhaps they are.
Sometimes I try to convince myself that you'd understand, that you'd be happy for us, but then reality interrupts me and I know that you can never understand. Just like when we were children, and you were the 'cute' one, and I- I loved the night. You feared it; the way the darkness stifled you.
I was the 'quiet' one, the 'studious' sister, and to kids- who can be so cruel- I was the 'freak', 'that weird girl, you know, the cool girl's sister'. To adults who saw me, I was never 'cute', like you, I was 'sensible' and 'a little plain'.
But in this, at least, I have won.
The Lavender that talks to you, that helps you find new beauty spells while you spy on the boys in the library, is not the Lavender that holds my hand in the darkness, her hair smelling of lilac flowers. This nighttime Lavender confides in me, tells me all her deepest secrets, that it's you she's just pretending to.
But afterwards, when she's left and the darkness closes in around me, and all that's left is a faint but sweet smell of spring, I shiver. And I know exactly why you're scared of the dark.
So this, Parvati, is why we tell you exactly what you want to hear. That I do like Terry Boot, even as I glance over at Lavender, who shows no sign that she ever holds my hand.
This is why you still think that Lavender stays over at our house in the holidays just to be with her best friend. You.
Why she's always so tired in the morning, although she tries hard not to show it.
(I know this isn't how life is meant to be, but this is how it is. There's not much I can do about it now, is there?)
You think it's strange that I don't have a best friend, just acquaintances- although you'd never use that word. Lavender, you see, is my best friend. We're sisters, you and I, Parvati; the closest kind, twins. We're meant to share.
But I'm never going to tell you. You wouldn't understand. You've never got up early enough to smell the lilac flowers in spring.
After all, I was the odd one. I suppose that's why Lavender likes me more than you.
I sound so childish.
Anyway, Parvati, if I ever work up enough courage to give you this letter...
Who am I kidding? I'll never give you this.
Love, your sister, Padma Patil.
During the day, she talks to me as if she hardly knows me, because you're my sister, and she's your best friend. Yours, not mine. We both know how much it would hurt you if you find out, and I know how much it would hurt her.
She sneaks up to my room at night, her hair smelling of the homemade lilac conditioner she uses on her hair, and her lips tasting like sweet cherries because of the magical lip-gloss you gave her. Sometimes I wish she'd wipe it off before she enters. It reminds me too much of you. She always reminds me of you.
(It's in the way she talks during the day, as well. She knows you so well. Your best friend. Yours. She borrows your make-up and she borrows yours.)
I don't use make-up; you tease me for that, sometimes. I don't like flirting with boys, either, so you tease me for that too. You never see that I'm trying, so, so hard to be like you. I'm supposed to be like you, but... we're more different than you can ever hope to grasp.
You're braver than me; you're prettier than me (even though we're identical); you're sweeter than me; I'm the plain one, the weak one, the quiet, studious one. The boring one.
So you'll never understand why she giggles with you during the day, and flirts with boys, and pretends to like all the things you do- perhaps she really does, and it's me she's pretending to.
But at night, these thoughts are banished from my mind, and I just want to sit there and hold her hand, and talk to her about anything and everything. And then she talks to me about anything and everything, and then she goes back to her room.
That's all, I swear. Maybe sometimes she kisses me quickly, lightly, on the lips, but only if she's not spent too long talking to me. I swear.
And then it's daytime again, and she says 'hello' to me, and even though I try to stop it, my heart leaps, and I wish inside that she would say something more, some acknowledgement of her nighttime visits.
But she never says anything else to me, because she's too busy putting on make-up, or gossiping with you. I tell myself that we should stop doing whatever it is we're doing late at night, with the gleaming moon shining down on us, making her eyes look as if they're full of light. Perhaps they are.
Sometimes I try to convince myself that you'd understand, that you'd be happy for us, but then reality interrupts me and I know that you can never understand. Just like when we were children, and you were the 'cute' one, and I- I loved the night. You feared it; the way the darkness stifled you.
I was the 'quiet' one, the 'studious' sister, and to kids- who can be so cruel- I was the 'freak', 'that weird girl, you know, the cool girl's sister'. To adults who saw me, I was never 'cute', like you, I was 'sensible' and 'a little plain'.
But in this, at least, I have won.
The Lavender that talks to you, that helps you find new beauty spells while you spy on the boys in the library, is not the Lavender that holds my hand in the darkness, her hair smelling of lilac flowers. This nighttime Lavender confides in me, tells me all her deepest secrets, that it's you she's just pretending to.
But afterwards, when she's left and the darkness closes in around me, and all that's left is a faint but sweet smell of spring, I shiver. And I know exactly why you're scared of the dark.
So this, Parvati, is why we tell you exactly what you want to hear. That I do like Terry Boot, even as I glance over at Lavender, who shows no sign that she ever holds my hand.
This is why you still think that Lavender stays over at our house in the holidays just to be with her best friend. You.
Why she's always so tired in the morning, although she tries hard not to show it.
(I know this isn't how life is meant to be, but this is how it is. There's not much I can do about it now, is there?)
You think it's strange that I don't have a best friend, just acquaintances- although you'd never use that word. Lavender, you see, is my best friend. We're sisters, you and I, Parvati; the closest kind, twins. We're meant to share.
But I'm never going to tell you. You wouldn't understand. You've never got up early enough to smell the lilac flowers in spring.
After all, I was the odd one. I suppose that's why Lavender likes me more than you.
I sound so childish.
Anyway, Parvati, if I ever work up enough courage to give you this letter...
Who am I kidding? I'll never give you this.
Love, your sister, Padma Patil.