I walked in and the feeling of stress melted away. Tossing my bag onto the cool tile and kicking off my shoes is the best part of my day. I casually sauntered into the living room and plopped on the couch, which is usually where I spend the rest of my afternoon. Not five minutes passed before I heard the pitter-patter of footsteps swiftly descending down the stairs and into the living room where I sat. It was Madelene, my younger sister. At the age of 13, she has managed to torment me in as many ways possible. Sarcastic remarks, annoying habits, mean comments; it seemed like her ideal goal in life was to make mine terrible. She casually slung her leg over the side of the couch and fixed her brown curly hair ever so carefully, knowing exactly which piece was out of place.
“What are you doing home so early?” She sneered at me.
“Soccer practice was cancelled.” I knew she had already lost interest in the conversation in the five seconds it took me to respond.

“What?”
I knew she didn’t care about anything I had just said.

“Why do you ask if you don’t care?” I asked in a sassy tone.
Madelene purposely goes through this same fake, ignorant, routine each time we speak.

“Because it bothers you.” As soon as she had spoken I noticed in perfect light, she was wearing make-up from our mother’s drawer. She wasn’t allowed to wear make-up because she was too young.

“Aren’t you a little young to be wearing all that make-up?” I grinned like a fool -- her eyes bulged in alarm.
Her expression quickly turned from alarm, to frustration. She scrunched up her lips and jeered, “Shut up! You better not tell.”
I stayed silent because I knew this could work to my advantage. Madelene got up and bounded to the kitchen in search of a snack. Before opening the fridge, she turned to gaze at her reflection in the stainless steel door. She pulled the door open and scanned the contents; carelessly picking things up and returning them to the chilly atmosphere. When she saw there was nothing up to her standards she expressed a frustrated huff. Shortly after, she retreated into the depths of her bedroom, taking her dog captive. Several minutes later the familiar vibration of the garage opened and it had begun its song. Creaking and pulsating for precisely 12 seconds, the slam of a car door, the closing of the garage door, and finally the clacking of my father’s heeled loafers.
Before the garage was fully opened, Madelene had already slipped out the door to embrace our father.
She squealed, “Daddy,” her dark brown eyes beamed. She possibly desired a trip to Wal-Mart or maybe permission to visit a friend’s house.

“Daddy, will you take me to Wal-Mart to buy something? We have nothing to eat.” She asked. Her voice went up a few octaves and softened. She straightened her back, standing as straight as a British soldier, and batted her flawless eye lashes.
He replied tiredly. “Maddy, there is food in the pantry.”

“I know but there is nothing good to eat,” she whined.

“No, I’m not going to take you right now, I just got home.”
She detested that answer. She immediately slouched and pleaded harder.

“Pretty, pretty, please, will you take me? I just want to buy some chips! You took Maria yesterday!”

“No, not right now” he replied.

Madelene pursued him until threatened with the loss of her cell phone privileges. She noisily, stomped up the stairs to her bedroom and slammed the door closed. Why did she always have to be so difficult and dramatic?