Emma had always been the model child. She was tall and slender with a golden veil for hair. She had deep blue eyes that shone whenever she was happy and excited and rosy red cheeks that flushed up when she was embarrassed or nervous. She got straight A's and took dancing and was captain of the track team. She also knew three languages (Spanish, Italian, and French). My mother and father were proud of her and why wouldn't they be? Who would not be proud to have the perfect daughter?1

And then there was me. I was not tall or slender; more like round and short. My hair was mouse-colored brown and I had dull gray eyes. My cheeks never flushed up because I was always chalky white. I struggled just to pass and no way would anyone ever see me dancing or running on the track. I barely even could speak properly (I had a lisp) let alone learn three different languages! My mother and father tried to make me more active but I would not listen and so they gave up. And why wouldn't they? I clearly was not the perfect daughter so why bother?2

Now get this straight: I was not jealous. I was fat and ugly and stupid and Emma was skinny and beautiful and smart but so what? My family loved me and that is more then I can say for some people. Emma was nice to me- and that meant the world to me. 3

Since we were only one year apart we were in the same school and Emma always sat next to me. She loved to tell me stories about all the guys that had asked her out that day and I would sit there transfixed as Emma's voice chimed on and on. I would wonder how this was even possible. How someone could actually be so beautiful? But I was not jealous. Actually I was quite proud. I would boast to all who would listen that Emma was MY sister. I would brag that the beautiful goddess shared my blood. 4

I could tell people wished they were Emma and so they would talk trash about her. I would march up to those people and threaten to beat them up and usually they would swear to be quiet. Emma would just laugh and shrug as if she didn't care what people called her. 5

But one day when I came home from school (I had to stay after for extra help) I heard Emma crying. I immediately figured it had something to do with school so I barged upstairs and into Emma's room. Emma had gotten very skinny over the past few months and at that moment she looked like a skeleton.6

"Emma?" I questioned nervously.7

"Get out!" Emma hissed, still sobbing.8

"Emma?"9

"GET OUT!"10

I was scared so I ran downstairs and dialed my mom's number. My mom11

hurried home from work and she rushed to Emma's room. A few minutes later an angry Emma and a relieved Mom stormed out of the room.12

"Do you have to tell everyone my business Jenna? Goodness! Could you be any more immature?” she screamed. Then she ran back into her room and slammed the door. I could hear her crying again. I sank to the ground, worried out of my mind. 13

"Mom? What's wrong with her?" I asked.14

"Oh honey," my mom sighed. "Emma's suffering from post-breakup. Her boyfriend decided her didn't love Emma anymore and broke up with her. That's all." 15

Then she left to go back to work and I sat there, stunned. Why would16

anyone want to break up with Emma? I mean she was EMMA for crying out loud. But at that moment, when I heard Emma's mournful sobs, I swore to myself to do anything that Emma wanted- just to make her happy.17

That night at dinner I made Emma’s favorite meal: baked ziti with apple pie for dessert. If there was one thing I prided myself in it was to know how to cook. And I swear- I could make a mean apple pie. 18

“Is this your way of making up to me?” Emma asked, eyeing the ziti hungrily.19

I nodded. “I’m sorry I was just so-”20

“Listen, Jenna. I’m a big girl. I can take care of myself. I love that you want to protect me but back off, ok? Seriously, you need to start having your own life, and I need mine,” Emma interrupted, grabbing a large spoonful of ziti.21

I felt my heart drop to the pit of my stomach. Even though I was stupid, I was smart enough to figure what Emma meant. She didn’t want me to be involved with her anymore- she wanted out of our unsaid sisterhood pact. And I was going to let her, because that is how I was. 22

As the months passed Emma grew skinnier and skinnier and soon she was all bones. My parents ignored it, thinking she was just on some diet. Once or twice they even slipped that I should start thinking about doing Emma’s diet! But I knew something was up. That night I crept to Emma’s door. I could hear her crying and crying. I kneeled down in front of the key crack and peered through it. Emma was injecting something into her. A flash of my health teacher’s lesson went through my mind and it hit me. Emma was doing drugs! I hurriedly got up and rushed to my room.23

The next day I acted like nothing ever happened and I kept Emma’s secret to myself. I knew if I told, Emma would get in trouble and then Emma would never speak to me for the rest of my life. I would die if that happened. After all I made a promise that I would do anything to keep Emma happy, and telling Emma’s secret would not make her happy. So I never said a word.24

Now as I stand over Emma’s grave, looking at the words engraved in the marble, I know I should have told. I should have never kept Emma’s secret to myself. I should have told that Emma was using crystal meth. I only know that it was crystal meth because of what I read her in her diary. She said she was using it because Rodney had broken up with her and that if she didn’t use it she would become fat and ugly like her sister Jenna- like me. 25

I want to believe that Rodney is the reason for her death. That if he hadn’t broken up with her she would have never started using that terrible drug. But I can’t believe it because it is not true. The real murderer behind my sister’s death is me because I never told. I never got her help- I was too selfish for my sister’s love to actually save my sister. Instead I let her die, blinded by selfishness and stupidity. All I ever wanted to do was make Emma love me. Instead I ended up killing her. 26