PRINTNot everyone can be a hero
When a killer’s in the house, it’s always best to keep someone else between yourself and the monster- even if it’s your sister.
Jess Camp is a wacky one. By day she’s a journalism student and by night she slings sandwiches at a local Subway shop. When she’s not doing those things, she’s probably drinking a martini or laughing. She laughs all the time. During her freshman year, people used to burst into her dorm room because her loud laughter annoyed them, but were often shocked to find she was sitting on the floor all alone, just laughing. If she’s sent to the asylum one day, at least she’ll have time to finish the novel she’s been putting off. By the way, she and Tracy are now great friends, despite this essay.
February 7, 2010 | 12:00 a.m. CST
I’m a good big sister, despite what people may think. I’m always offering unsolicited sage wisdom on growing older to my little sister Tracy. Usually, at these times, she groans and rolls her eyes, but the point is that I try. I also lend her my ear if she needs to vent about a jerky guy, or I’ll give her a ride if she needs one. I’ll even occasionally buy her lunch when we’re out.
But, looking back, I realize that none of those actions have ever actually been sacrifices. I’ll only give her a ride if she begs; I’ll only buy her food if Mom gave me the money first; I’ll only listen if I’m bored or the tale seems particularly juicy. The things I do for Tracy aren’t really selfless at all. I’ve only been in a position where I could’ve been truly selfless once, and I failed that test. Failed it miserably, I’d say.
On a Thursday afternoon we were shooting hoops in our backyard. I was 12 and Tracy was nine. Tracy and I always chilled together while we waited out the few hours it would take my mom to get home from work. Whether it was adventuring in a nearby creek bed or riding our bikes around the neighborhood — we were always together.
So we’re throwing the ball — I was winning I’m sure — when all of the sudden I see a red shoulder walk by the backdoor window. I freeze. The hair on my neck stands and I can’t move.
“Tracy, someone’s in the house.”
“Shut up, no there isn’t,” she says, trembling at me with wide eyes, trying to decide if I’m telling the truth or just messing with her.
“No, I swear, I saw somebody walk by.”
We both stand still, not knowing what to do. She looks at me for guidance, I look to her to choose our next move. Then together we turn out heads to a 90 degree angle and stare at the door, waiting for someone to burst through it with a knife. No one does.
“Well, maybe I was wrong,” I say, still unsure, but hopeful. “Must’ve been my imagination.”
Tracy reluctantly agrees and we go back to playing. Our nerves soon evaporate and we’re back to bantering and having a good time. I’m about to make an amazing shot when out of nowhere Tracy lets out a piercing scream that would put the Wicked Witch of the West’s cry to shame.
My head whips to the window where Tracy’s looking just in time to see the same flash of red shoulder pass by. I drop the ball. Each bounce echoes on the concrete. Thud. Thud. Thud. It’s the only thing that can move.
Suddenly, something inside us snaps, time unfreezes itself, we take off running, our feet pounding the pavement, our breaths coming out in frantic gasps. We round the corner, leading us straight down the long driveway that ends in a wrought iron gate with the “beware of dog” sign dangling crookedly on it. Oh, why didn’t we get a dog to go with the sign? It’s too late to wonder about that. Once we open the gate, we can escape to our neighbor the cop, and everything will be copacetic.
But after breezing past the corner, I realize that something is off. Something isn’t right. That’s when I notice Tracy is in front of me, which means I’m closest to the killer. This is no good. I’m too young to die. Without thinking, I reach forward, grab my little sister’s shirt and pull her back. I don’t want her to get hurt, but I don’t even see her as my sister anymore, I just see her as a barrier to my survival.
Now that my view’s better — meaning no immediate obstacles — I relax a bit. I can make it to the gate. I can make it to freedom. Maybe if I grab the nearby rake lying by the leaves I neglected to collect, I could catapult myself over the fence with it and be free from the monster. No, that’s stupid, just keep running, who cares that my side hurts, it’ll be worth it when I’m on the bus tomorrow telling all my friends this cool story. I wonder if the killer has a knife or a gun, which would make this more interesting? That doesn’t matter; just get to the freaking gate.
Then I hear Tracy’s familiar scream breaking through the irrational thoughts in my mind. I stop, turn around and see that I had pulled her too hard and made her trip. She’s on the ground with skinned knees, hands outstretched to me. “Help, Jess! Help me!”
Naturally, I run to her. Like I said, I didn’t want her to get hurt, I just wanted to make sure I wasn’t the first one killed. I grab her sweaty, chubby hand; I’m about to help her up, when I hear the backdoor open.
That primal fear grips me again. I drop her hand like it’s a tissue soaked in the H1N1 virus. I ignore her screams and tears. I turn my back on the girl I have shared a room with; hugged when the fights between our divorcing parents got scary; read to when she couldn’t sleep; and run to the gate. Maybe I thought I’d get it open and come back for her, but I don’t think that’s true.
I make it to the gate. My fingers work furiously, trying to get it open. “Oh please, please, let me live, I just wanna live!” I pray while I shake the one thing keeping me from fulfilling my destiny, trying to convince the tricky lock to unhook. I think I should yell and scream and cry for my neighbors to come rescue me, but oddly enough, that seems embarrassing. I can handle this. I just need to conjure up my inner Kevin McCallister and come up with some sort of a plan to stop the bad guy.
“Hey!” I hear. I release my grip. I compose my face and promise myself that when I turn around and see the monster marching towards me wielding a bloody knife after tossing Tracy’s head aside, I won’t beg for my life. I’ll take my fate like a woman. I’ll be the person in the movies who badmouths the villain, even when you know they shouldn’t, and then is killed for it. At least they have pride. Too bad it’s too late for Tracy to witness it and share my bravery with the world. I would’ve made the news.
I shrug my shoulders, ready, and turn to see the person in red is standing a few feet behind my sister, whose head is still attached to her neck.
“Oh, hey,” I exhale in a wavering, relieved sigh/laugh combo. All the tension in my body disappears in a huge wave, just like when a painful Charlie Horse finally releases your calf of its horrible grip.
As it turns out the ruthless killer was really just Mom, home from work a little early. Though I was ultimately relieved that it wasn’t a strange psycho following me, I was a little disappointed. Surviving an attack like that would have been rather interesting.
It would seem that Tracy would resent me for leaving her to potentially die. But at the time, I think she was just happy not to be taking a dirt nap that she hardly noticed I was the one who could’ve allowed her demise. Now she hardly remembers the event. My cowardice must’ve affected myself more than it did her.
I’m destined for greatness. I’ve known this forever. I’m going to be a best-selling novelist someday; it’s almost a guarantee. If my sister had died at the hands of the killer in red, I would’ve written a New York Times Best-Seller novel about it. I would’ve made her the hero, of course, who died while valiantly saving the big sister she idolized.
I like to say that if I had a do-over, I’d pick Tracy up and toss her over the fence, leaving me to battle the evildoer. Honestly, though, I imagine things would play out in much the same way.
Since her elementary school days, however, she’s joined the track team and has become quite the fitness guru. She’d beat me in a footrace. I’d have to think of a more creative way to sabotage my sister’s survival in order to preserve mine.
Twitter
Facebook
