Our stupid Mom makes us go to the freaking ski lodge each year, even when it isn’t snowing. As if the no snow part wasn’t stupid enough, my sister is only three and obviously can’t ski, and I don’t ski because that isn’t a part of my brand. When we are checking in, Mom bosses me around and tells me to watch Ally, which is what she named my sister, even though I told her that you actually spell “Ally” A-L-I not A-L-L-Y. Mom’s an idiot.
So I sit on the couch and brush my hair while Ally toddles around the lobby. I just got a keratin treatment—you know, the kind where you leave all the straightening stuff in it and wash it out two days later—and my hair is looking pretty great, not to brag. Too great to be wasted on my family. So I pull out my phone to snap chat it. No signal. Dumb. So now there’s no skiing because no snow, and no texting because no signal. What will be next? No eating because no water? Mom’s a monster.
The thing is, this weekend would have been really great for me if we had just stayed home. Margaret is having this really sick trampoline installed in her backyard, and everyone knows that means she’ll have a party, and that people will play truth or dare on her cool trampoline, and probably Billy will break at least his wrist again. Billy’s a klutz. He’s also super cute.
So there I am, minding my own business, when Ally comes toddling up holding something in her little chubby fist. Her fists are so chubby that you can’t even see the knuckles. They are just chubby little blobs. Like a cartoon. Like a stuffed doll. Like a baby. Anyway, so over she toddles and I am all, here take this baby book and read it, because I just want her to be quiet and sit down.
Ally is always getting into trouble. Last year she ran away from day care. Kind of. She wandered away, and they found her nearby on someone’s backyard swing set. Her teachers are so slow. Anyway, she’s always running away, and frankly I have had it with her. Let her run away. But I can’t because: mom. Mom likes Ally and won’t let me get keratin treatments if I lose her, so I give her the stupid baby book hoping she will sit still.
But when Ally crawls up onto the couch she gets really close to me, and that’s when I start noticing the smell. Something smells bad. Like really bad. Like really, really icky. And so at first I think maybe Ally has pooped herself or something gross like that. So I tell my dad to check, but he says she is all clean, and that I should keep quiet so that check in will go more quickly. But the smell won’t go away, and so finally I have to examine her myself. There aren’t any gross gobs of food on her face like normal, and her feet smell fine. But right when I go down to smell her shoes, Ally opens her hand up and smashes the contents down on top of my head.
Then one of the hotel’s day care people comes running by screaming about how one of the babies has ripped off her diaper and could we please help her find it. That’s when I realize what Ally had done and start crying—one, because Ally had just smashed a turd on my head, and two, because now my keratin treatment was totally ruined. Ally sucks. Ally more than sucks. Ally is the dumbest, most horrible, chubbiest, ugliest sister on the planet.
When I go to wash the turd out of my hair in the lobby sink, that’s when I know, I know I am done with Ally. I decide to let Ally run away for good. So that night after we have checked into our rooms safe and sound, and are getting ready for bed and all that, I tell Ally that there is ice cream outside. I just casually let her know, show her a picture of an ice cream cone, and point to the door to the outside. Just casually.
When I wake up tomorrow, I know she’ll be gone. No one likes ice cream like Ally. She is goo goo for ice cream. And if I know my sister, which I do, she’ll be long gone, and we’ll get to go home, and maybe finally I’ll get to kiss Billy on Margaret’s trampoline.