They say she does everything twice.

When the gentle rays of light shine through her window and land on her skin, she opens her eyes and slides out of bed. Then she jumps back in, huddling under the covers, shutting her eyes tight. She waits a moment before lifting the duvet high above her head and slipping out of bed once more.

Mother thinks she’s a lazy girl. Everyone has finished their breakfast and is in the process of washing up when she sidles in, wearing her school uniform, settling down at the table behind a mushy pile of cornflakes. She leaves the room abruptly and re-enters. She’ll be late fer school, Mother always remarks. Why can’t yeh ‘urry up, Mother always asks.

She always says, “’Cause... ‘Cause...” and falters out.

Mother thinks she’s a greedy girl. Two glasses of orange juice, she has. She slurps the first one down before pouring herself another. Then she goes and has two bowls of cornflakes! Two! It drives Mother mad. She always has to pop to the supermarket more than she would like to restock our cupboards and we ain’t made of money. Father works in the factory and Mother works at home. He don’t make too much money and she none at all.

I walk with her to school to keep her company. She ain’t got no friends. They call her names. Freak. Weirdo. Loser. They laugh when she talks, stuttering and tripping over their words when they copy her. The teachers all tried to help her talk right at first, but they gave up when she didn’t learn.

Mother thinks she’s a stupid girl. She never does well in tests. She writes the answers out and then she writes them out again. Poor girl never finishes. The teachers whisper about special needs and put her in the stupid class. It ain’t fair ‘cause she ain’t stupid. If I could, I would make a fuss. I insist this and she duly nods her head. Once.

She don’t talk twice to me or nothing. I’m special; we get each other. When we’re alone, we sit on the bench in the park and chat. She’s such a nice girl. I wish I could be like her. Such a nice, smart girl.

Mother thinks she’s a hopeless girl. Ain’t much o’ a looker, though I think she looks quite nice. She ain’t got no brains neither, so she ain’t gonna get nowhere. What a useless child, she says. At least Tom might become someone, she says.

I don’t like Tom too much. Too loud. She don’t like him either. Didn’t want a brother. Didn’t want a brother. I want my sister. I want my sister. Mother says he’ll do and that she ought to be grateful. She would love to give her what she wants, but she can’t.

Once, when the pair of us was in our room, talking about meeting up in a faraway place, Mother comes in and blinks a few times. Then she goes, “Who are you talking to?”

“My sister,” she replies, “my sister.”

Mother gives her a funny look before leaving the room, mumbling incoherently. We shrug it off and continue playing.

Mother thinks she’s a crazy girl. They all do.

They say she does everything twice.

Yes. One time for her, and one time for me.