Cut
By Mallory Guymon
She stood two inches taller than I, three pant sizes smaller than me, and one grade below me. She was my baby sister, but I would never consider her a baby.
High school is never easy for anyone. Those who claim that it was—lied. This was even more true for my high school that was known for their competitive sports, arrogant attitude, and self-righteous behavior. My sophomore year went well being on the volleyball and softball team, having a “cool boyfriend,” and of course having a car. Going into my junior year my confidence was not so high.
My younger sister and I are 18 months apart so when I entered my junior year, she entered her sophomore year. She has the brains in the family and ended up taking the same science and math class as I. We even ended up in the same math class period together—that changed quickly.
Two weeks before school started, we both tried out for the high school volleyball team—I tried out for varsity and she tried out for junior varsity. The competition was high. We spent a week going through brutal sprints, jumps, rolls, and dives.
My sister has a vertical that obviously surpasses mine which is why I specialized in passing and bumping the ball. While I passed, she hit and she hit hard. Compliments rolled her way. I was happy for her.
Two days before school started, we anxiously awaited at home, still in our practice jerseys, the results of our hard work. We were told that the results would be posted on the gym doors after 8 p.m. Before we concluded tryouts our coaches asked us if we wanted to be considered for junior varsity, varsity, or both. I informed the coaches that I only wanted to be considered for varsity. If I didn’t make it, I didn’t want to play junior varsity.
My sister and I drove to the school, swerved into the gym parking lot, and linked arms as we walked towards the door. Our eyes scanned the two lists—13 girls on each. My name was absent and my sister’s name was on the junior varsity list.
There was silence.
We drove home in continued silence. I pulled up to the front rather than the driveway and said I would be home later. Tears ran down my cheeks and she closed the door slowly behind her and walked to the front door with her arms crossed and her chin down.
I went to see my cool boyfriend for sympathy an received a less than an adequate amount per usual. My mind raced and could hardly stomach the thought of going to school on Monday. Dramatically—my life was over.
I drove home at snail speed, and my mother met me at the back door. I sobbed in her arms and she listened, like mothers always do. She put her fingers through my hair and consoled me for a moment. I calmed down but still dreaded the next nine months of torture.
As my mother walked out the door, she turned around and mentioned that my sister came in crying, too. She thought she was the one who didn’t make the team. By the time she made out her words through her sobs, she found out that I didn’t make it.
My sister is still two inches taller than I, she got married before me and is currently expecting her fist baby girl in March. One day, that baby girl will have a sister and hopefully she will have a sister like mine.
