Sibling Style Showdown

Sixteen-year-old Marcus was tired. Not the I-pulled-an-all-nighter tired, or the my-coach-ran-sprints-for-an-hour tired. This was a tired that settled deep behind his eyes every time he found his closet half-empty and saw his little sister Riley skateboarding down the driveway in his vintage Nirvana tee. It had started with his favorite hoodie last winter, a harmless bit of sibling borrowing. Then it was jeans, his only leather jacket, button-downs that mysteriously appeared knotted at Riley’s waist, and once—unforgivably—a pair of swim trunks. Every time he confronted her, Riley gave the same answer: “Everything looks better on me, big bro.” Marcus had had enough. So, one Saturday when Riley was at a friend’s house, Marcus stood in front of her closet. He tapped his chin, grinning. If sharing was the new law of the land, he’d play by the rules—her rules. The next morning, Riley nearly dropped her phone when she found Marcus at the breakfast table—legs crossed, sipping orange juice in her pastel crop top and a pink skirt, hairy knees out for God and everyone to see. Their mom didn’t even flinch. Marcus upped the ante. He mowed the lawn in Riley’s red strappy heels (“Great for your calves!” he called as Riley tried to hide behind the curtains, mortified). He wore her zebra-print tank top to the gas station, buying snacks with a practiced flick of his hair behind his shoulder. On Friday night, Marcus showed up for his date in Riley’s tiny black dress, announcing, “If you can wear my jeans to the skatepark, I can wear this to the movies.” His date laughed so hard she nearly choked on her popcorn. The real turning point came on Sunday, when Marcus sunned himself on the front lawn in Riley’s brand new, neon green bikini. Neighbors slowed down to gawk. Riley screamed, “MARCUS! That’s never even touched water yet!” He just waved, rolling onto his stomach for an even tan. By sunset, Riley marched outside, plopped herself down on the grass, and said, “Okay, truce. Can we please just ask before stealing each other’s stuff?” Marcus stretched, flashed her a smug smile, and agreed. “Deal. But just remember—I have no problem raiding your underwear drawer next time.” He winked. Riley shuddered. “You wouldn’t.” Marcus just grinned wider. “Try me.” From that day on, they lived in peace. (Mostly.) And Riley always, always knocked before borrowing a hoodie.