TRACEY

By Kelley Lepine

 

She comes into my room at eight o'clock in the morning, telling me I did not put her red shoes in the correct box. She stands there, her long black hair neatly combed and parted on the left side. In her hair is a black and white polka-dotted scarf, tied evenly in a bow in exact line with her part. Her makeup covers every little blemish, down to the faint mole on her left cheek. Her eye shadow is blended so that it looks natural, and her blush creates the strong, high cheekbones that she tried for months to master. She has lined her lips with Sunset Coral, a perfect match with her green eyes. Her silky, lace-collared pearl shirt is tucked tightly into her rayon jet black shorts. On her feet are coordinating polka-dot socks and black patent leather shoes with white ribbons for the laces. Her hands are placed firmly on her hips, and I hear her black and white bracelets jingle as she throws up her hands in disgust. As she leaves, I hear her flick the air conditioning to off, because in an hour it will be too cool.

Tracey, my older sister, wakes up at seven a.m. promptly, without an alarm clock. She showers and blow dries her hair, using long, sweeping strokes with the brush so as not to burn the ends of her hair. After dressing, she folds up the blanket on her bed and places it under the bed. Tracey never sleeps under her covers at night; she likes to keep her bed sheets straight and clean. She fluffs her pillows and puts her book, "How To Plan a Perfect Wedding," in the drawer of her nightstand. The only thing on her nightstand is a box of aloe vera tissue. She has seven pictures on her wall, hung in the shape of a T. The pictures are of her family, her boyfriend, and her "Certificates of Excellence" she received throughout her high school years. On her bathroom counter are facial cleansers, and Oil of Olay moisturizer. She keeps the rest of her toiletries in her "caboodle" kit in the cabinet.

Later, she heads downstairs to get the morning paper. She separates the whole paper into the divided sections so the others don't have to search through it. She eats one measured cup of Special K cereal, and records 150 calories on the paper taped to the refrigerator. She records every ounce of food that goes into her mouth. When she's finished, she rinses her bowl and puts it in the dishwasher. She puts her spoon in the third left slot of the dishwasher utensil holder, and then rearranges the forks and knives that I so carelessly put in the wrong slot. Then she walks back upstairs and brushes her teeth again.

At eleven a.m., she turns on her favorite soap opera and busies herself by folding newly washed clothes. She even has a specific way of folding her bras and underwear. She also irons in front of the TV, using so much starch the shirt could stand by itself. Then she puts her shirts on cloth hangers and hangs them, according to color, in her closet. Her closet goes from black clothes, belts, shoes, and accessories, to white clothes, belts, shoes, and accessories, and the fall colors between.

In the evening, she makes dinner, timing it so that all the food will be done by six-fifteen p.m., when my parents come home. I've tried to help her before, but she became too frustrated with my inability to stir sauce continuously for fifteen minutes, so now I stay away. I do get stuck with doing the dishes, but Tracey comes in later to scrutinize the job I did at scrubbing the stovetop. She is always watching out for me and my little sister, hopelessly shaking her head when we don't shake the crumbs off our papers plates before putting them into the trash.

Tracey has been this way as far as I can remember. She says she was born with an eye for perfection, but I have another theory. I think that because she's the oldest, and because my dad was the most strict on her as we were growing up, she was forced to get her approval from my dad by being the cleanest and neatest of all three of us. She believes that if we will only stop to learn from her, our lives will be much happier and fulfilling.

"Kelly," she says, coming out of the laundry room, "I counted five of your pajamas in the hamper. That means you wear one pair a night. Why do you throw it in the wash? Do you sweat in your sleep?"

I choose to ignore this comment. "Why did you count?" I ask, immediately regretting the question.

She laughs a short, haughty, crisp laugh. "Well, when everything in the hamper comes from your room in just five days, I have to wonder why you want to throw clean clothes in the wash."

I sense a familiar argument, so I say, "How would you like it if I counted how many Kleenexes you use a day?"

She laughs that same laugh once more. "I can tell you. Between fifteen and twenty. Kelly, all I'm trying to do is save you the trouble of putting away so many clothes, you know?"

She passes by me to walk upstairs, where my clean clothes are folded so I can take them up. But I don't feel like taking them up this trip upstairs, so I pass them by. She watches me, her eyes bugging out like she's seen a ghost.

"That's the third time you've walked past those clothes I put there for you to take up! How hard is it to pick them up?"

I see some truth in this comment, so I pick them up. She must realize she's being a nag, because she tries to make up with this next comment.

"Kelly, I saw that you put my George Michael CD back in alphabetical order after Madonna. Thanks," she says sweetly.

"But I still have yet to put your red shoes back in the red section of your closet," I say sarcastically.

"Well, one step at a time," she replies seriously.

Later, as I lie on my bed reading a thriller, she enters without knocking.

"Can I see if you have any shirts of mine? I'm packing to go back to college," she says, already opening the door to my closet.

"Trace, you're not going back for a month!" I say incredulously.

She's too busy taking out my clothes that are not hung up and barely considered folded. "This is mine," she says, a superior tone to her voice.

She proceeds to organize my closet, which deeply irritates me. "Tracey, if I want my closet cleaned, I'll do it myself."

"I seriously doubt that," she answers tartly. She checks the pockets of my shorts to find money. Sh pulls out a coupon for butter. "Kelly! You forgot to hand this to the checker yesterday! I gave you the responsibility of handling the coupons so you could give them to the checker, not so you could stash them away in your pockets! Now it's expired!" She throws herself back on my bed, noticing a spot on my shirt. "Unbelievable!" she mutters. "First, I can't get you to stop throwing clean clothes in the wash, and now I can't get you to throw dirty clothes down! You are hopeless!"

-- Kelly Lepine