The Race

I took a deep breath, bracing myself to begin. Though there was no whistle, no flag waving, and no cheering crowd, I knew the race had started. My sister and I locked eyes for a split second before sprinting down the hallway.

Doors slammed as we dove into our bedrooms, tossing clothes left and right. Did my shirt go with my pants? That didn’t matter. Winning did. I yanked on the first things I could find and darted toward the bathroom.

Drawers banged, toilets flushed, sinks sang. I had this in the bag. Last time, I’d let my little sister win—she was seven years younger than me, after all—but not this time.

This was my moment.

I finished brushing my teeth, tied my hair back with the nearest rubber band, and bolted for the couch. My heart pounded in my chest, feet thudding against the floor as if the whole house were part of the racecourse. The living room came into view. I lunged, stretching out my arms in slow-motion triumph.

But before I could land, I heard laughter.

My little sister was already there, sitting comfortably on the couch with her hands on her knees, her hair neatly brushed and her outfit perfectly matched. She looked like a picture from a magazine.

I looked down at myself—hair a tangled mess, shirt clashing horribly with my pants, mismatched socks.

My sister smiled sweetly. “Good game,” she said, eyes twinkling. “Maybe next time I’ll let you win.”