More Like Emma

Emma is a five-year-old kleptomaniac. She’s got a ruff n tuff attitude that makes you either love her or hate her. She has an aversion for wearing underwear and brushing her hair. She brings a backpack everywhere that holds her snacks because while she will never sit down long enough to eat a full meal, she gets hungry every half hour. She loves goo or slime or any other substance, store-bought or handmade, that leaves her hands sticky, ends up in her rat’s nest dirty blond hair, or between couch cushions. While she can be unruly, frustrating, and destructive, what I find truly remarkable about my little sister, is that Emma doesn’t give a single fuck.

She’s got a sturdy little body with a torso that I’m sure will one day be lined with a six-pack and broad shoulders like a butterfly stroke swimmer. I try to imagine her as an adult sometimes; maybe she’ll be a roller derby girl, kicking ass and taking names, or a kickboxer, packing punches with more than just her words. But for now, she’s a gymnast. She likes to climb over everything, terrifying me at playgrounds as she hangs from the highest possible metal bar and yells, “Sommer, look!”. I call her monkey, the way she hangs from anything without fear. I am convinced Emma is unafraid of anything at all.

Last spring, I took her to a carnival, and she insisted on terrifying rides only. She begged me to go on the “Rolling Rocketship” in which little rockets go around, and up and down, at an alarming rate. The screams were enough for me to ask Emma, “Are you sure?” Emma dragged me onto the ride, and as we took off, we screamed and laughed, having a blast. As the speed increased, I looked over at Emma, realizing she’d gone silent. Her expressionless face of pure boredom bewildered me. After the ride, I asked Emma if she liked it. Her response, “Let’s find something better.”

You can tell a lot about Emma by examining her toys. Emma seems to concern my grandmother who bought her a “Baby Alive” and a makeup set for Christmas. The last time I saw Baby Alive, Emma had shoved a lipstick, or as she calls it “lipskip” straight into her Baby Alive’s mouth hole, meant for her bottle that feeds her “formula” that will make her “poop”. I credit Emma for this decision, as it seems like an impossibly fucked up concept for a child’s toy. The girliest toy Emma loves is her unicorn named “Rainbow” that shits sparkly goop.

Emma is smart and manipulative as hell. I once watched her stuff wads of monopoly cash into her pants at a child’s birthday party. She’s stolen a hundred-dollar bill from our brother, and a pair of diamond studs from an Aunt on a family vacation. If you searched Emma’s room, I’m not sure I’d want to know what you’d find. Although she’s an impeccable hider, saving her stolen goods in nooks and crannies all over the house. She denies stealing every time, exploding into snot and tears, so convincing it’s scary. I’m not sure where this habit came from. Maybe being a child of divorce has something to do with it, the back and forth between houses, and her possessions. But I mostly think she’s in it for the thrill.

While Emma is a lot, at her core, she’s a lover. While her face might be dirty with goo or dirt, those big blue eyes, and little scrunchy nose are the keys to unlocking my heart. At night, she softens. Her raspy voice asking for cuddles and back scratches is all I need to forgive every level of hell she’s put me through. I whisper to her, “You’re my favorite girl”, which she whispers back, her voice, a gritty, soothing quality all her own.

I wish I could be more like Emma. She’s fearless, determined, and headstrong. She lacks self-consciousness, and I hope it sticks to her forever, like goo. I wish there were more girls in the world like Emma, that face the world head-on like it’s theirs to conquer. That are true to themselves, that do not conform to meet anyone’s needs but their own, that say, “Let’s find something better”, and that never let anyone tell them no. While Emma can terrify me, I am not scared for her. I know she’ll take this world and make it hers.