The thing about big sisters is that we little sisters want to be them. We dress alike, we watch the same shows, we style our hair like them and try winged eyeliner before our time. Though we’re not chubby, we stop eating chips and ice cream because they are on a diet. They’re perfect the way they are, but we don’t say anything because we don’t want to sound obsessed. We want them, no, need them to think we’re cool.

We hate their boyfriend. Big sisters spend too much time primping for their dates, and we’re not allowed to tag along. We pout while they are out, but only because they can’t see us acting childish. When they return red-faced and angry, we tell them he’s an idiot, even though we’re smiling inside.

When they hand us the bat, we grip it white-knuckled tight and square our stance, even though we know we’re going to get in big trouble with our dad for the mess. It’s easy to imagine that the beer bottle pilfered from recycling is the dumb boy’s face. We hate him for taking our big sisters away for a time, but we despise him for making them cry.

We believe them when they tell us that the boy is actually a troll. We swing and smash the sticky brown glass to smithereens.

Is it any surprise that we’ll agree to almost anything? If big sisters are down for it, so are little sisters. We try skunky cigarettes with them behind the garage. We turn out the lights and spook ourselves with a Ouija board. We stick out a pair of thumbs with matching hers-and-hers polish and hitchhike to garages to watch indie bands with stupid names like The Purple Potato. It’s ironic—they tell us it is, and we nod wisely as if it actually means something to us.

At home, we sing along to the bootleg Potato recording. The lyrics are kind of depressing, but they play it loud enough that the wall between our bedrooms rattle, and it’s like we’re listening together. We technically are, but we pretend it is on purpose. We loan them our headphones when our mom makes them turn it down, and are sad we can’t hear the music anymore. But still, they’re using our stuff. It’s enough.

They don’t come out for dinner. Not for days. We leave plates outside the door. PB and J, because it’s our favorite. We hope they like it, too. They aren’t hungry, though. It’s probably a good thing because the dog snags the sandwich and gets farty.

We knock, but they don’t answer. Rumor has it, the stupid beer bottle-faced troll is dating a cheerleader now. He’s an idiot with no taste. We tell our big sisters this through the door and earn a precious snort-sob-laugh.

Eventually, they let us in. Their room is dark and smells like a vanilla candle, as if cookie dough was left too long in the oven. Not quite burnt, but lightly charred around the edges.

When they tell us they have a secret, we lean in. Of course, we won’t tell. Don’t they know by now they can trust us? We never squealed about the smashed beer bottles or the ironic vegetable bands. Cross our hearts, hope to die. We don’t volunteer the stick-a-needle-in-your-eye part, because it’s gross. But if they ask, we will.

They tell us there’s a set of stairs that leads to nowhere. Or maybe everywhere. It sounds made up. How can opposite things be true? We don’t say that, though. They’re finally talking, and who are we to disagree, really? They are the big sisters; surely they know all the things.

They tell us the first step is easy. Even we could do it. But then it gets harder. We frown a little. It’s just stairs, we say. How hard can it be? We go up and down stairs all day long. Our step counter even keeps track. See? Thirteen flights.

They roll their eyes and tell us we’re too young to understand. It stings. We remind them we weren’t too young for the skunky cigarettes behind the garage.

Wrapping their arms around themselves, they tell us more. The second step is like putting a foot in the ocean. The water sucks their feet like retreating waves pulling sand, making the footing unstable.

It’s not until they go down further, though, that it gets challenging. Knees, hips, shoulders, chin.

The water keeps rising, ya know?

We don’t know, but we pretend we do. Anything to keep them talking.

They tell us if they keep going, they might drown. Or they might turn into a mermaid and swim away, never to return. They ask us if we want to go with them.

We think having fins sounds silly. We must make a face because they hug us. They don’t make excuses or explain what they are thinking, just squeeze us tight and remind us we pinky swore not to say anything.

We nod, and they tell us they’re tired; want to be alone.

It’s the last time we see them.

We keep our promise of silence, but wish we had agreed to go with them.

Our dad starts drinking. Our mom’s eyes are always red.

We spend a lifetime looking for the stairs that go nowhere, but hope they actually go everywhere. It was stupid not to ask how to find them when we had the chance. If we could, we’d tell our big sisters we’re sorry for thinking fins are silly. Little sisters could make good mermaids, too.

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Ⓒ MM Schreier