Putting Life on Hold

I couldn’t mess up. It wasn’t so much an over-confident statement that I told myself to appear better than others as it was a simple reminder. In my family, there was no room for mistakes. Being the best was expected- required, even. I tried to be perfect; I strived for that false sense of faultlessness, because in a sense, it was all a charade. No one could truly never not make mistakes. Messing up was a part of life, a way to learn from your wrongs in order to become a better person. But that wasn’t excuse, as my dad would always tell me. I could understand, though, why he needed everything to be perfect, everything to be precise. He was the epitome of perfect, he had a perfect job as the owner of a law firm, he married the perfect wife, soft-spoken and overly-submissive, he bought the perfect house in the perfect neighborhood, and all he needed were the perfect children. He sent us to the most prestigious schools, from first all the way through secondary. He only associated himself with people like him, people with money and power and a reputation.

We went along with it, my mother, sister and me. We didn’t have a say, not that we would have enough courage to actually speak up. At least, my sister didn’t have the courage, not until she turned sixteen and was convinced that the world revolved around her, because essentially, it did. Her recklessness angered my father, irritated my mother, gave her all the attention she so desperately craved, and me? Well, it just added more pressure.

“Your sister is a lost cause, dear, and we hope that you can make better choices.” It was simply a nicer way of saying “Your sister fucked up the family name, settling for you is the only chance I have, so don’t mess this up.”

As soon as my father realized that my sister had nothing going for her, it fell upon my shoulders to make up for her mistakes. I was supposed to outshine her at everything, but beside the stupid decisions my sister made, she was perfect. She got straight A’s and she was the team captain of her high school’s varsity volleyball team by sophomore year. She had the uncanny ability of being good at everything she ever did, even if she had never done it before. She had more talent in her pinky finger than I did in my entire body, but I tried, nonetheless, because I didn’t have a choice.

It was hard at first, to be good at everything. I was never athletic, but I tried out for volleyball anyways, and if I were to be honest with myself, I only made the team because my sister was captain before she graduated. I wasn’t bad, not at all, but I wasn’t team captain material, not anywhere near it. I couldn’t pick up a pencil and give you a poem worth publishing; I couldn’t be passed a baton and run half a mile without so much as slowing down once. I wasn’t like that, and I knew it always bothered my dad, but he never commented on it. In his eyes, I was already better than my sister, already at the top of his “Most Worthy” list.

I was lulled into a false sense of superiority, not that I bragged about being better. I put up these walls, convinced myself that only people worthy of my time, only people as consummate and impeccable as me, would be able to get through. I was on a winning streak, a clear pathway to college and my future already looming not far ahead. I couldn’t fail, and my father’s words of encouragement only built up that theory. I was infallible- at least, I thought as much.

Nicholas Santino was the beginning of my shocking, yet somewhat inevitable spiral downward, my slow fall to the bottom of the list. And soon enough, I wasn’t the best, soon enough, I wasn’t even comparable to the gravel driveway that my father parked his perfect car on every day.