Twins in an Ice Cream Shop

“You missed a spot.”

I turned and saw my coworker swipe sprinkles onto the floor.

I almost started to laugh — not because the experience was funny, but because it was so absurd. The scene transported me into one of those poorly-written teen movies with stereotypical mean girls and dry insults. It was as if Regina George had appeared before me, and I had no ability to react.

My surprise became anger once I realized that the sprinkle scheme was not directed towards me, but towards my twin sister, Amelia. I wanted to protect her, but did not know how.

We got the job at the same time, but Amelia moved her way up the hierarchy faster than me because of her work ethic and outgoing nature. When she was six, the swim team awarded her the title “social butterfly,” and indeed, she seemed to flutter up the social ladder with ease.

For whatever reason, many cannot resist comparing twins. It’s too easy. though we are fraternal twins, we are still siblings of the same age with supposedly identical life experiences.

But according to most, Amelia and I look and act nothing alike. Once, someone asked me, “How are you two even friends?”

With my twin, I feel like it’s us against the world. The world, on the other hand, seems that it would prefer us against each other. Over our 19 years, we’ve received comments such as, “Wow, your sister’s gorgeous! You look nothing alike,” “Oh, so you’re the disappointment, then?” and “How does it feel to have a sister so much smarter than you?” And my personal favorite: “You’re just so… different” (Ambiguity only baits the imagination.)

I had been weeding out such slights of comparison my whole life. But that Machiavellian ice cream store was where competition poisonously thrived.

Within a couple of weeks, Amelia began winning the more lucrative shifts and was treated better during them. She was hard competition — she counted back change with remarkable speed, pleased all the customers, and was a good gossip, too.

Amelia lightened every conversation with her smile and boisterous, honest laugh. She was often the center of attention and emanated joy, picking up a lot in tips on the way. But while any negative trait was an inconvenience, any positive one was a threat to the other girls, and Amelia had a lot of threatening virtues.

Her most egregious one was her kindness. Granted, she was not perfect. Who doesn’t like to gossip? But Amelia never participated in character assassination or ostracization. So, when one girl bore the wrath of many after drunkenly kissing another’s crush from two years prior, Amelia, refusing to shame her, bore it too.

The “betrayed” rallied her allies, and together they humiliated the “betrayer” to tears. They made secret group chats to trash talk her, purposely scheduled her shifts when she was unavailable, and even told our boss lies about her competence. Suddenly, the three of us found desolate loneliness during those long, summer shifts. It was the era of swiped sprinkles and sneering laughs. Once, when my sister and I were coming into the store, the door was locked. The girls inside said, “Don’t let them in.”

After the drunken-kiss fiasco blew over, Amelia’s popularity returned. With the quasi-hazing rituals that we had to endure — I had grown terrified of public criticism by the other girls about my counter-scrubbing abilities — I found myself wanting that popularity too. I started competing with her in the most profound of ways: making the perfect ice cream cone. We analyzed swirl, height, and width and even measured the weight in grams. When we worked the same shifts, we exchanged glares as we received our hierarchical duties: who would have to take orders and who would make the ice cream.

During that time, the two of us deeply resented each other. It was sophomore year. We were both struggling with depression in our own ways, and we took it out on each other. She was tired of being called stupid next to me, and I was tired of being invisible next to her. So, if I helped her with math homework, I tutored with a sharp and unforgiving tongue. If she had plans with friends, I would be left in the dust. We said horrible things to each other — worse than the comparisons we so despised: “You have no work ethic. You’re not even fucking trying.” “You have no friends for a reason. Why would anyone want to be around you?”

Behind those words, we really meant: “This is really hard. I’m frustrated and don’t know what to do. Please help.”

Amelia and I have repaired our relationship since, but the dangers of comparison still linger. Even today, every time I show a photo of Amelia, or introduce her, I dread what comments may follow. Sometimes, I even expect them and attempt to beat others to it. I compare myself to my twin to lessen the hurt.

I despise the words we exchange in efforts to bruise each other. I despise that, even if it’s just for a moment, I want her light to dim so it does not compete with mine. Because in the end, I love my sister for her brightness and joviality, her inclination to exaggerate, her wit and social genius. I love how she stuns others with her personality and beauty, and how she’s completely unaware of it.

In the end, I think that’s what we all are: unaware. We can recognize that value does not arise from comparison, but we don’t always feel it to be true. At least I don’t.

Luckily, I don’t have to. I have my sister, and that is enough. She loves me, and I love her. We share our insecurities with each other, because we are able to uplift each other. Oddly enough, we overcame our bitter jealousies and miscommunication by suffering from the words of others. Even in our bad moments, Amelia and I protect each other.

Last semester, Amelia’s friends began to ostracize her — starting rumors, calling her names, and even taking videos of her while she wasn’t looking.

“They’re being immature, jealous assholes, and you’re worth so much more than that,” I told her, listing all the reasons why she is.

Conversely, last semester, there was a moment when I felt terribly alone. Self-doubt swelled in my mind and spilled out my mouth. It was Amelia who first helped me defy those thoughts. Only she could do it.

Amelia and I are about to turn 19, and it is the first birthday that we will celebrate apart. But I am more excited for this birthday than I have been for any other. Whereas in high school, birthdays could feel like another reminder of how our peers viewed us rather than how we viewed each other, now, I care only about Amelia and having a whole day dedicated to loving her.