Kun nyt katselin silmänsä ummistanutta, polvistunutta Feelyä, jonka taivaaseen suunnatut sormenpäät koskettivat toisiaan, muodostamassa huulillaan hartaita, suloisia sanoja, minun täytyi muistuttaa itseäni siitä, että vieressäni oli paholaisen yökkäämä karvapallo.

Sisterhood was about shared experiences, trust, knowing you had people who would be there for you and would listen to you no matter what, and who could always tell if there was something wrong. They were the ones who, with a single look, knew if you were about to burst into giggles or into tears and why, and who knew when you needed to get out of the house for a midnight trip to In-N-Out Burger to gorge on a milkshake and animal-style fries. They were the ones you could be raging angry with one moment, and completely forgive ten minutes later. She would always be there for her sisters, and they would always be there for her, because they loved each other no matter what.

How the hell do you sum up your sister in three minutes? She's your twin and your polar opposite. She's your constant companion and your competition. She's your best friend and the biggest bitch in the world. She's everything you wish you could be and everything you wish you weren't.

Imagine: you could say nothing, do nothing, eat nothing, touch nothing, love nothing without the other knowing.

As anybody with two older sisters can tell you, a closed door is like a red rag to a bull. It cannot go unchallenged.

The knowledge of death seemed present in both sisters—it was something about the way they carried themselves, something that had broken too soon and had not mended, marking them in spite of their lightheartedness.