When I was a little kid, eight or nine, I had loved to look through my parents’ old baby-name books. I made up people in my head to go along with the meanings of the names: Abner, “paternal,” was a kind father of ten. Barbara, “shy,” was a quiet girl who couldn’t make friends at school. And my name, I naively thought, had the best meaning of all: unknown. In my youth, I only assumed that line in the book meant that I was mysterious, that no one really knew me. I was around nine when Diana looked over my shoulder and sweetly asked if I knew what her name meant.
“It means ‘perfect,’” she said, with her twelve-year old mock grown-up voice. “And ‘goddess’. Your name doesn’t mean anything.”
“Yes it does!” I protested. “It means ‘unknown.’ It means I’m mysterious,” I declared proudly.
“No, stupid,” she corrected. “Unknown means that no one knows what it means, so it doesn’t mean anything.”
“You’re a liar!” I spat, but deep down, I knew she was right. After all, she was twelve. And it made sense.
From then on, I renamed myself frequently, writing my new identities in sloppy cursive on notebook pages. Sometimes I was Willa, “desired.” Sometimes I was Tonia, “beyond praise,” or Manda, “lovable.” Anything but Adria, the name without a meaning. My favorite name was always Ginger. “Gaining poise and power.” I figured a definition like that at least meant I was headed in the right direction.
Time went by, the way time does, and Diana lived up to her name, and I lived up to mine. When she was in eighth grade, she already wore a D cup, the rest of her was popsicle-stick thin. When I was in eighth grade, I stole her bras and stuffed them with socks, and got caught when they fell out in the locker room after gym class. In high school, everyone knew her name and no one knew mine. She was a varsity cheerleader; I fell down at tryouts and broke my ankle. Only three people signed my cast, my parents and a girl in my homeroom with lots of pimples and thick glasses. At dances, I stood against the back wall while boys crowded around my sister, waiting for the honor of a few minutes when their bodies could be allowed to come in contact with hers. Only the luckiest ones got slow songs. I stayed at home the night she was crowned homecoming queen. When I was fifteen and my parents caught me making myself throw up after dinner and sent me to therapy, Diana told me, in her syrup-sweet voice, “You can puke it up all you want, but you’ll always know the truth, that this body came naturally for me and not you. Besides, you’ll probably just lose what little tits you’ve got and keep those rolls everywhere else.”
By the time I was turning sixteen, I had finally found myself a good group of people. Of course they weren’t the popular crowd, but they were friends. They meant plenty of phone calls and things to go out and do on Saturday nights. And then there was Tony, with his olive complexion and dark wavy hair. I knew he saw the way I watched him, the way I blushed if his hand happened to brush against mine, the way I always tried to arrange it so that I just coincidentally wound up next to him when we all went out to see movies. And the amazing thing was, he actually seemed to like it.
I had a pool party for my sixteenth birthday. Diana talked my parents into going out for the day, prmising she’d look after things. I’d have rather she left and they stayed, but my friends were impressed, so I accepted it. It was a gorgeous day in spite of Diana, watching Tony in his black swimsuit, admiring the definition of his chest. Diana even agreed not to parade around in her skimpy bikini. Kindness from my sister was always cause for suspicion, but I took what I could get. She walked over to me once during the party and whispered “so, which guy is it that you’re after?”
“Leave me alone,” I muttered.
“Come on, Adria,” she whined. “I know I haven’t always been the best, but we are sisters. We’re supposed to talk about that sort of thing, right?” I sighed.
“Him,” I said, pointing. “In the black shorts.”
“Hmm,” she said, thoughtfully. “Not my type. Nice bod, though.” I was relieved when she went back in the house.
About an hour later, Tony went in to get something to drink and was taking an unusually long time coming back out. I walked into the kitchen and it was empty, so I started down the hall to the bathroom, hoping that he hadn’t gotten sick or anything. And that’s when I saw the wet, black bathing suit crumpled on the hall floor, right outside Diana’s closed door.
I flung the door open, and she was sitting up on top of him, her grotesquely large breasts bouncing up and down. It was at least a full minute before either of them noticed me, and I watched them with a mixture of awe and disgust. Finally, Diana turned her head and saw me standing there. And she grinned.
Before I even knew what I was doing, I was pulling her off of him and throwing her onto the floor. Her smile faded just before my fist smashed into her face, breaking her perfect nose, chipping two of her straight, white teeth, smearing blood on her flawless skin. She never even screamed, just stared up at me with pain in her eyes, knowing she deserved every blow.
I didn’t exactly walk away unscathed. I broke two of my knuckles and needed twelve stitches from hitting Diana’s teeth, got sent back to therapy, and I doubt my parents are going to let me out of the house before I’m 21. But it’s all worth it for the way Diana cowers away from me now, the way she walks with her head down to hide the crook in her nose. When people who don’t know the whole story ask me what happened to her, I tell them she fell off her high horse onto her face. I figure that’s pretty close to the truth.
I’ve also decided I don’t mind being Adria. I’ve realized we can transcend the meaning of names. I can steal Ginger’s definition, whether it’s on my birth certificate or not. I may not have all the poise and power just yet, but when Diana shrinks away from me and averts her eyes, I know I’m gaining, I’m gaining all the time.
