Sister act

My sister, Brittany, has to buy her size-14 prom shoes at drag queen Web sites. She's a teenage colossus. Standing at 6 feet 1 inch, she has legs like Tina Turner, can bench more than the pretty boys on Jordan Avenue and could kick the hell out of any sore sucker who thought he could steal her purse. Seven years ago Brittany gave tomboy a new meaning. She had a wavy mullet, a silver front tooth and exclusively wore XL Nike shirts and basketball shorts. When we were growing up, we were the fiercest of rivals -- bashing and smashing each other whenever possible -- but in recent years we have developed an ineradicable friendship. Sometimes you need look no further than home to find your best friend or a hero. \nWhen we were kids we would surf on a giant pillow called "Sumo" and act out melodramatic death scenes in our pool that would make Jennifer Love Hewitt's performances look Shakespearean. Honestly, if you want a mental picture of my sister's attitude toward life, watch Kathy Bates as Evelyn Couch in "Fried Green Tomatoes." Brittany bellows "Towanda" every chance she gets! Even now, you can see how different we are when you enter our kitchen. While I am reading novels or throwing things at the television when George W. Bush is on, Brittany will come downstairs wearing nothing but a volleyball shirt and a thong, and belch thunderously after slamming two Pepsis.\nLike I said before, when she was a girl, Brittany had a mullet -- they thought her hair wasn't growing correctly. Mom bought Brittany hair growth formula. She secretly put it into a bottle next to the sink and it turns out, Brittany's hair grew normally. My Mom simply was getting Brittany's hair cut too short and not giving it time to grow back. I never knew which bottle the hair growth formula was in, so while my sister had too little hair, my hair looked like a chicken's butt in a windstorm. But I also remember driving around my hometown before going to college; my sister and I cruised the solemn streets of Michigan City, Ind., chatting and laughing about life and how my brother's head resembled a potato. But after the giggles faded we found ourselves teary. What would I do without Brittany? Who would laugh with me at the lunch lady's cankles or at the dandruff piling up on the Dairy Queen night-manager's shoulders? Who would steal my razor and shave their Amazonian knees or give the finger to the BMW-driving Chicago people who cut me off? Living without a cohort isn't easy, especially when she looks up to you. My sister always calls me her "hero" in the poems she writes, but as far as I can recall, it was always she who was heroic. \nMy brother is 10 years older than me, has an National Rifle Association sticker on his car, a buzzcut, works in a prison and used to break wind on my head for laughs. In case it's not clear, we aren't close. Brittany would tackle him when he punched me or scream when he gave me wet willies. She would tell Mom and Dad if I was depressed or make me ice cream with chocolate syrup after a vicious fight. She would curl up next to me when our parents slung insults at one another or buy me Chinese food when I ran out of money.\nThere are war heroes on the battlefield and manufactured heroes in the race for the presidency, and while I've read the histories of brave men and women, there's only one real hero I know: she is 18 years old, fake bakes twice a week and drives a '92 Oldsmobile with beads dangling from the mirror. The real heroes are often times those who sit across from you at the kitchen table.