When I entered the theatre yesterday morning, I was feeling less than superb, and was greeted by eight ratty-haired orphans. “SARAH!” could be heard through the hall, and they practically knocked me over. This is never a good sign.

“Tell us about Jenni,” they said.

“What about her?” I asked.

“We didn’t know you two were sisters,” one piped up. “Tell us stories about when you guys would fight.”

“You mean like last night?” I asked. They looked confused. I shrugged. “Okay, here: when we were little, we used to play Rainbow Brite. I was always Starlite. The horse. And she would ride me.”

This seemed to content them. For awhile.

Word had circulated that The Brown Sisters were the most awesome sisters to have in a dressing room because they peck at eachother like adolescent dodo birds until curtain. Our producer thought it would be fun to seat us together, because, WOW, sisters!, while we knew the truth: we might be adults, but we will nit at eachother as if we were both starting our period for the first time.

I had a bug this week. I came into tech night, with food to eat, and made the comment that the dressing room smelled of Lysol. All the girls eyed me suspiciously, as if I was fixing to walk through a door booby-trapped to dump a bucket of water on my head. I made my way to my station, where pools of wet sat around my mirror. “It’s really strong over here,” I commented. “I can taste Lysol here.”

Jenni turned to me, matter-of-factly, and said, “Yes, I sprayed your station.”

“JENNI,” I said, exasperated. “I’M NOT THAT SICK.”

“Yes, you are,” she said, turning back to her mirror. “And you’re not going to get me sick. I also sprayed your blankets and your clothes.”

Later that night, I was asked to handle one of her quick changes.

“When do I need to be there for that quick change?”

“Sarah, I wrote it down for you.”

“Yes, but you wrote down ONE LINE. I’m not going to listen for one line in the entire show.”

“Well, maybe if you came to rehearsals occasionally, you would know where that one line is.”

“Well, maybe if you were more memorable in your performance, I would remember where that one line is.”

“SARAH, IT’S WRITTEN FUCKING DOWN. READ THE PAPER.”

“Okay, tunnel four. I’ll be there. Tunnel four.”

“Good.”

“You know you don’t exit out of tunnel four, right? That’s tunnel one that you exit out of.”

“Shit. Then it’s tunnel one.”

“OH NO. YOU WROTE FUCKING DOWN TUNNEL FOUR.”

At least three times a show, you can hear me asking, “Is it time for your change now?” and her screaming, “JESUS, SARAH, I WROTE IT DOWN FOR YOU”.

But the truth is this: we peck, but it’s all in love. My sister absolutely shines onstage in our production of Annie, and she makes it look effortless. She may spray me with Lysol, but she also brings me organic honey for my tea. And I may tease her about her quick change, but I would never let her down.

Jenni, you rocked the stage this weekend. Can’t wait to see you next weekend.