"You are so double-faced," I told her. "I hate you."

"It's two-faced, dummy, and I am not!" she said.

"Oh, really, what about the time with the Feinstein sisters," I reminded her.

A year earlier when I was in kindergarten and she was in the fifth grade, we would walk to school together in the morning. One day, two other sisters were on their way to school with their five-foot-tall Irish wolfhound following closely behind. They were telling their dog to go back home but the dog wouldn't listen. Sloane was scared because the dog was so big and kept growling at us. The girls were laughing at my sister for being scared of their dog, but in reality, this dog was scary. He was huge and mean and looked like he belonged in a wild animal park. He had a large open wound on his hind leg and looked as if he was slowly decomposing.

"Stop laughing at my sister, you dumb girls," I yelled. "Your dog is ugly and belongs in a shelter."

"Shut up," Sloane said through her teeth. "Shut up."

"Oh, look, Sloane needs her six-year-old sister to defend her," one of the girls sneered.

"No, she doesn't," I yelled, then turned to Sloane for some backup-only to see her running furiously in the direction of the school.

Years later I learned the word "turncoat" in history class. Had I had this kind of ammunition against her earlier, things might have ended up differently.

"I dropped the camera in Mom's room," I told her.

"Oh, that's just great." She stood up with her hands on her hips. "I have pictures on there of Marsha's sleepover party. We all took our pajamas off and took pictures while playing Truth or Dare."

"Why?" I asked.

"Because. We felt like it."

"I'm telling," I told her.

"Who cares?" she said. "It was only girls."

"Lesbian!" I yelled.