You Get Me

        "Harvard?" asks my sister as she waves a brown envelope in the air holding application forms from the said school. I roll my eyes at her as a response and she intentionally groans so loud that my mom and my brother comes rushing to know what's going on.         "Cornell University?" she picks another envelope among a pile of Ivy League schools application forms she got for me. I shake my head. There's no way I'm heading to New York. My dad's there.         "Dartmouth?" Oh for crying out loud! I shake my head furiously.         Every day, she will pester me and force—I repeat, force not encourage—me to finalize my decision and choose a school. Apparently, the only options I got are the Ivy League schools and it's non-negotiable. Unbelievable.         Before my sister could suggest another one, our eldest brother cuts in. He pats our sister's shoulder in a comforting—and taunting—manner. "Chill out, sis. She's the one whose brains are going to get tortured in college. Let her choose."         That's the beauty of my brother. He tames all of us and to be honest, if it were him to choose a school for me, I will be hopping on a plane and expect me to enrol for myself.         "Sure. There are 8 Ivy League schools in the state. She can choose from those," my sister says and I frown.          "Leash her," I jokingly tell our brother as I stand up from the couch and decide to call it a night. Having my sister around me can be really exhausting.          "Why does it have to be an Ivy League?" I smirk to myself when our brother drops that question. Exactly, why?         "Because she is Alexine Wilde. What would people say if she ends up in a low-end university?!" she replies and I don't have any intention on hearing the rest of it. She'll just blab about the reputation I have to maintain.         She's not the one under the spotlight. She's not the one people keep on looking for when not around. She's the sister of the all of the above but she's the one who's enjoying it more. She's taking herself responsible when no one even asked her to.         I wasn't making everything up—the attitude, the kindness, the perspective in life, the fame. It's the real me but sometimes I feel like I'm living in a fiction.            They all make me feel like I'm living in some made-up life in accordance to their standards. Suddenly, I'm a myth, a legend, a fairytale.           Life's good when you are loved too much but it's really becoming exhausting on my part.