When my friends and I talk about our siblings, Sara mentions, "You’re lucky you’re the third child. You get spoiled — you must be the favorite." She’s wrong. Getting compared to my brother and sister occurs as often as sunrise. Whether it’s my grades, basketball skills, or personality.
At school, teachers call me Andie. I relentlessly inform them my name is Abby — each time they smile and apologize, only to call me Andie once again the next day. Our family friend, Kathy says, “ You girls could be identical twins.” But we’re not even close to being twins. Andie has three years on me, with brown hair and green eyes. I’m a 17-year-old blue-eyed blonde.
At basketball practice, coach harps on me. “Your dribbling isn't as good as your sister's.” I'm no point guard, but give me the ball in the corner and I’ll shoot 8/10 shots. My coach screams, “Z. Use your sister’s speed.” I’m no division one runner, but can post her up with ease. Coach shouts, “Zeman, where’s that aggressiveness Andie had?” My job is to make plays, not to be an instigator.

At home, my parents never let me forget that I don’t hold the same perfect 4.0 that my brother did. But I’m proud of my 3.4. My teachers expect me to exhibit the fearless and outgoing personality of Tyler. So maybe streaking, toilet papering the old middle school or gatoring my way to the title of “head gator” isn’t my thing, but I haven’t been kicked out of high school. That matters, right?

Teachers, friends and my parents don’t realize we are different people. Our shared blonde hair, blue eyes and pale skin inhabit two separate people with contrasting thoughts and actions.

My name is Abby — not Andie, nor Tyler — just Abby. Running is a hobby, but basketball is a passion. Academics are not my strong suit, but my 3.4 GPA is well above average. I'm a 5'10 multi-sport athlete, with blonde hair, blue eyes and a bubbly personality.