I would have given the book to Margot myself, and a lot sooner, if Father and Mother hadn't intervened
and rushed to take Margot's part, as if she were suffering some great injustice.
Of course, Mother took Margot's side; they always take each other's sides.
I'm so used to it that I've become completely indifferent to Mother's rebukes and Margot's moodiness.
I love them, but only because they're Mother and Margot. I don't give a darn about them as people.
As far as I'm concerned, they can go jump in a lake. It's different with Father.
When I see him being partial to Margot, approving Margot's every action, praising her, hugging her,
I feel a gnawing ache inside, because I'm crazy about him.
I model myself after Father, and there's no one in the world I love more.
He doesn't realize that he treats Margot differently than he does me: Margot just happens to be the smartest, the kindest, the prettiest and the best.
But I have a right to be taken seriously too. I've always been the clown and mischief maker of the family;
I've always had to pay double for my sins: once with scoldings and then again with my own sense of despair.
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