My name is Ahmeti, I am 13 years old.
Lots of things have changed in my life so I often feel insecure.
A few years ago, my family fled from Kosovo. I still remember running through the woods to escape from the soldiers.
I love learning new things and I pick things up quickly at school but I’m still catching up with the others in my class.
Fighting with my Sister
It is official, my sister and I are at war. She has taken all the furniture from her side of the bedroom and built a barricade of bed side tables, a desk and the bright pink suitcase she was given for Christmas, between her side of the room and mine.
It is all, of course, perfectly lined up. On her side of the room, everything is perfectly tidy and straight. Her nail varnishes are lined up like a regiment of soldiers, bright pink and red and sparkling new on the window sill. Her clothes are ironed and perfectly flat and straight, hanging in the wardrobe, in order for every day of the week ahead.
My sister Luleta is not only very bossy, but is also a neat freak. Now I may not be the tidiest person on the planet, but I am fairly good at cleaning up. I hoover my room and dust and clean up my stuff every Saturday, but my sister is impossible. If I leave just one tiny piece of clothing out on my bed, I am in trouble, if one lonely shoe strays from the cupboard, or peeps out from under my bed, Luleta declares full scale warfare! Her favourite insult is to call me the messiest girl in the world.
"You live in a pig sty!" she screamed during our last battle, which was simply not fair, and just not true.
"And you are a petty, bossy, tyrant" I said, at which Luleta turned on her heel, picked up a crayon and drew a bright red line on the carpet down the middle of the room.
"You must NEVER cross this line!" she ordered, waving the crayon at me. Strangely enough I didn't care that much about the boundary - she had her space and I had mine - until she started throwing paper planes at me with really mean messages on them. I kept them all under my bed, gathering the evidence to use against her when I told my mum and dad.
When Luleta is bad, my mum stops her pocket money for at least a week, and the evidence I had was piling up higher and higher. "Imagine how many dresses she won't be able to buy with that" I thought to myself.
Things got worse that night when Luleta stuck up posters stating "Keep out, you have been warned! Trespass and you will be sorry!" all over my side of the division line. By this time we had not spoken for over a week, and as I ripped up the papers and threw them onto her side of the room she stared at me in fury. "I hate you" she screamed as she ran out of the room. If things had been bad before, they had just got a lot worse.
As we went to sleep that night, the room had never been more silent. There was a terrible storm blowing outside, and the rain was thundering against the house and the wooden frames were banging in the wind. When she was younger Luleta used to get really frightened by storms. She would howl and cry, and the only way my mum could calm her down was to tickle her feet, so that she would laugh and forget about being afraid. As we got older I would curl up in together with Luleta, and tickle the bottom of her feet with my feet, but all of this had stopped some years ago and was definitely not going to happen tonight, in the middle of our bedroom war!
I turned on my side, facing the wall as the wind continued to howl. It took me some time to realise that the soft, sighing noise from the other side of the room was not the wind, but my sister crying. I turned over and tried to sleep, but Lula started to make strange sobbing noises and I realised that she was really upset.
"Luleta" I said "Are you alright? It's only the wind you know. Everything will be just fine." After a period of silence there was one big sob.
"Luleta" I said "let's swap beds. I'll sleep next to the window, I don't mind the wind and the rain." I heard three deep breaths followed by several massive sobs. "It's not the wind" she said eventually .
"Well," I began, "I didn't mean to fight with you about the room. We can divide it up properly in the morning."
"It's not the room either" she sobbed, "it's...it's....it's...." she was gulping down the tears now "its Mark" she said (Mark is the boy she fancies). "He's going out with..." she swallowed "Nina." "Now you and me are fighting, the wind is blowing and keeping me awake, mum is shouting at me for fighting with you, and I am....I am...." she let out a massive sigh "really fed up!"
"Its ok, Sis" I said, "It's OK. We don't need to fight." And with that I walked over to her bed, slipped my hand under the duvet and started tickling her..
" Stop!" she giggled, but I didn't stop. "Ah...that...tickles" she said trying to force out each giggle- stifled word out of her mouth. "I am so..." she giggled, "sorry" she said. With that she reached over, gave me a big hug and started to tickle ME!