My high school English teacher contacted a few former students to come for Career Day. She was trying to get people who did something associated with writing and English. She asked me to come. As a published author, I'm on the panel. The trouble is, as a successful advertising Creative Director, my brother is on it, too. My brother is endearing in a sheepish, "aw, shucks" kind of way. People seem to adore him, and everyone remembers him. "Oh, I know Charlie!"

This same English teacher loved his senior journal so much that she asked to keep it as an example to show future classes. Four years later, when I was a senior asked to keep a journal, guess whose journal was still being passed around as a benchmark of creativity and expressive genius? Yep. I was self-conscious every time I turned in my assignment. Mine, I felt, would always be compared against my brother's.

My brother and I both enrolled in the same Big-10 university, yet four years after he graduated, one of the English professors, Professor Edelen, remembered my brother.

"Miss Hopper...Hopper...are you any relation to Charlie Hopper?"

"Yes, he's my brother."

"Ah, I see. Delightful! I'm pleased to make your acquaintance!" From that point on, Professor Edelen continually singled me out during a Shakespeare class that I was struggling through. "Miss Hopper!" he would call out in the lecture hall of 200, "Miss Hopper, what do you think of this passage?" Expecting the same quick and thoughtful reply my brother could whip out even if he hadn't read the assignment, he would stand with his eyebrows raised, a half grin on his face. I'd take a deep breath and pause.

"Miss Hopper? Your thoughts?"

I had no thoughts. How do you tell the professor and 200 fellow students that you have no idea what the heck Shakespeare was saying, even though you'd read it several times and just didn't get it? Too bad Kenneth Branaugh hadn't yet produced his excellent movies, or even Mel Gibson's version of Hamlet would have helped. The worn cassette tapes with British actors overacting that were available at the university library didn't help me grasp it. I was hopelessly lost.

"I don't know," I'd mutter.

"You don't know? Or you didn't read it?"

Feeling defensive, I'd say more boldly, "No, I read it."

"Then surely you have some thought, any thought at all!"

But I didn't. And this continued all through the semester, with the professor continuing to single me out, class after class, and myself sinking lower and lower into my seat.

All because of my brother, my charming, quick-on-his-feet, amusing, endearing brother.

And now I've foolishly agreed to sit on a panel with my brother. I have a book about moms to show to a group of seniors in high school. Oh, that'll be impressive--not. My brother? Oh, he gets to bring along video of the clever commercial he recently taped that the students likely will see on TV soon. He'll get to talk about actors he's met and exotic places he's traveled to produce a spot, like Iceland.

Why did I agree to this? It's going to be torture. The only good thing is I won't be singled out. To the contrary, I'll probably simply fade into the background as my brother will rise as a star, the really neat panelist with the Steak and Shake ads, the Goodwill commercials, the jingles and print material to wow everyone.

I'm proud of him. It's just hard being compared with him, even though I have a completely different personality. Still, after 38 years, I'm the little sister.