Challenge Accepted!: 253 Steps to Becoming an Anti-It Girl. Celeste Barber

soon turned to sweat as I danced my heart out, completely forgetting about what had just happened, to the point of thinking I had made it up and it hadn’t really happened at all.

      My Jupiters Casino costume with alternating black and silver sequins. To be paired with a red feather boa of course.

      Siblings by blood. Best friends because we are paid to be.

      @khloekardashian

      @kyliejenner

      with Olivia Barber-Hays

The One About My Fake Brother, Michael

      IN THE FIRST HOUSE WE LIVED IN, Dad built Liv and me a Costume Room off the back of the garage to keep all the dancing costumes my mum had sewn for our not-so-lucrative yet overenthusiastic careers as entertainers. It was awesome.

      For my sister and me, the Costume Room was a magical place. It was where our two worlds collided.

      Growing up, Olivia and I were completely different. She was cool and independent and ate 37 apples a day. And even though she was clumsier than a newborn trying to ride a unicycle, she was fearless.

      Walking home from school one day, she said, ‘If I ran fast enough I could totally jump over that four-foot barbed-wire fence,’ and with that she ran full-force into said fence, which resulted in a busted knee, a trip to the hospital and 12 stitches.

      At 36, she recently tested out her agility by trying to ride a skateboard – an obvious choice for a fully grown adult who trips over uneven grass.

      ‘Can I borrow your deck and have a roll?’ she asked Api one summer’s day.

      ‘Sure, mate.’ He is her biggest fan.

      She jumped on that board like she was a seasoned pro. As the skateboard took off down the hill with Olivia atop it, laughing her head off, my darling Api was running alongside her, experiencing fear that only Olivia should have been feeling.

      When it was starting to get a bit crazy he said, ‘All right, Livvo,’ (that’s what he calls her) ‘when you’re ready just jump off, keeping your weight even.’

      ‘Sweet!’ she screamed with excitement.

      Of course, being a Barber she did the exact opposite. She took more of a one-footed flying leap off the skateboard, and as she was mid-air, under his breath Api said, ‘Oh, fuck! Not like that.’

      She hit the ground like a sack of shit.

      Mum, Dad and I didn’t flinch, as this was a common occurrence.

      But Api was worried, and strangers who saw and felt the thud were concerned too. People ran over to see if she was OK, and a lovely homeless man who was sitting nearby offered her his walking stick.

      I’m pretty sure Olivia laughed so hard she farted.

      I’m a lot more precious than my sister. I wouldn’t be caught dead on a skateboard; I’m flat out trying to swing myself on a swing set without freaking out. I’m scared of everything. I check the bath for sharks and even mentioning the word ‘snake’ has me lifting my feet off the ground and placing them higher than my head.

      This is a red rag to a bull for my sister: pissing me off was her job description as a teenager, and she was bloody good at her job. She’s the funniest person I know; she can laugh at herself like no one I’ve ever met.

      Whenever Olivia and I see each other she still wants to wrestle me. Partly because she knows she can beat 50 shades of piss out of me, but mainly because she knows I’m going to scream her name, ‘OOOLLLIIIVVVIIIAAA,’ like Oprah does when she introduces a celebrity, while I throw my arms around like a helicopter to keep her away from me.

      We went to different schools most of our lives.

      Olivia went to the local public school, and was cool and awkward and fitted right in. I was more challenging and needed a smaller school with more attention. So I was off to the local private Catholic school that had only been open for a year.

      Not surprisingly, we weren’t the best of friends growing up, as I didn’t understand the Keanu obsession (I was more of a Jonathan Taylor Thomas kind of gal) and there were only so many times she could tolerate me screaming at her through tears: ‘You just don’t get it, Olivia! The Spice Girls ARE better than The Beatles!’ But I loved her the regular little sister amount.

      Over the years we have become really close, super-close. We talk to each other at least five times a day, have been known to have Skype dinners with each other and our families (we live in different states) and have entire conversations only using dialogue from Bad Boys.

      Even though we didn’t have much in common as kids, we would hang out in the Costume Room Dad built us and talk about everything from which Corey she would marry, Feldman or Haim, to how plausible it was for me to wear the wedding dress from the ‘November Rain’ film clip to my own wedding, ‘because I really want to play to my strengths and show off my legs’. I was eight.

      I remember a specific day in the Costume Room that changed my life forever. Olivia was using a blunt pencil to carve the lyrics of ‘Riders on the Storm’ into the chipboard floor, and I was wrapping myself up in tulle, humming along to ‘Anything You Can Do’, when she dropped a bomb.

      Olivia: Hey, I need to tell you something.

      Me: OK, want to make up a dance first?

      Olivia: No, this is important.

      Taking the sequinned bowler hat off my head, I was all ears.

      Me: What’s wrong?

      Olivia: If I tell you this you have to promise not to tell Mum or Dad that I told you.

      WARNING: If an older sibling says they have information they want you to know but you can’t let your parents know you know, run for the fucking hills with your fingers in your ears screaming: ‘NOT LISTENING, BITCH!!!!’

      Me: OK.

      Olivia: You have to pinky-promise not to tell ANYONE.

      Me: Fine.

      Olivia: And if you keep the promise I’ll let you sleep in my room for a whole week.

      This was just getting better and better: a pinky promise, street cred from my big sister AND permission to sleep in her room for a whole week. Let’s do this!

      We pinky-promised and I braced myself for the biggest moment of my life.

      Olivia: Ready?

      Me: You betcha!

      Olivia: OK. We have a brother.

      I froze. I slowly put the tulle wrap back on the rack, next to the sequinned bowler hat, and walked over to her without blinking.

      Me: UM, WHAT?!

      Olivia: Yep, we totally have a brother. His name is Michael.

      Me: Where is he? Is he upstairs?

      Olivia: He’s dead. He died of a terrible disease.

      Me: Oh, my God! What?

      Olivia: He died of leukaemia.