Dear Love, I Hate You (Easton High)

In a moment of panic, I unplug my sister’s phone from her portable speaker and let out the loudest “What the fuck?” I can muster. The two culprits jump, backing away from each other as fast as humanly possible. Ashley’s jaw plummets to the ground as she pats the bed for her shirt.

“Vee! W-What are you doing home so early?” She crushes her T-shirt against her chest.

“Early? It’s past six.”

“It is?” Ashley pounces off her bed, throwing her T-shirt back on like the time on the clock is a much bigger deal than her getting caught in bed with him.

“You left me stranded at the academy for two hours!”

“Shit, shit, shit.” She begins roaming around her room like a maniac. “I…. Please don’t tell Mom. I’m so sorry, Vee. I was going to meet you at my school so you could pick me up, but then… I guess we lost track of time and—”

“Wait a second,” I cut in, “What do you mean you were going to meet me at the school so I could pick you up? As in you weren’t there to begin with?”

The face she makes next says it all. That wasn’t supposed to come out, was it?

She winces, “Okay, don’t be mad, but… I might’ve sort of made up the Sunday rehearsals.”

“Excuse me?”

She covers her face with her French manicured hands. “I know, I’m sorry. Please don’t hate me. I just wanted to have some free time. Mom is driving me insane.”

“So, you’re telling me I’ve been going out of my way to pick you up from a place you didn’t even have to go to every Sunday for three months?”

As if it weren’t bad enough that I have to pick her up from her singing lessons at her fancy-pants music academy every day of the week.

“You know damn well if I hadn’t come up with the rehearsals, Mom would have scheduled me like five lessons on Sundays, on top of Saturdays, and I barely have time to breathe as is. I’m sorry you have to play chauffeur. I told Mom I’d grab the bus so she wouldn’t make you pick me up, but she insisted you had nothing better to d—”

“Ash.” I exhale. “It’s fine. I get it.”

As much as I want to be mad at her, I can’t.

Can’t blame her for wanting to live a little.

Can’t blame her for being so ridiculously talented she won Rising Voices, a huge televised singing competition, when she was six years old. And I especially can’t blame her for paying a good part of our bills with said competition’s winning prize and her YouTube channel ever since.

Eleven-year-old Aveena used to yearn for this shit. There was a time where I would’ve killed to be my mom’s shining star. To be th

e center of her universe, to take Ashley’s place.

Not anymore.

Now I understand how lucky I was to be born ordinary.

My mother became my sister’s “momager” from the moment she realized Ashley could carry a tune. Ash couldn’t have been older than four the first time Mom looked at her with dollar signs in her eyes. And if there’s one thing I’ve learned, watching Ashley exhaust herself trying to build a career since kindergarten, it’s that being special comes at a price very few are brave enough to pay.

“Are you going to tell Mom?” Ashley stresses her bottom lip.

I pretend to think about it, when, in fact, my answer is already set in stone.

“No,” I say, and her shoulders drop with relief.

“Thanks, Vee. You’re the best.”

“But you’re getting your ass home by cab from now on. I don’t care where you go during the day, as long as we’re both home at the same time, Mom doesn’t have to know.”

Without a word, she traps me into a hug, which I return halfheartedly. I want to hate her. I did for a long time, but it didn’t last. Because no matter how talented she is, no matter how many hits her original songs get on YouTube, my little sister is a genuinely nice person.

I might not agree with my mom on many things, but she was right to insist Ashley graduate high school in Silver Springs before moving to LA and giving this superstar thing a shot. It kept her grounded…