Her All Along

At five thirty in the morning, I woke up to her knocking incessantly on my patio door.

I let her in and rubbed the sleep out of my eyes on my way to the kitchen.

I needed coffee for this.

“You know that text was a declaration of war, right? Whoa, you still don’t have furniture?”

Not down here. I’d moved my bed upstairs and now even had a bed frame, along with a flat-screen and two nightstands. I’d also prepared the second room as my study, but the downstairs remained empty. I wasn’t in any rush. But at least I’d finished the renovations, except for the half bath down here. It needed a new counter and sink, and the tiles would be removed entirely. There was no shower in there; tiles were redundant.

I yawned and started the coffeemaker.

Pipsqueak stayed in the doorway and stewed. “Don’t you have anything to say for yourself?”

I squinted and tightened the drawstrings of my sweats. “I’m not fond of jam either. Nutella is nothing but sugary paste that gets stuck on the roof of your mouth. Don’t get me started on marshmallows.”

She glared. “Honestly, Avery. I…” She huffed and went straight to my fridge, and she peered inside with evident horror. There wasn’t much to look at. Other than some basic condiments in the door, I had butter, a six-pack of Coke, a rack of ribs I thought I’d eat this weekend, and a jar of pickles.

I’d have laughed at her expression if I weren’t so tired. I’d stayed up till two to work on my plans for the AP class I was teaching this fall.

Pipsqueak moved on to the freezer, which was fairly empty too. There was a bag of French fries, a packet of hot dogs, and some leftover chicken.

She found a bit more in the first cupboard next to the fridge. Peanut butter, bread, and approximately seven bags of chips, most of them opened.

I scratched my bicep absently. Which reminded me that I only had a wifebeater on, and some of the scars showed. On the other hand, Pipsqueak had seen them before. I could unclench.

I didn’t care about strangers when, for instance, I was in the sauna or I showered at the gym. Over the years, the Quinn family had somehow been included in the “safe” category. We’d gone together to the lakes that were all over the place up in the mountains, and we’d hit Silver Beach a few times too. No problem, possibly because Darius, Jake, and Ryan had their fair share of scars. But if I hooked up with someone or there was a field trip with students and any type of undressing was involved, I either kept a tee on or didn’t participate.

My scars were fucking ugly. Most of them had stretched wider as I’d grown up, leaving my back a canvas of blotchy marks, faded cuts, and a few angrier, uneven lines, like the one Darius had once mentioned. A parting gift from my aunt, who’d worked with cattle before she died. The time I’d called her for help, she’d brought a bullwhip. I’d received four lashes, and Finn had received two.

“How’s the inventory going?” I asked as a way to derail my thoughts.

“I’m trying to figure you out,” Pipsqueak muttered. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say it’s not weird that you rarely smile. There’s no sweetness in your life.”

Fuck. Go figure, she’d noticed I wasn’t a very happy person.

“But you know better?” I wondered.

“Yup.” She closed the cupboard and sighed. “Okay, I guess I found the one thing that makes me fret more than knowing I start school on Friday. This is fucked up.”

“Hey.” When the hell did she start cursing?

She ignored me completely. “Like, how do you celebrate a birthday without cake? How do you make yourself feel better after a crappy day without a cookie? These are human rules, Mister.”

The frustration and worry rolling off her tugged at a chord in me. She was genuinely at a loss.

As I poured a cup of coffee, I told her I’d explain outside.

No matter how tired I was, it seemed I woke up if Pipsqueak needed help understanding something about people.

Was this what it was like to have a sibling? It was difficult to remember what I’d had with my brother. Insignificant, everyday struggles hadn’t really existed, and we’d been separated once CPS got involved. Finn had been placed with a family in Tacoma, and I’d spent most of the following years in group homes. The only thing that’d made a couple families consider taking me in was the fact that I’d been a straight A student. I’d been religious about school, knowing from an early age that my one shot at making it was to qualify for scholarships and grants.

“Do you want anything to eat or drink, Pipsque—”