Dreams of 18

“Well, I can see that he has a certain kind of appeal.” Fiona drums her fingers on her chin. “He’s tall. Rugged. Rough around the edges. Very masculine and tough-looking. I’d totally let him mow my lawn.”

I grimace. “Okay. Now who’s gross?”

“What? I’m just saying. He looks like a good worker. Like he can mow a lawn or carry furniture or whatever. They should probably tip him big. He totally saved the coffee table.”

Fiona has her nose up in the air. Her shoulders are thrown back and her spine is straight. Condescension and superiority over mere mortals such as me. My mom has taught her well.

“I’m sure he’ll be thrilled to hear that,” I say sarcastically, strangely angry on his behalf.

Just because he’s a moving guy doesn’t mean he deserves to be belittled. And just because he isn’t the one who’s moving in next door is no reason to be disappointed.

The latter is for me. Because I am disappointed.

More than I should be.

“Aww. Are you jealous?” She giggles.

I hate when my sister giggles. It’s usually followed by a cutting remark.

“Why? Because you deem him worthy enough to mow your lawn?”

She outright laughs. “Oh, come on. I’m agreeing with you. He’s hot. But you’re right to be jealous.” She continues in a sing-songy voice, “Because you know that if I want him, I can have him.”

I can’t even say that she’s wrong because she’s not.

She’s right. Very, very right.

If she wants him or Brian Edwards or any guy, for that matter, she’ll have him. As evidenced by the trail of broken hearts she leaves behind. One of them belonged to our history teacher.

With her shiny blonde hair and blue eyes, Fiona is a complete copy of my mom and a phenomenon. Not only in our school but also on the internet.

My sister, Fiona Elizabeth Moore, is an Instagram celebrity. As in, she has about 50K followers, who moon over her beauty and make-up videos.

Sometimes I can’t believe we’re sisters, or half-sisters.

While Fiona thrives on attention, here I am, totally okay being invisible.

I always sit in the back of a class. I hardly ever talk to anyone or even if I do, the conversation lasts about two minutes. I always have my head down and my face covered by my hair to stay away from people’s eyes.

Honestly though, it’s not as if they’re giving me any attention anyway, what with my colorless cheeks, great, big brown eyes and super full and weird stung-by-a-bee lips.

But it’s fine. I have made my peace with it.

I mean, someone has to be lacking so people can appreciate beauty, right?

“Well, if you wanna get him, now is your chance,” I say at last. “They’re almost done moving in the furniture.”

I get up and move away from the window. Suddenly, my lollipop has lost its taste and all thoughts of me sneaking into the kitchen to get strawberries seem stupid.

Suddenly, my birthday spirit has died.

Fiona gets up, too. “It’s okay. I’ll let you have him. You’re the weird one in this family who’s going to make all the wrong choices and send our parents to their early grave.” She’s almost to the door when she stops to face me. “Which reminds me. Don’t mess this up for me.”

I lie down on the bed, ready to put the music back on. “Mess what up for you?”

“The Brian thing,” she explains. “He’s in your grade. Which means you guys will be sharing classes. I don’t want you to… weird him out, all right? I mean, we’re neighbors now so there’s no hiding that we’re sisters but just stay away from him.”

I put my headphones back on and salute her with two fingers. “Gotcha. No weirding out the new neighbor and ruining my sister’s wedding plans.”

She throws me another sharp look before sweeping her gaze around the room. “And clean your freaking room.”

Then she leaves with a flourish, banging my door shut, and I throw a pillow at it. It slides down to the floor with a sad thud.

“Oh, by the way, Violet! Happy birthday! You’re only sixteen once so enjoy it,” I mutter to myself in Fiona’s high voice.

God, I’m pathetic.

I’m so pathetic that as soon as my sister is out of my room, I rip my headphones off and dash back to the window to get a final look at him.

Why? I don’t know. But I have to see him one last time before he disappears forever.

But apparently, he’s already gone.

He’s not there anymore. The front yard’s almost cleared out and one of the moving vans is pulling off the curb.

I imagine him in it, his strong hands on the wheel and his long thighs sprawled on the leather seat. I imagine him driving with his window down and his elbow resting on the windowsill, all relaxed and loose, soaking in the summer breeze.