Picking up a piece of chalk out of the tray on my desk, I walk to the wall next to my bedroom door and continue drawing little frames around the pictures I’d taped up. There are four.
Me last fall in cheerleading, surrounded by girls who look exactly like me. Me last summer in my Jeep, with my friends piled in the back. Me in eighth grade celebrating 80’s Day, smiling and posing with my whole class.
In every picture, I’m up front. The leader. Looking happy.
And then there’s the picture in fourth grade. Years earlier. Sitting alone on a bench on the playground, forcing a half-smile for my mom who brought me to Movie Night at my school. All the other kids are running around, and every time I ran up and tried to join in, they acted like I wasn’t there. They always ran off without me and never waited. They wouldn’t include me in their conversations.
Tears spring to my eyes, and I reach out and touch the face in the picture. I remember that feeling like it was yesterday. Like I was at a party I wasn’t invited to.
God, how I’ve changed.
“Ryen!” I hear someone call from the hallway.
I sniffle and quickly wipe away a tear as my sister opens my door and waltzes into my room without knocking. I clear my throat, pretending to work on the wall as she peeks around the door.
“Bedtime,” she says.
“I’m eighteen,” I point out like that should explain everything.
I don’t look at her as I color in the same section I finished yesterday. I mean, really? It’s ten o’clock, and she’s only a year older. I’m more responsible than she is.
I can smell her perfume, and out of the corner of my eye, I see that her blonde hair is down. Great. That probably means she has some guy coming over and will be well-distracted when I slip out of the house in a bit.
“Mom texted,” she tells me. “Did you finish Math?”
“Yes.”
“Government?”
“I finished my outline,” I say. “I’ll work on the paper this weekend.”
“English?”
“I posted my review for Brave New World on Goodreads and sent Mom the link.”
“What book did you pick next?” she asks.
I scowl at the wall as white shavings drift to the floor. “Fahrenheit 451.”
She scoffs. “The Jungle, Brave New World, Fahrenheit 451…” she goes on, listing my latest non-school books Mom gives me extra allowance to read. “God, you have boring taste in books.”
“Mom said to choose modern classics,” I argue back. “Sinclair, Huxley, Orwell…”
“I think she meant like The Great Gatsby or something.”
I close my eyes and drop my head back, releasing a snore before popping it back up again, mocking her.
She rolls her eyes. “You’re such a brat.”
“When in Rome…”
My sister graduated last year and goes to the local college while living at home. It’s a great arrangement for our mom, who’s an event coordinator and is frequently out of town for festivals, concerts, and expos. She doesn’t want to leave me alone.
But honestly, I have no idea why she puts Carson in charge. I make better grades and stay out of trouble—as far as they’re aware—a hell of a lot better than her.
Plus, my sister only wants me in bed and out of the way so she can get it on with whatever guy is on his way over here right now.
Like I’m going to tell our mom.