“You’re so annoying!” Pen states.
“You’re so?—”
“Guys!” I shout, but they don’t give me the time of day.
“I’m telling Mom when she gets home,” Amelia huffs.
“Go ahead, I’ll tell her how big of a liar you are!”
Right on cue, a car pulls into the driveway. Mom must have gotten a ride home from a coworker.Thank god.
I lean back and peek out the curtain, and my mouth turns dry when I see her with a guy I’m all too familiar with. He’s younger, around early twenties, if I were to guess, and they look far too close.
My heart crawls into my throat, hammering blood through my veins. My stomach twists, heat rises up my neck at the sight of her cozying up with him, and it only gets worse when another door slams.
“Pen! Stop slamming the door!” I yell.
“Stay out of this, Wren!” she screams.
“Just stop for one second, okay!?” My throat is raw; I’m not used to screaming. Frankly, I despise it.
Their voices rise, filling the house with tension. It’s always been like this—ever since I was a kid, really. The yelling, the slammed doors... It’s like every wall in this place has soaked up years of it, ready to echo it all back at me when things get quiet.
“Were you in my room!?” Pen must have hurled her door open because it rattles against the wall.
“What did I just say!?”
But I don’t get a response.
Instead, they argue over one another, caught up in a storm I can’t see the eye of.
I grab my phone and call Mom. “Please pick up,” I beg, but she doesn’t.
Looking back outside, I see her as clear as day, giggling and touching the guy’s arm. My fingers slam the button, and I call her again. It rings and rings until it goes to her voicemail. I push to my feet and stalk toward the stairs, readying myself to face those two hurricanes.
“What’s going on?” Mom asks while opening the front door.
Whirling around, I direct all my rage at the person who deserves it. “I’ve been calling you.”
“I didn’t notice?—”
“Who was that?” I point at the car driving away. “You were too busy with some guy that you didn’t pay attention to your children, which you can hear, are in desperate need of parental control.”
“Why didn’t you step in?” She drops her bag on the floor.
“I tried?—”
“You’re in charge while I’m at work and Dad is out. You should have fixed this before it even started.”
“How can I do that if?—”
“Don’t talk back!” Her face wrinkles as her mouth tightens. “I’m the parent.”
“Then act like it!” I shout, and everything goes quiet.
“You can’t talk to me like that,” she hisses. “I’ll be telling your father about this.”
“Go ahead. Do it. Let’s see who he believes”is what I want to say. Instead, I cower, and flight or fight kicks in.
