“Text me,” he said as I dashed out.
For the first time in a long time, I didn’t feel lost... that both scared and excited me.
COCKS FOR CHARITY
Evie: How do I make them stop bringing pies?
Jon: You don’t.
Evie: I’m going to die.
Jon: You don’t HAVE to eat them.
Evie: Shut your foul mouth.
Evie: It’s banana cream pie.
Evie: It was banana cream pie.
Jon: Save me some.
Evie: Should have said that ten minutes ago.
Two hours passed as I watched Amanda work on her comic. She sat at her drafting table, face inches from the paper as she inked. In all the years I had known her, it was the only time she kept quiet. Drawing? She’d talk my ear off. Coloring? She’d complain about her wristhurting, but inking, something about it always required the utmost focus.
“You’re staring.”
I had been for the last ten minutes. Hidden in the loft over Jason’s comic book shop, we had declared it a workday. I should have been working on a pirate romance book cover, but doodling Amanda was more fun.
“Are you going to beat me up?”
She sat upright, arching her back until vertebrae cracked. The sound made my bones hurt. Dropping her brush in a cup of water, she turned toward me. Her black t-shirt hid the ink stains. However, the dark marks lined her arms like leopard spots.
I had taken up a perch on the loveseat that lived in the loft. It was quite possibly the most uncomfortable piece of furniture ever made, but it gave me a good view of her while I drew.
“Mr. Ar-teest,” she said. “Why aren’t you helping me?”
“You can’t afford me.”
“Admit it, you’re cheap.”
“Only my body.”
“So I’ve heard.”
We glared at one another. Amanda and I had the relationship I expected from siblings. We’d have terrorized parents and most likely spent most of our childhood grounded. I couldn't imagine our relationship with myactualsister. Maybe it wouldn’t be assharp, but hopefully, we reached a spot where the banter remained playful.
“What are you working on?”
Her head flopped back as she sighed. “So I have a comic being turned into a movie. Yay. It’s awesome.” The tone of her voice said otherwise. “I think I’m putting too much pressure on myself. What if this one sucks? What if nobody likes it? What if?—”
“When did you start caring what people think?”
“Inside this gorgeous body is a fragile ego.”
She glanced at me before we both cracked up laughing. Amanda cared about a lot of things. The opinions of others never made the list. I think that’s how somebody like her survived in a town like this. They learned to live with her, and she brushed off their comments. I always admired how she marched to the beat of her own slightly off-tempo drum.
“I think it was easier when I was poor and nobody knew my name.”
