“I like this song,” I mumble.
“You like Radiohead?” he says in disbelief and disgust.
I peek at him for a split second before I drop my gaze back to the wooden floor. My cheeks warm with a blush, and I curse myself for acting like a bimbo. “I...I don’t know any of their other songs. Just this one because I can relate to it.”
He scoffs. “How could a prep like you relate to being a weirdo?”
“I’m not a prep,” I snap. I suck in a breath, my blush burning hotter, and I bump into the edge of the door when I take a step back. Any second now, he’ll get up and shove me while he insults me.
The song bleeds into a new one. Movement catches my eye, and I look at the boy again. He’s crossing the room and heading toward me with the same scowl.
Here we go.
I scramble backward, knocking into the door again and hitting my elbow in the process. I hiss at the shot of pain and tingles from hitting my funny bone. He reaches past me, slams the door shut, and pins me against it with a shove in the middle of my chest. His lip curls as he flicks the white bow in my hair.
“If you’re not a prep, then why are you dressed like this?” He flicks the bow again and looks down my body until he reaches my shoes. He rolls his eyes and meets my terrified gaze. “Is it because you’re a Goody Two-Shoes? You want to beDaddy’s little princess?”
I can barely breathe through the terror as the boy scolds me. My knees knock together, but by some miracle, I don’t fall and embarrass myself further. I don’t know what I did to deserve this type of treatment. Does it really bother him that I came into his bedroom without permission?
He bares his teeth. “Cat got your tongue? Are you stupid?”
Tears burn the backs of my eyes, and I numbly shake my head.
“Aww, poor baby is gonna cry.” He shoves away from me and stalks back to the desk. “Get out.” He glances at me with the same angry expression. “And I’ll tell you this one time because I don’t give second chances. If you come into my room again, I’ll burn all your pretty little dresses and bows. Now, get the fuck out!”
I turn the door handle behind me, spin in place, and I fling it open, racing back downstairs. Tears trail down my cheek and my chin quivers as I hold back the sobs that bubble in my chest.
Mom is still in the kitchen, and she turns as she hears my shoes slapping on the wooden floors as I come toward her. “Jesus, what, Dahlia?” she snaps.
I fling myself into her, wrapping my arms around her waist and shaking with silent cries.
Mom awkwardly pats my head and sighs. “Dahlia, you don’t need to be dramatic about this. You’ll love it here. You’ll see.”
She didn’t ask why I’m upset, and that only makes me cry harder.
I won’t love it here. Not with that jerk upstairs.
Tonight’s dinner is a nightmare. I barely touch my food, and I want to go to my bedroom for once. Mom never has time for me, and I hate that. I’ve always despised being alone, and I wanted to hang out with her to not feel so lonely.
I sit across from my brother at the large table, hating every second of it. After listening to Mom talk the last few hours, she mentioned Jaxon’s name, and that’s how I pieced it together. I also learned that my dad is my real dad and that he couldn’t be there for me until now because of someunresolved issues, whatever that means.
Our parents talk about boring stuff, leaving me out of the conversation as they eat their food. No matter how hard I try to understand what they’re going on about, I can’t follow. It has something to do with my aunt and needing to visit her.
Jaxon glares at his food and shoves the mashed potatoes and gravy around on the plate. He hasn’t said a word to me since what happened in his room, and he refuses to look at me. It’s like I’m invisible.
I shift in my seat, wanting to excuse myself to hide in my bedroom, which, unfortunately, is next to Jaxon’s. It sucks that it has to be so close to his. He made a big deal to our dad when he found out. Dad shut him down and had a look in his eye that said he wanted to hurt Jaxon for it. I don’t want Jaxon to burn everything I own, but he doesn’t deserve to be hurt. I won’t step foot in his room ever again.
But what if he finds a reason to punish me? What if I breathe wrong and it angers him? What if he already plans on ruining something of mine?
My palms tingle as anxiety creeps through my body, building up speed until it floods my veins. I glance at Jaxon. He’s still glaring at his food and looking seconds away from losing his cool. If I’m in my room, then he can’t destroy any of my things.
“Can I be excused?” I say softly to Mom.
Jaxon’s hand freezes mid-swipe, and I know he’s listening to me. Probably because he wants to race me to my bedroom, lock me out of it, and burn my things. He doesn’t raise his gaze, but he must be planning to race me upstairs.
Mom keeps talking to Dad with a smile on her face that I haven’t seen in so long. Jealousy battles the anxiety. She never smiles like that toward me. It always looks forced, like I’ve seen in those awful films with crappy actors she always watches.
“Can I go to my room?” I say a little louder, but clearly not loud enough, since Mom still chats about the time she vacationed in a different country.
