Faster We Burn - By Chelsea M. Cameron Page 0,46

me in the chest. I paused for a second, and Ric put her arm around me.

“Something wrong, babe?”

I looked down at her face, and picked it apart. Her eyes were too close together, her smile was too wide, her cheekbones too sharp. She was also too tall.

She wasn’t Katie.

I shut my eyes for a second and then opened them.

“Nope.”

Katie

The ‘little chat’ with Mom turned into one of our yelling matches, as it always did. Kayla and Dad tried to stop it, but there was only so much they could do before we were both screaming at each other. Like a hurricane, they knew they just had to sit back, board up the doors and windows and wait for it to be over.

“Say it, just come out and say it. You judged him the moment he walked in. You made up some image of what he would look like in your head and when he didn’t match that you freaked out, proving you are just as judgmental as I knew you were.”

We were standing in the spotless kitchen now, having already taken the fight around the rest of the house. Dad and Kayla watched from the safety of the dining room table, ready to come in and referee if things got really bad.

“That isn’t fair, Katie. You gave me no warning. What was I supposed to think?”

I threw up my hands. “You weren’t supposed to think anything! You were supposed to wait and see what kind of guy he is.”

She smashed her hands down on the counter with a slap. “How was I supposed to do that? You didn’t tell me anything about him.”

“Would you have let him come if you knew?”

She started to protest, but it was a second too late.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought. God, Mom.” I stalked toward the living room. I couldn’t fight with her anymore. “Congratulations, you win. He’s gone and I’m going, too.” More often than not, our fights only ended when one of us stormed out.

“Katiebug, don’t leave like this,” Dad said. “Don’t leave angry.”

“I’m sorry I brought him here and ruined Thanksgiving. I’m sorry that I ruin everything. It seems to be my thing.” I ran to my room so I wouldn’t break down in front of them. I slipped on the photographs that were still all over the floor and landed hard on my side.

“Shit!” I rolled over on my back, massaging my hip.

“You’re being a brat, you know,” Kayla said, pushing my door open.

“Yes, I am, but that’s what I do. I’m the screw-up little sister.” Kayla crouched down next to me where I still lay on the floor. I turned onto my back and glanced at her, wiping tears away.

“That’s not true and you know it. Mom and Dad worship the ground you walk on. I used to hate you,” she said, lying on her back next to me.

What in the what was she talking about? “Are you serious? You’re their golden child.”

Kayla laughed as if that were genuinely funny.

“It’s all about perspective.”

“Whatever,” I said. She was nuts.

Kayla picked up one of the pictures and it happened to be of Zack and me at a party. He had his arm around me, a bottle of beer just out of view. He was looking at the camera and I was looking at him.

“I never understood what you saw in this douchebag.” She studied the picture for another moment, then ripped it in half. Before I could say anything, she picked up another picture of Zack and me and ripped that too.

“Here,” she said, handing me another one, where Zack was giving me a sloppy kiss and not even trying to hide his beer bottle anymore.

I stared at my giggling face for a second and then tore it apart and threw it back on my floor. Kayla found another one, and then another, and another. We got up and played a twisted version of ‘Where’s Waldo’, trying to find any picture that had Zack in it. There were quite a few.

When we’d ripped up all of those, I started on the other pictures. Kayla sat back and let me go at those ones. She pulled the trash can over and we piled the torn pictures of my former self up and then dumped them in.

When the floor was bare and the trash can was full, I stopped and sat back, bracing myself against the wall.

“Thought you were leaving,” Kayla said.

“I was. I am. I just wish he would call me. Trish said

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