A quick peek through the crack in the wardrobe door shows my brothers putting their payback on ice as they leave the room. When I’m sure they’re gone, I break free, gasping for fresh air. I spend the time before dinner hiding out in my room. When Mitch calls out for me to come down and eat, I flounce to the table in my brand-new dress. It’s blood red—my favourite colour—with a stretchy bodice and tulle skirt. Tulle for god’s sake. I bloody love it. The skirt is a bit short, but I can’t help the fact Mum got the sizing mixed up. Nothing is stopping me from wearing this dress, not even a mundane Thursday night dinner at home.
Mitch glares at it when I pull out the chair next to Travis. “You can’t wear that dress. Ever.”
“Wrong, Stitch. I already am,” I reply as I take a seat, using my nickname for him. Not only is it brilliant because it rhymes with Mitch, but it’s named after Stitch, the extra-terrestrial genetic experiment—or abomination—out of Lilo and Stitch. Considering he’s hideously handsome, the nickname helps bring his ego back down into the real world.
Travis glares at my dress too. Ever the diplomat, he at least likes to provide a reason before giving an order. “It’s too short.”
“No it’s not.” I pick up my knife and fork. “You can’t see my vagina.”
The subject of my girl parts never fail to make them back off. They don’t like the reminder that I have one or that they have to defend it against future intruders. In any event, I utilize the topic sparingly. I can’t have them becoming immune to its properties.
Jared, however, already appears immune. He, too, aims a glare at my dress. “Change.”
My eyes drop to my plate. I rally for a moment and muster a tear. It spills out, plopping onto the overcooked pile of spaghetti. After taking a deep, shaky breath, I look up from beneath lowered lashes, my gaze encompassing my brothers.
“It was fr-fr-from Granny Mary,” I stammer. Recently deceased, Granny Mary was Dad’s mum’s Aunt and a national treasure. Always a warm cookie to share and dollar bills slipped kindly into our moneyboxes. I bought my very first pair of ankle boots with that money.
Travis caves first, his eyes softening into green pools of regret. “Sorry, Mac.” He takes my hand from where it rests on the table, clutching a fork. He gives it a quick squeeze before letting go. “You can wear it.”
I blink away tears. “Thanks, Trav.”
“Wait a minute.” Jared’s eyes narrow to slits. He half stands from his chair, eyes taking in my dress like a crime scene investigator. “That dress isn’t from Granny Mary. Mum picked it up on sale at the markets last Sunday!”
Mitch’s indrawn breath is so sharp he starts to choke on it.
Jared points at me. “Liar!” he cries.
An all-out war commences, going too far when Jared tosses his plate of food at my dress and shouts, “Well, let’s just see you try wearing it now!”
“You ruined my dress!” I screech, glancing down at the spaghetti oozing into my beloved tulle. I look back up, murder in my eyes and knife in my hand. “Prepare to die!”
Mum interrupts my blood-curdling war cry. “What on earth is going on here?”
We all turn in unison toward the dining room entryway. Our mother is dressed in her caseworker outfit; blue and soothing, the material is soft but hardy enough to bear all manner of tears and tantrums. Her no-nonsense blonde bob hangs in a pretty sweep to her shoulders and her mouth is wide open. Such is my rage, I don’t notice the boy standing by her side.
She looks to Mitch first because he’s the eldest and therefore responsible for the situation. “Mitch?”
“It was Mac.” His chin juts out, angered over my Granny Mary lie. Out of all of us, he’d been the closest to our dearly departed relative. Not to mention he hates when I lie. Mitch has high expectations when it comes to me. I don’t know why. Maybe because I’m the only girl? He’s the most protective of all my brothers. He’s always the first one to bitch me out, but he’s also the first to wade in if I’ve been done an injustice. Any hint of perceived bullying toward me will put you on his shit list for life. My eldest brother nurses a grudge like one would nurse a baby. “She started it with that stupid dress,” he adds with a narrow-eyed glare in my direction.
Stupid dress? Stupid dress? “I hate you,” I hiss at him, low enough for Mum not to hear. I’m over being told by my entire family what I can and can’t do. “I hate all of you.”
I straighten my shoulders and stand from the table. Storming from the room, I brush past the boy by my mother’s side, not noticing the smear of spaghetti sauce I leave down the left side of his shirt in my haste.
Real tears burn my eyes as I stomp up the stairs to my room, my stomach growling. I had spent my time at the dinner table defending my dress rather than getting to eat a single bite.
I peel the so-called offensive outfit over my head. It sends sauce oozing over my face and into my hair. I drop it to the floor and move to my dresser. Clad in just a pair of panties and wrapping a towel around my torso, I’m intent on my next plan of attack when a tap comes at my bedroom door.
“Your mum said you’d help me find a clean shirt?”
A squeak escapes me at the unfamiliar male voice, and I spin around, my hands grasping at the towel to secure it tightly. It’s the boy. He’s plucking the damp, soiled shirt away from his side. He appears no older than twelve, and he’s tanned like he spends most of his time outdoors. His hair is a light golden brown. It hangs in his eyes, leaving me unsure of their colour.
“Who are you?” I ask, my tone snappish because his concept of privacy is a complete joke.
“Jake,” he replies and steps inside my room as if my question is an invitation. “Jake Romero.”
“Get out of my room, Jake Romero.”
His brows soar at my rudeness. It can’t be helped. I’m hungry. “My brother’s room is across the hall. He’ll have a shirt in there to fit you,” I force myself to say in a more polite tone.
“Right.” With a roll of his eyes, Jake leaves and I think of him no longer.
Instead, I go and have a quick shower. Once I’m freshly washed and smelling of soap, I prepare to face off with my mother. She’s in the kitchen, sighing heavily as she scrubs at the bottom of a burnt pan.
“How did you go, sweetheart? Did you find a clean shirt …” Her voice trails off as she turns. “Oh. It’s you.”
“Who’s Jake Romero?”
“He’s—”
“None of your business, that’s who.”
I turn, taking in Boy Wonder himself. He’s now outfitted in a clean tee shirt. “Touchy, Romero. Shall I tell my mother how you were in my room while I was getting changed?”
“Jesus Christ,” he mutters under his breath. “You’re a real piece of work, aren’t you?”
Mum lets out another sigh, this one heavier than the last, and I know she heard him. The last time she sighed this hard was when Granny Mary died. “Jake, honey, there’s a plate of food for you on the dining table. You need to eat something.”
Honey? Honey? He’s the one invading my room and she smothers him with endearments?
“I appreciate it, Mrs. Valentine…” a sweeping gaze of contempt passes over me “…but I’m not hungry.”
Boy Wonder’s smile is forced. I know because it doesn’t reach his eyes. They’re deep brown with flecks of gold that I imagine would flicker with life at the right opportunity. Instead, they’re flat and empty.