She motioned toward my bike, stomping her foot. Sometimes I wanted to shave them off just to spite her. She could tell me a thousand things with her eyebrows alone, this girl. I threw a pinecone at her shoulder in response.
It always burned brighter when the ocean was about to swallow it. I stood up, shielding my eyes from the sinking sun. Sometime later, Luna came back riding my bike. Pissing off my parents wasn’t a lifetime goal. I’d walked away from him because if not, I knew he’d get what he wanted from me-a dirty fight. I didn’t know anyone who could talk Vaughn into doing anything. “Where are you going?” I yelled as if she was going to answer. Then she started running toward our neighborhood. She rolled on the ground, straightening up like a ninja and patting herself clean with a satisfied smile. It was one more thing that was Luna’s and mine that he wasn’t a part of. Vaughn thought he was too cool for treehouses.
I climbed on the tire swing and up to our tiny treehouse. I was never going to want to kiss this girl. She produced a third pinecone (She kept a stash in the treehouse in case intruders came upon us, which was honestly never.) and made a show of throwing it at me. This time I caught it, swung my arm like a baseball player, and threw it back at her, missing on purpose. He didn’t even have an annoying baby brother, like Lev. What’s a system? What did he know about mine? About anger? His life was perfect. “ Get it out of your system.” Whatever that meant. I’d have beaten the crap out of my so-called best friend, Vaughn, if I wasn’t so sure I’d kill him by accident. She arched an eyebrow, her way of asking what my problem was. “Nah.” I tried to gather phlegm, spitting sideways. She motioned to me with her head to climb up. “What was that for?” I tore the earbuds from my ears. My stupid neighbor, Luna, sat perched outside our treehouse, bouncing another pinecone in her hand and dangling her toothpick legs from a thick branch. Simple math, and a pretty good deal.Ī pinecone dropped on my head. Fred Durst might look like a ballsack in a cap, but he had a point. “Break Stuff” by Limp Bizkit was my designated ruin-shit anthem. My earbuds blocked out the sounds of birds, crickets, and crispy leaves under my feet. It had also earned me a trip to talk to this guy in a suit every week, who asked about my feelings. Whenever she glanced at my permanently busted knuckles, the waterworks started. I didn’t know what it meant, but it made Mom cry in her bathroom when she thought no one could hear.
I drove a fist into the oak tree, feeling the familiar sting of a fresh wound as my knuckles split open.īleeding helped me breathe better.
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