Behind every mean girl...there's a tragedy

I hate family dinners

"Well, look at you all grown up." He dishevels my hair. "Last time I saw you, you were still playing with dolls but now look at you."

"Yeah, I know Darwin..."

"Come on Rach, call me uncle D."

I grit my teeth, inhaling a deep breath to deal with this idiot acting like he's not the scumbag we both know he is. "Growing is kind of what people do as the years pass by, Darwin." I turn to the other people in the room, "now if you'll excuse me I have better things to do then talk to you guys."

"Rachel!" my mom calls as I'm preparing to continue my way upstairs, "We have a guest. Be polite and come eat with us."

"I'm neither hungry nor polite so I don't see any reason why I have to keep listening to any of you." I force a goodbye smile to all of them then head to my room.

I can still hear my mother's incessant calling even after I close my door and sprawl on my queen size bed with a pillow over my head.

I groan in exasperation but it's muffled by the pillow. Why are they all coming back? First, Brandon. Now, Darwin. As if my life is not suffocating enough without them in it now they're both back.

My eyes begin to drift shut when I hear someone chanting my name softly. I edge my head out under the pillow to find out the owner of the voice but the room is completely empty. The only thing in my room that feels out of place is Ms. Pickle sitting on my laptop looking straight at me with its black glassy eyes.

I get out of bed and walk toward my desk. I hold my stuff teddy bear at arm's length. There's something strange about it but I can't put my finger on it. I turn it sideways, and upside down but it's the exact same way it had always been since Brandon gave it to me when I was five. I run my hand softly over its fluffy white fur, feeling the smooth cotton fabric underneath my palm. My fingers trace the edges of the letters written in bold red, "smile."

I remember that day as if it was yesterday when he walked in on me balling my eyes out. I was sitting inside the treehouse that dad had built for me before I was born. It was decorated with a Superman theme wallpaper and filled with mainly boys' toys as they were expecting a boy.

"Rae, what's wrong?" he had come up behind me. I loved that nickname, he gave it to me because he said I was his personal ray of sunshine brightening his life. I had no idea how an eight years old was so poetic.

"N-nothing," I stammered. My words were choked by my sobs. My chubby little caramel colored hands were barely large enough to wipe away the tears falling on my jeans pullovers

He came around to face me, "Then why are you crying?"

"Because Lucky killed Mr. Pickle." My cries increased in volume.

"What? How? Let me see."

I pulled out the chewed doll. Its shiny black hair was half off, a good chunk was missing on its blue pants, and it was dripping with saliva. I had just ripped it off my dog's devouring mouth. That was one of the reasons why my parents had return it to the shelter. It chewed everything it found.

Brandon took the doll from me then quickly drop it on the wooden floor. "Eww, what is that?" His hands were glistening with saliva.

"Lucky's spit." I managed between sobs. "He's dead. Mr. Pickle's dead." Another fit of sobs escaped me.

"No, he's not. Don't worry I can fix him."

"How can you fix the dead? Are you a wizard?" A dust of hope glimmered inside of my innocent little soul, thinking that he could rise my friend from the dead.