Snow On The Beach // R.C.

1.01

I hate him. If I wasn't trying to keep my little brother and myself under the Department of Child Service's radar, I would punch Rafe Cameron so hard in his face that his teeth would fall out of his head. But instead, I just have to stand here and take his insults.

"And how are you tonight, Paup?" Rafe asks as he turns the conversation towards me.

I had been zoned out for so long, simply watching the waves crash onto the shore, with my arms crossed over my chest, plotting how I might use the straps of the bikini under my dress to strangle him, that Sarah, my best friend and Rafe's little sister, has to elbow me to get my attention. "Huh?" I come back to life.

"Pretty good, I imagine," he says without missing a beat. I watch him bring his hand to his mouth, beer clenched in his fist, thumb rubbing against his bottom lip. I can practically see the insult brewing on his tongue as his eyes, the same shade of blue as my dress, rove up and down my body. Probably something about how the dress came from Sarah's closet—how she's always letting me borrow her clothes.

"Take a picture," I snap before he has a chance to finish his sentence, "it'll last longer."

Like the immature children that they are, Rafe's fellow Polo-wearing, slick-back haired friends burst into laughter, oohing and aahing as he snarls, tossing back the rest of his beer in one gulp. The can crumples in his grip before he tosses it into the sand. My toes curl at the sight of it.

"What makes you think I want a picture of you in my phone, Pauper? Run back to The Cut, where you belong."

"For some reason, I doubt that, Mr. Defensive." Rolling my eyes, I bend down to pick up Rafe's trash, only for him to kick it out of my reach, sand flying. In that moment, through a haze of red, my entire life flashes before my eyes as I contemplate throwing it all away to commit a very gruesome murder:

My name is Cecilia Joy Routledge. Mostly Sissy. Sometimes CJ, and sometimes Cece—depending on who you ask. Pauper to Kooks like Rafe Cameron. My little brother, John B (a nickname I can't stand and refuse to call him because I think it makes him sound like a perpetual contestant on The Bachelor), and his friends are throwing me a party on the beach; they brought a keg. I asked him not to because we can't risk any trouble—not when we so desperately need to keep DCS off our backs for another couple months, until I can turn eighteen and register as his guardian.

And if anything screams My legal guardian, Uncle T, has been in another state flipping houses for three months, it's underage drinking from a keg that he bought before he left.

But John insisted, claiming that celebrating my eighteenth birthday so early might, somehow, subconsciously ease some of my stress over DCS and a guardianship that I plan to take over my brother the moment I'm legal, keeping us together. I told him he was full of shit but ended up obliging because Sarah told me it would be fun. The Outer Banks needs a little fun after Hurricane Aggie destroyed the island, she said. She thought that both John and I especially could use a break, considering that we wouldn't be in the mess we're in if it weren't for our father going missing at sea nine months ago.

"No," I told her. "We wouldn't be in this mess if Dad had listened to me and stayed to take care of his children instead of going on a juvenile treasure hunt."

She didn't argue with me after that. Instead, she brought me to her closet where she handed me a short, flowy blue sundress and told me I would look beautiful. "It'll compliment your amber eyes."

I wanted to tell her that amber was a pretty word for light brown. It was throwing glitter on something boring and hoping to distract from the truth. But I wore the dress nonetheless, and now the thin fabric is covered in a light layer of sand from the blowback of Rafe's kick.