Snow On The Beach // R.C.

1.06

The pranks (if that's what you want to call them) started small. Rafe loves Fruit Loops. So I poured the entire box into a tupperware and brought it to John. I left the empty box in the pantry for Rafe to find when he eventually got hungry.

I cackled for a good twenty minutes when I heard him going on a rampage through the house, accusing anyone and everyone he could come across of eating his breakfast. Eventually he made it up to my room, where he entered without knocking, saw me laughing, and promised to make my life hell—again.

His definition of hell was slinking into the kitchen later that afternoon while I was baking a cake for dinner with the Camerons that night to ruin my work.

"You still using this?" He asked as he approached one of my mixing bowls (it was a two layer cake) and poured the batter into the trash.

That night, I emptied the entirety of his golf bag into the pool.

He retaliated by, soaking wet, storming up to my room and locking me inside. I couldn't get out until Wheezie found me this morning.

"What the heck is going on between you and—"

I grabbed her by the shoulders, shutting her up. "Wheez! Where does Rose keep her bleach?"

"Uh, how would she know where the bleach is? She's never cleaned this house a day in her life—"

"Nooo, her hair bleach."

Her face goes blank. "No offense, Sissy, but you would not look good as a blonde. Leave that to Sarah."

"Oh my God, thanks a lot," I grumble, frowning. Then I remember the actual reason I'm asking. "The bleach isn't for me."

That's when she catches on, and her entire face lights up. I never knew a child could smirk so deviously.

"This way," she whispers, and I follow her down the hall.

🐚

"HOLY SHIT!"

Rafe's screams rattle the windows.

"I'M GOING TO KILL HER! I'M GOING TO FUCKING KILL HER! I'M GOING TO FUCKING KILL YOU!"

We come face to face in the upstairs hallway, and I have to swallow my hysteria. Hand to my lips, I say, "Oh, Rafe..."

His hair is soaking wet and plastered to his head, strands hanging in his eyes and dripping water down his face. It looks like straw. The normally dishwater blond color is now a brassy, crayola yellow.

"You did this," he growls, pointing an accusing finger in my face.

"Okay, yeah," I parrot him. "Go ahead and blame your bad choices on me."

"I'm going to ruin your life."

"So you keep saying. Yet none of your little antics have accomplished your goal of getting rid of me," I quip, looking up at the ceiling as if in great thought. "You haven't even been close. In fact, Rafe...you haven't even made me cry. Mr. Tough Guy-Rafe Cameron, who thinks he's so big and scary—"

My back hits the railing—the only thing keeping me from falling to the story below. Rafe stands before me, his hands white-knuckling the railing on either side of me, pinning me in.

"Would you like to rethink your statements?" He asks.

I stare at him for a few seconds too long, wondering whether I should laugh or grimace at the situation we've found ourselves in. The length of my pinky nail is about all that separates us, and I can feel water from Rafe's body dripping onto my feet.