Scarlett and Avory

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What seems later than usual for weekends, the nine year old she-devils start screeching at each other, probably over MarioKart or something. I have been watching Netflix peacefully for a little over an hour. I want them to stop.
"Moooooom!" I yell trying to make the noise stop. My mom continues to do nothing about the whiny voices.
It's really not fair because I was raised with Asian parent expectations, where "A" is average, not above standards. And they get to play video games and fight at nine in the morning, probably eating Nutella and marshmallow fluff covered waffles in the living room, instead of going to flute lessons, and drinking mineral water with chia seeds, and taking multivitamins, eating gluten free bread and swimming, like, 15 laps of an Olympic pool, aaalllllllll before nine a.m.
But it's Scarlett and Avory, birthed by my mother and the precious Marcc Andister, the second husband. The one who didn't leave her because of who-knows-what. The one who gave her two beautiful biracial children. The one who makes millions a year. The one who is appearantly the reason why my mom won't answer me.
I walk towards the master bedroom door, and I hear my mom's little quiet Vietnamese wines, "sâu sắc hơn bạn người đàn ông quan hệ tình dục! (deeper you sexy man!)"
When I hear that I flip. Mom never actually divorced my dad. Marcc is her little married affair-man.
I didn't care if my mom tossed me onto the streets. I had my Joelly Bean, to house me, with his actually decent parents. I went downstairs. I told Scarlett and Avory to stop fighting.
"Marcc and Mom have been calling you two, you guys have presents!"
"Really!?!" The satan spawns whisper-squealed.
"Yep, go upstairs right now."
I went upstairs and chucked myself on my mattress. I pretended to be asleep. I let the drama happen knowing mom might attempt to murder me.

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