𝐙𝐔𝐌𝐀! | harry styles

𝐈𝐈

"OH Harry! Hello, sweetheart!" I hear my stepmother's martini-soaked shriek from down the hall where she's opened the door upon the arrival of our almost nightly dinner guest. I watch as Rosalie jerks her head up from painting her toenails and curses loudly.

"Shit. I knew I should've been outside waiting." Rosalie fans her wet nails and blows on them, trying to quicken the dry time. "Anna, honey, fan these for me."

She hands me her Fleetwood Mac album and I start moving the cardboard back and forth in the air above her feet. She's twisted her upper body around to find her light-up mirror, which is lying on the thick pile of her pink carpet behind her.

I watch, fascinated, as Rosalie applies a thick coating of goopy lip-gloss to her perfect mouth, and makes a kissy fish-face at the mirror.

"Is that what you do with your mouth when you kiss Harry?" I laugh.

Rosalie rolls her eyes at me. "Shut up, Anna. Maybe someday you'll get the nerve to actually kiss a guy."

"I've kissed Scott plenty," I protest.

Among other things I don't mention because I'm not discussing my sex life with her.

"I mean a hot kiss. With tongue. Anyway, Harry's more interested in other things my mouth can do." She smirks at me and turns her eyes back to her mirror, fluffing her blonde hair and securing the sides with gold barrettes.

The thought of Harry getting head from Rosalie makes me want to vomit all over her Pepto rug. I follow her out of her room and down the sprawling hallway towards the front of the California ranch house my father and I moved into when Lori and Bruce married.

I glance at the walls as we pass; there are pictures of Rosalie on every inch. Ballet recitals, school pictures, amateur modeling stills. There's only one picture of me in the house, on the mantle. It's their wedding photo, and I'm in an orange scratchy bridesmaid dress with a scowl firmly in place while Rosalie looks perfect and models for the lens. It pretty much sums up the last two years of my life.

Once we reach the sunken living room, my heart stutters when I see Harry, wearing the same cutoffs as earlier but with the wrinkled back-pocket shirt on, sitting with Lori on the uncomfortable beige floor pillows that make a sorry replacement for a couch. She's got her martini in hand, wearing her stupid floral muumuu thing she thinks makes her look like a "swinger". Harry doesn't look too tortured yet, but he does stand immediately when Rosalie and I enter.

Rosalie sidles up to him and slips her hand into his back pocket, turning her cheek for him to kiss. He does what's expected and I wait for him to turn to me to say hello. He doesn't. I think Harry has said two words to me the entire two months they've been dating.

I leave the trio and head into the kitchen, trying to assess what might be on the menu for the evening. I wasn't kidding when I said Lori cooks what she sees on TV. I don't think she owns a recipe book. Most of her stuff ends up tasting the same, no matter what it is. I'm sure my blood pressure is abnormally high for a teenage girl from the amount of salt I put on everything to give it some taste.

As I'm getting the pitcher of Hawaiian Punch out of the fridge, my father comes in from the backyard, squeezing an empty can of beer, and kisses me on the head.

"How'd your day go, Anna?"

"The same. Scott, Tasty Dog, you know." I take three glasses out of the cupboard and make my way outside to the patio, Lori's preferred place to entertain. She and Dad redid it last summer and it's like a gigolo's wet dream. Hot tub, check. Private lagoon in the pool, check. I try not to go in that area, as the "parties" they host are questionable and the grotto probably ripe for the clap.