We'll Burn Brighter

noah

To me, making Oliver Kingston blush is an American pastime. Classic as apple pie, and far more fun than baseball. I'm pleased with myself. I know that Ms. Learny set up the tutoring sessions was meant to keep me from flunking her class, but I don't see them like that. My goal through these sessions is to make Oliver take a chill pill. Or several. I think he'd be fun if he'd unclench.

The town of Monte is such a weird place for me to live. My life takes place on the northside, its where school, the Kettle, and everywhere else, I like to spend my time is. The northside is lovely—full of the doctors and the lawyers. My house is on the southside; home of cookie monster pajamas and trailer trash. Honestly, if it wasn't for dad, Lora and I could probably get a nice house. Except, how are we supposed to pay for a mortgage when Dad drinks up all the money?

My house isn't even that bad; it's just in disrepair. Mom kept it clean, but Mom went AWOL, and no one cares enough to do her job. Well, Lora does, but she works 60 hours a week, which means she doesn't have time to. I make it a point to not sit in my truck for too long—it's hot, and I don't want to run the A/C.

It looks like Lora managed to get some cleaning done as I walk inside. The kitchen has been clean, and the sink is empty. I always mean to clean, but I don't have much time, and when I do, it's not my concern.

The living room is also clean, which means that Dad has decided to do his drinking in his room. I don't know why I came home, it's depressing. I even have friends to hang out with, and I'm still here. I try not to think about it as my phone dings.

oking23: tutoring session. tomorrow. you cheated your way out of this one.

"Are we now?" I mutter to myself. I type a response: if you insist. As serious as Oliver is, I still like him. Not sure what it is, but something about being around him makes me happy. I shove my phone back in my pocket as Lora enters through the front door. Her hair is disheveled, and there are stains on her scrubs (don't ask where they came from).

"Rough day?"

"The usual," she sighs, flopping on to the couch. "I don't think there's been an easy day in the history of C.N.A.s existing."

"You wanna talk about it?"

"I'm good," she says. "I'm just going to decompose here for a few minutes."

"You do that," I say. My sister doesn't look like my sister. She doesn't look like anyone that I know. I mean, she has the same face, but the way she carries herself is so much different. I'm not sure how to cope with my sister always looking tired.

I try to push it from my head (it doesn't work.)