Living with Disaster, the Cooper Boys

please comment and vote. ill take all criticisms :)

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"Ow!" I cried as I hit the marble floor, butt first.

"HAHA, I BEAT YOU, SETH!"

"NO!"

I got up and dusted off my shorts, looking at the twins. It suddenly seemed to dawn upon them that I was there, and they looked at each other.

"Sorry," they said at the same time before running down the stairs, pushing each other out of the way.

I rolled my eyes and followed them. But when I got to the bottom of the staircase, I had to follow the scent of spaghetti because this house was just so big; I had no idea where anything was.

As I walked into the huge dining room, the first thing I noticed was that Braxton and Vince weren't there. I was sad inside.

"Avery! You're up!" Jenna said, smiling. She thought I had been asleep. I smiled and sat down at the seat in front of me.

"No!" said Kye, startling me. "That's Vince's seat!" I moved over one seat. "NO, that's Braxton's!" I finally gave up and asked him where I should sit. He wiggled an eyebrow and pat the seat next to him. I roll my eyes, but take the seat.

"Speaking of the two, where are Braxton and Vincent?" Jenna asks, looking at everyone.

"I think they're at Tara's," Pierce says, and Jenna gives a disgusted look.

"Who's Tara?" I ask, confused.

"Their bitch," Kye mutters under his breath, and Jenna scolds him.

"She's their friend, Pierce. Avery, you'll meet her at school, I'm sure."

"If you call a friend someone who wears barely there clothes," he retorts. Jenna narrows her eyes at him and I have a feeling she'll be reprimanding him later.

But I just nod politely, setting my napkin across my shorts and smoothing down my tank top. We eat dinner, a mostly quiet affair, except for the two little boys, arguing and eventually flinging spaghetti at each other, earning a lecture from Jenna, who also makes them clean it up, which they don't do happily.

I offer to help clean up afterwards, but Jenna shoos me away, sending me to unpack the rest of my things, which I'm grateful for. I'm tired and not in the mood to socialize with anyone.

I head on upstairs, going into my room and shutting the door, running a hand through my silky hair. I go to my suitcase, open it up, and see what's on top of it, something I'm not prepared for. It's my mother's scrapbook she kept of us, me from when I was little until most recently.

I slowly sink down onto the purple duvet, placing the book on my lap. I stare at the front cover for a long time, holding back tears. "Memories" the front cover says, decorated by my six year old hands in green glitter glue. I open up the first page and laugh quietly. Meanwhile, I'm starting to cry.

The first picture of me is when I was little, maybe four or five, and I have white lotion all over my body, and I'm butt naked. My mom stands above me, laughing, her mouth open, smiling, and tears are running down her face. She was truly hysterical. I glance at the other pictures, flipping pages until I get to one when I must have been about thirteen. My mother had made me sign up for my middle school pageant, claiming I "could bring it all home," which I did, but still, I hadn't been happy about it. I'm standing in a light green dress, my long hair curled, my mother's arms around me, and we're both smiling for the camera. I run my fingers over the picture, crying openly now, hugging the book to my chest.

I look through the rest of the scrapbook, bawling the whole way through, until I decide I need fresh air. I look at the time. 10:00. I must have been up here for hours. I strip of my clothes, tossing them on ground, not caring. I pull out short pajama shorts and a basic tight gray tank top. I throw my hair until a bun and slip on my fuzzy slippers, heading downstairs. I decide to go to a coffee shop, or maybe a nearby diner where I can just sit and read. I'm already on the front porch when I realize I'm not home and I don't have a car.

"Shit," I mutter, heading back inside. But then, I hear a voice behind me.

"Hey," says Braxton, looking me up and down. I blush, embarrassed to be caught sneaking out, in my pajamas, nonetheless.

"Hey," I answer, my hand on the door.

"Going somewhere?" He smirks, holding up his very own car keys.

"I guess not," I say, putting my hands by my side, playing with the ties on my shorts.