❝Trauma fractures comprehension as a pebble shatters a windshield. The wound at the site of impact spreads across the field of vision, obscuring reality and challenging belief.❞
—Jane Leavy
T H I R T E E N
I laced the strings of a pink, checkered bikini top behind my neck. Tugging at the tight regions around my chest, I gazed at my reflection, my eyes traveling the length of my figure while I twisted around to examine the fit.
A light rustle followed by a displeased groan caused me to shift my attention over to Mira, who was crouched over my record collection, a crease between her brow.
"My God, do you have any music from this decade?" Sliding out an album, she crinkled her nose at the cover. "Who the hell are The Kinks?"
"An English rock band from the 60s," I casually responded. "They practically transformed the sound of rock music, how have you not heard of them?"
"Maybe because I don't have the music taste of a fifty-year-old," she teased, slipping the record back into place. "Ever heard of Taylor Swift or Nicki Minaj?"
I hung my head to the side like a clueless puppy. "No, what band are they in?"
"Cute," she sneered. Setting my crates aside, she reached into the back pocket of her denim shorts for her phone. "Looks like I'll have to be responsible for the music."
Style by Taylor Swift blared from her phone speaker.
"So..." Mira came up behind me, and mindlessly rummaged through my drawers. "Are we...good?" She nervously chewed the inside of her cheek.
I shot her a confused look. "Why wouldn't we be?"
She shrugged. "I don't know. You just seemed distant yesterday. I figured maybe I went too far the other day."
I recalled our tense argument in this room a few days before. "I'm sorry. For jumping down your throat. But I'm fine now. We're good."
Her amber eyes lingered on me, pensive. I could tell she didn't buy the I'm fine part, but she looked away, seemingly deciding to let it go.
Slipping something out of my drawer, she tossed it to me. "Try that on."
I glanced down at my top. "What's wrong with the one I'm wearing?"
She shrugged, leaning her hip against my dresser. "Nothing. I just think that one matches your skin tone better."
I stared down at the sage-colored crotchet bandeau she'd given me and shrugged, turning to slip out of my current top.
Grabbing a hairbrush off my dresser, she spoke into it like it was a faux microphone. "So, Cami, which one of your four bachelors are you most excited to check out today?"
Here we go.
"I have yet to meet Spencer and Noah so I can only speak for Vince and Eli. Both easy on the eyes. If you like your men with a little color, Vine is the obvious option. But Eli's got the athletic build though. Those arms alone are a work of art, and he does like his muscle tees so those will be on full display."
"Do you enjoy hearing yourself talk?"
She poked an index finger into her cheek, thinking. "Why yes, I do. I think I could host my own podcast." Why had I bothered asking... "So, who will get the final rose?" She extended the hairbrush to me.
Eyes traveling to the ceiling, I pretended to think about it. "I think I might go with Coach Hayes. He's really got the dad bod look going for him."
Any trace of amusement sloped off her face.
YOU ARE READING
My Dearest Enemy
Teen Fiction***New chapter every Friday*** Cami has one wish. To get accepted to the arts program at her father's alma mater. But after facing constant rejections from magazines to publish her work and being told her drawings are "too detached" and "impersonal"...
