Whispering Tempest

Chapter Eleven - Good Kind of Hurt

Chapter Eleven – Good Kind of Hurt

I don’t think I’ve ever felt this stupid. The boy I like… liked… like…doesn’t like me and out of no fault of anyone’s. Trevor won’t ever be into me and that blows. I push my face into my pillow and dampen it further with my tears. Life sucks. Life is… It’s stupid and it needs to sort itself out. The one shred of a typical existence I was hoping for was a normal romance and that was taken away before it started. My eyes flick upward to whatever or whoever is out there writing the destiny of my life.

“Are you happy now,” I question the invisible force. “I’m a freak. I’m unusual and off balanced. There is nothing normal about my life. So for five minutes can I be given something not insane or crappy or batshit bizarre?”

A knock at the door disrupts my ranting. My body cuddles closer with my blankets and my old unicorn stuffed animal before moaning at them to go away. They don’t listen. The person at my door opens it and enters my room.

“Who are you talking to,” my twelve year old sister asks me. Michelle makes sure my bedroom is closed off to Scott before sitting at the edge of my black sheeted bed. She gets no reply but since she’s more mature for her age than I am at mine, she stays with me and lies on her back by my feet. “He’s stupid. You’re hotter than any guy he’ll ever get.”

Taking the pillow from under my head, I swat her with it. Her nervy self takes it like a champ and puts it under her head and out of my grasp.

“Maybe I should take his advice and go for my own gender,” my lips grumble. My sister laughs at me and we stay on my bed for another two minutes of silence. I’d never tell her this but I’m grateful she came to check up on me. I’m pretty sure she already knows. We’re sisters; not by birth or blood but by heart and home. That’s the only kind of sister I ever want.

“Are you doing anything tomorrow?”

I glance up at her question and finally see her coffee eyes. They seem as red and puffy as mine probably look. Using my arms, my body fights its way out of my twisted sheets and moves closer to her. Guilt eats at me as I realize what day it’ll be for her. Tomorrow is the anniversary of her parent’s death.

Her story isn’t too similar to mine but probably as, if not more, painful to go through. Michelle’s mother and father were caught in a fire a year ago and she was placed with her uncle until everything got sorted out. But since that man was a danger to her with his constant drinking and disgusting home, the state figured she would be better off in foster care. I met her about five weeks after her parent’s tragedy. She’s trying to grow tough but she’s not cut out for it. I’m probably a horrible example for her to follow but I make sure she has someone there at all times. It’s more than I ever got and it’s the best I can give her.

“Let’s see,” I mumble to myself. “Tomorrow looks like sleeping in, eating ice cream and spending a day with my little sis where we’re going shopping and getting our fingernails done and our toes done and going to the salon where I will pay for her to get whatever kind of hairstyle she wants because I have been a terrible big sister by not being closer to her for the past few weeks.”

“You hate people doing your nails,” she replies. But I see a smile creep into her lips and that’s what matters. “And how much money do you even have left? You got fired, remember?”

“You let me worry about that. Nightingale’s got this,” I tell her referring to myself.

“And Mc-Shelly’s glad.”

We hang out in my room for the next few hours talking about boys and her cheer camp. Apparently she likes her coach’s son. He will be playing football for the school she’s going to in the fall. I give her the best advice I have on boys but it’s not much; obviously I suck at getting the male gender’s attention. We get very comfortable as I start braiding and unbraiding bits of her hair.