Ten Years Earlier:
I played with my marshmallows on the marble counter: pressing them down onto the cold surface and watching them slowly rise up to their original form. I sighed. Like any other six-year-old stuck with two gossiping mothers, I was bored out of my mind.
“Ten years.” Squish.
“You don’t have to, you can train, and-”
“I won’t be strong enough.”
I picked up another. Squish. “I’m a Hunter; I should be able to-”
“No, Sandra, it isn’t your fault. It has to happen. I have ten years left.” Squish.
“I hate how it has to be you.”
“It’s because she’s special.” In mid-squish, I looked up at my mother.
Her glazed eyes seemed to look directly through me. “Honey, don’t play with your food. Eat it and go outside with Sebby.” I internally groaned. We were total opposites: he was a boy, I was a girl. He had blue eyes. I had red eyes. Sebastian hated me. I hated Sebastian. However, one look at my empty mother made me deal with it.
“It’s no good if they’re not toasted,” I gathered up my marshmallows.
“Toast them when he’s not looking.” She blankly looked over to Aunt Sandra. I hopped from the kitchen stool and winced when pain shot through the ground into my ankles.
Sebastian was outside the glass door, frowning at a glass of water. I quickly toasted the marshmallows in my hand and felt the crispy outsides flake against my fingers, sticky hands grabbing my sketchbook and heading outside to see him.
The heavy door shut, silencing the voices of our mothers, and I sat across him on the pool table. I flipped open my sketchbook and set the marshmallows on the opposite page.
“You can’t draw if your hands are sticky,” he muttered.
“And you can’t draw at all, Sebby.” I held back a grin at my comeback. I was getting better at being sassy.
“Why do you have to come to my house?” He scowled, clearly wishing me away.
“I don’t know. My mother brings me along. I don’t like it here; you’re always mean to me.”
“It’s not my fault you’re a dumb girl,” he whispered as he reached for my marshmallows.
I snatched them away before he could grab any of them. “I’m not dumb enough to let you eat my food.”
“They aren’t supposed to be toasted. We don’t have anywhere to do that,” his eyes narrowed.
I racked my brain for another comeback, but it took too long. “Nuh-uh.”
“Uh-huh. How did you get them like that? They’re still warm.”
I quickly stuffed them into my mouth before he could figure out what had happened. “They weren’t toasted.” My voice was muffled from the creamy goodness.
“Yes, they were.”
“You shouldn’t be such a whiny baby.”
“You should be more ladylike. Don’t talk with your mouth full. If I didn’t know any better, I would have thought you were a boy.”
“I’m more of a boy than you are, Sebby.”
“Nuh-uh. It’s not my fault you dress like a boy.”
I swallowed the food and decided to let him go off-tangent on my tomboy attitude.
“It’s not my fault you look like a girl.” I suppressed another grin.
His face contorted with anger. It served him right; he was a rude little gremlin. “I do not!”
“Yes, you do. You’re too pretty to be a boy.”
“And you’re too weird to be a girl!”
Thank god he had stopped talking about the marshmallows. It would have been embarrassing if he found out I had superpowers.
© Copyright 2016 Kathryn Thorne. All rights reserved.
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