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"Kim!"

I pretended not hear and turned my iPod up.

"KIM!"

I began singing Paramore's "Misery Business."

"'Whoa, I never meant to brag/But, I got him where I want him now...'"

"KIM."

I sang louder.

"'Second chances they don't ever matter, people never change...'"

My earphones were pulled out.

"Do you mind?" I snapped.

Susan gave me the I-know-you-could-hear-me look. "Dinner."

"Cool. Bring it up."

"Downstairs. Now."

I swung my legs over the side of my bed. "Fine."

She left, and I jumped off of my bed. It was a loft, standing on wooden poles high in the air. The pillows had been white before I bought some colored sharpies. Now the two pillows were covered in doodles, lyrics, and quotes, just like the posts holding up my bed. The ladder was painted black, and it was the only solid colored thing in the bedroom.

I landed on a dark purple-and-white tie-died rug. The rest of the floor was Brazilian cherry wood, red and shiny. The walls were covered in posters of random people and places, whatever looked awesome when I bought it. And art.

I drew. A lot. I created black-and-white worlds with my pencil, people with the lead. I made personalities with my brain, and my hand transfered them to paper. I know that it sounds stupid, but sometimes it seemed that it's real. Sometimes I thought I see a winged creature moving from where I drew it, or lights in the buildings.

But that was just my imagination. None of it could be real. I drew fey. Faeries. Dwarves. Elves. Fantasy. Impossibilities.

Grabbing my denim newsboy cap from the rack by my door, I left.

"Shuddup, Twerpy." I glared at my little brother. He was nine, redheaded, and annoying. He had been talking for a half-hour straight already. It was something about his field trip to the noodle-making factory with his third-grade class. He'd gone on about spaghetti for so long that my once-favorite food's name was going to make me sick if I heard it again.

"My name is Timmy," he said in his annoying sing-song way of speaking.

"Yeah? Well it should be Twerpy, twit," I shot from across the table.

"MOMMY!" he cried, as loudly and as ear-damaging as he could, even though Susan was right next to him. "Kim called me a bad word!"

"I called you a twit, dummy. Twit. T-W-I-T. 'A foolishly annoying person,' A.K.A, YOU."

"MOMMY! KIM CALLED ME A 'DUMMY!'"

"Kim, say your sorry. Be nicer to our Little Angel." Susan bushed her fake blond curls off her fake-tanned face, then brushed Twerpy's red mess out of his green eyes.

I resisted the urge to laugh. A 'Little Devil' was a more accurate description of Timmy the Twerp. I did as I was told, however, and said, "Sorry," in an imitation of Timmy's voice, then in my own way of speaking, I said, "Your Sorry? Apology accepted."

Susan opened her mouth to speak. "Kim--"

"I'll be in my room," I stood up and pushed my chair out, then went to the door, leaving my plate.