Mistakes
Boone thinks he may have made a mistake. Normally, he's one of those competent people who know they're making a mistake when they're making it. Instead of after, which is what he's feeling now.
The whole thing is completely screwed up. His sister, step-sister, whatever. She's a mistake from the get-go, and he knows it. But does that stop him? Absolutely not.
It's too late to go back and change things. He's not even sure he'd want to anyway.
In the end, it doesn't matter anyway, because it's happened, and he's made the mistake and now he has to live with it. At least the memories will make this dreaded flight more pleasant.
Boone remembers when he was younger, when his mom had come home one afternoon (he had been playing soccer with a boy down the street and was all muddy; he even remembers the smell of the mud, and how sticky he felt). She didn't come home alone, even though that's how it had been for years. He was struck dumb, standing in the middle of his clean, pristine kitchen in his dirty shorts, and his muddy shoes making muddy footprints on the clean linoleum. His mother, who loved all things white (Boone always hated white - it was way too clean for his liking) stood in front of him, her fingers intertwined with some man's and she looked at him, standing in her clean kitchen. She didn't even bother scolding him. That's when Boone knew he was in trouble.
"Booney," she cooed, making Boone cringed; he hated when she called him that, and she knew it. "This is Grant. My husband."
Boone dropped his glass of water; it flew to the floor and shattered all over the place. As if on autopilot, he bent and began retrieving the shards of glass, his mind a mess of thoughts.
His mother stood in the entrance to the kitchen, grasping her new husband's hand, and just watched as Boone struggled with the tiny pieces. Just as she had all his life; she stood on the sidelines and watched Boone make his own messes, and clean them up. Rarely she offered her help. He always declined, anyway. He knew it was just a formality. It was what mothers were supposed to do, but what his mother didn't want anything to do with.
He dropped a towel of glass into the trashcan and turned back to his mother, who looked radiant and happy, and glowing. She always looked put together, but he'd never seen her actually look genuinely happy. He felt a tug in his stomach, and he wanted to run to his room and just pretend this meeting had never occurred.
Then he remembered his manners.
"Hi," he said, wiping a dirty hand on the back of his shorts and holding it out to this person who didn't seem to belong in his mother's white house. Then again, sometimes he thought he didn't belong in it either. "I'm Boone."
"It's nice to meet you," he said with a gruff voice and a forced smile. "Your mother's told me a lot about you."
Boone figures this to be true; if anything, he's a great accessory for his mother with his many accomplishments both in school, and out. She didn't talk about him unless asked, and when she got going on his soccer trophies and his tennis titles, it was hard to stop her. He was more like an expensive handbag, than a son. He was used to it, though. It hardly bothered him anymore.
He nodded and shoved his hands in his pockets, something his mother said he shouldn't do; he remembered a bit too late and hauled them out.
"You're married," he said in a stoic voice, his green eyes on his mother's. They looked nothing alike, except the eyes. He looked more like his father, apparently, not that he remembered very well.
"Yes," his mother beamed, holding out her right hand for him to see her rings.
Boone swallowed. He still felt like running up to his room and burying himself in a fantasy novel. He still had to finish Watership Down, so he had a good excuse to flee. "Well, I---"
"I want you to meet someone else," his mother said, a little hesitantly.
He raised an eyebrow, not used to hearing her sound so unsure. "Who?"
Grant disappeared down the hall, and Boone heard the front door open and close. Many thoughts raced through his mind, the most prominent was that it was a hit man there to kill him so that his mother didn't have any more baggage.
Boone stood alone in the middle of the now dirty kitchen, wishing he was anywhere but here.
He heard the front door open and close again, and then the unmistakable sound of two pairs of feet walking down the hall toward them. He closed his eyes and then opened them slowly, breathing deeply.
"This is Shannon," Grant said with a proud smile. "My daughter."
"Your step-sister, Booney," his mother clarified this like Boone didn't have a 4.0.
Boone inwardly rolled his eyes and then turned to a blond girl who was only about two inches shorter than he was; she was wearing a lot of pink, making the impression of cotton candy (which, to this day, Boone always associated with her) imbed itself into his mind.
"Hello," she said pleasantly. "It's nice to meet you."
This sounded rehearsed, and it probably was. Boone liked her voice, it was kind of sweet, and she was much prettier than any of the other girls he knew. He had to force himself to not sound choked when he spoke next.
"You too."
And it was nice to meet her. At least he didn't have to force himself to be polite with her; her presence, a little like his mothers, demanded it.
One thing was for sure. It was definitely a mistake to get involved with her.