You might remember a story of mine called Daughters. If not, then I recommend reading it, but it's not necessary to understand this.

Enjoy. :)

-endless

a hundred times

Mud burns my eyes as I'm thrown, yet again, into what seems to be the soggiest puddle in our neighborhood. Apparently, it's Beau's favorite puddle, because while the rest of the cousins are getting grass in their face, I'm getting pure dirt water.

Those murky green eyes stare me down as a smile grows wide on his face. "Pinned ya!" And despite the fact that I'm four years younger and thus four years weaker, I try and shove him off. He scoffs but climbs off of me just as his brother, Kevin, comes barreling past, shoving dirt in his mouth. Beau screeches in humorous outrage and races after him. This leaves me, as usual, to fend for myself. I find my footing and ring out of my clothes where water seeped through. I can only hope neither Mom nor Dad will throw a fit, but I have my thousand and one uncles at the house right now, so maybe I'll manage to get out of the worry train until after dinner.

It's another hour of scuffling, tackling, and brute force. I've finally gained the upper hand on Beau and have him in a choke-hold, and I let out a whoop of satisfaction as he calls out, "Uncle!" and throws his fist against my arm. I release him and laugh as he falls into the same puddle he'd thrown me in. He turns to me, his eyes heated with another attack, but his youngest brother, Randall, tells him to leave me alone. He looks to his older brother, but Kevin gives him a grim shake of his head.

This is my favorite part of the day: where all five of my cousins stare at me, dumbfounded.

As Kevin hauls Beau to his feet, a voice rings through the tall grass. "I think y'all have had enough."

I have to leap into the air to see him, and a grin manifests on my face. Uncle Darry stands tall, bright, and just the smallest bit mischievous as his gaze rakes down all five of us. He barks out a laugh when he sees his three boys covered in mud. I think he slaps his knee because Beau only has one shoe on, Kevin is trying to get mud out of his ear, and Randall just smiles. I catch Beau's eye and, our quarrel forgotten, we launch ourselves at him, the other boys quickly following. It takes a solid ten minutes, but we finally get Uncle Darry to the ground with mud in his hair, on his sad excuse for a five-o'clock shadow, and all over his jeans.

We easily slip away as he rises to his feet and ruffles each head of hair. "Great," he groans, but his eyes are brighter than the sun that dries the mud to our clothes. "Now your Momma's gonna yell at me for trekking mud through the house..."

Randall snorts, "Better you than us!" and is already streaking towards the house, his brothers right on his heels, as Uncle Darry races to herd them.

I slowly march towards the house, mud crackling off of my body with each step.

It probably isn't a shock when I say that I'm close with both of my Aunts. Aunt Phoebe is a cracker jack if there ever was one, always laughing, making food, throwing parties. Aunt Heather is definitely the more serious of the two, not saying much to anyone except for me.

Aunt Heather smiles at me when I enter the house, aware of the death glares that will surely burn down the house when my parents get a look at me. I smile back and advance from the living room. I'm quietly stepping into the kitchen, hoping no one will see me, and then freeze as a voice calls, "Ah, there she is." I whip my head over by the fridge and my heart explodes right then and there. I run for the fridge and get swept into the air, long brown hair tickling my nose. When the world stops spinning, I'm facing a pair of dark brown eyes that I haven't seen in a long time.

My Uncle Soda is my favorite person in the whole world. I know it should probably be my dad, or maybe Uncle Darry, but I can't help it. Aunt Heather says that he can be a serious guy, but I just don't see it. Sometimes I wonder if Uncle Soda shoulda married Aunt Phoebe because they're the same person. But when Uncle Soda went off to war when I was six, his sons Ridge and Vixen watching from a distance, I don't think Phoebe coulda handled it as well as Heather did. Aunt Heather can hold her own when she wants to, and I think it's cute that Uncle Soda brings out her lighter side - it's a side that you wouldn't expect from looking at her.

It's here, in Uncle Soda's arms, that I realize what this party is all about. I forgot that this was his "welcome back from not dying" party, as I like to call it. No one else likes that name, though.

"Gross." Ridge says loudly as he walks past us. Though he's just shy of fifteen, he looks about eleven, the same age as me. And though he would never admit it, Ridge likes me best. Uncle Soda scoffs and sets me down, as if he's self conscious. He grabs a bottle of beer, winks at me, and then heads for Aunt Heather, who has finally joined the party. I admire them from afar as Aunt Heather leans her head on his shoulder and Uncle Soda plants a kiss on her temple.

Another set of hands come up and cover my eyes. Yet again, I smile and rip them away from my face. "You're not very good at being sneaky."

Hazel eyes meet mine. I feel my body grow warm under my Daddy's gaze as he says, "I'm not very good at alotta things." He brushes a speck of mud off of my face, about to say more, when everyone suddenly shuts up. My Daddy and my Momma share a look, and Momma comes to stand by me as Dad and Uncle Darry step in front of their brother.

They raise their plastic glasses, probably filled with beer. "Welcome home, Soda," Daddy and Uncle Darry say together, and my heart breaks a little as they salute him. "You're home." And the small tiptiptap of glasses hitting each other, colliding in pride and in euphoria, could sing me to sleep.

I huddle close to Momma as we all proudly look at Uncle Soda, who stands with his head high and his eyes misty.

My Daddy always wanted a better life for himself and whoever he happened to marry. When he got Momma knocked up with me, I think that was a wake up call to get his butt in gear. So he graduated high school, and went off to some bigger school, where he could get some fancy piece of paper that has his name on it. It says somethin' about journalism, and Daddy has gotten far with it.

"What in the world happened to your clothes?" My Momma immediately asks when we walk through the front starts to try and get small bits of mud off of my dress, grumbling under her breath.

"She was having fun," Dad comes to my rescue and I briefly smirk. He always fights for me.

"I told her it's an expensive dress and not to ruin it," Momma gives up and gets back to her feet. "She's done exactly what I -"

"Easy, El. She's fine. She was showing them boys how it's done. Dar said she could win a rumble all on her own."

The words are out of my head before I can stop them. "It wasn't even my fault. Beau shoved me in the puddle over and over again!"

"You should've told him to stop."

"I did! He never listens to me or anyone!"

"That's not an excuse."

Dad senses the tension building. He steps between us, as if he's strong enough to hold back his wife and his daughter. "Alright, alright, okay -"

"Go upstairs." Momma says. When I don't move, she turns her upper body to look at me. I know what's coming, but I don't care.

"Grace Eleanor Curtis, go upstairs." And before she can say more, Dad distracts her by twirling her around so that they face each other. Her body loses the tension as she laughs, and the scolding is forgotten. My Momma is a kind woman, but sometimes I think she prides herself in having a better life than the rest of them. She had me real young and didn't know any better than to have me. My Daddy vowed to give her a life she could be proud of, but since we've moved, it seems my Momma is losing her sense of pride in anything that is over the tracks.

Sometimes I wonder how my family got here. I wonder why my Momma and Daddy fled the tracks and came to the side that I don't consider home.

Knowing I don't have the upper hand in this fight, I make my way up the long staircase and into my bedroom. I sit on my windowsill and stuff my face in a pillow, where I cry and shake with rage. My eyes sting as I gaze over the brilliance of our neighborhood. The streetlights illuminate the nice cars that flow onto the street, the shiny roofs, the large windows that line fancy dining rooms and chandeliers in just about every house.

When the door opens, I don't look up. I stay sitting in the fetal position, the pillow holding my chin, the window growing foggy as my hot breath hits the cool glass. "I don't wanna talk to you."

Someone sits down beside me. A warm hand is pressed against my ankle, still picking at mud. This hand isn't soft like Momma's and my heart skips a beat. I steal a glance and see my Daddy sitting there, peering at me through a calm set of eyes.

"It's okay, you know."

I throw the pillow over my face. "No it's not. This is the second dress I've ruined." Shame washes over me at the coldness in Momma's eyes when she'd told me come up here.

"Were you having fun?"

I take the pillow away, look into his eyes, and my smile betrays my "Not at all."

One of his eyebrows raises in amusement. "That's all that we care about." I grimace, and he continues. "Your Momma doesn't want you to get hurt."

I roll my eyes, sitting up. "She wants me to stay pretty."

Daddy's hand cups my face, forcing me to look at him. His eyes are kind. His eyes are always kind. "You take after her, so that's a no brainer."

"What about you?" His sweet laugh shakes the floor as I run to the mirror, just to make sure that my eyes are still hazel, my hair is still almost-red, my skin is still pale as ever. He comes and stands at my side as I look myself over, still laughing and smiling even more.

"Mhmm. You look like me, too." I turn around, sighing in relief. I let out a squeal as he hikes me over his shoulder and tosses me on my bed. He shoves the covers all around me, even tucking them so close that I can't move.

"Goodnight, Daddy," I say, my body slowly sinking into sleep.

Through the quiet, I hear, "Goodnight, my Gracie girl."

And I fall asleep to a city of glass, the moon somehow shining brighter than the streetlights.