A.N. Wow, that last chapter. Plot-wise, I like it. It's accurate to the real story. The writing style/grammar/stupid mistakes, on the other hand… I don't know if I just didn't read over it before I posted it or if I forgot to save the last edits to the final draft. I'm aware that I said Sigler's and Bradley's. They're the same couple; I just messed up on the last names! Ugh, sue me.
Sorry I haven't posted in so long. As all other writers that don't post in a while say, "I've been busy with school and work and family issues." That, and I had to start being more surreptitious in hiding names and making sure the real life version of the story and the fan fiction match up too perfectly. In real life, "Dylan" makes more advances on "Max". The whole almost-incest thing is a little too weird for a lot of readers that have step siblings and such. If you feel like it's important to add in those details, leave a review.
Thanks so much to those of you who are still reading, and those people who review so often. I appreciate you so much you have no idea. And also, thanks to those of you who read this crazy, 217 freaking word author's note.
I put my phone back in my pocket and told myself to text him back later. For some reason, I didn't want him to think I was needy. I cared about his opinion.
"Max," Dylan said, leafing through an old family album. "Remember this? Our first vacation together."
An image of the eleven year old versions of Dylan and I, him in extra small American eagle swim trunks, me in my Abercrombie and Fitch (kids) white bikini. How innocent we were back then, no scars, no excessive hair products, and no douche-bag sneakers. He was just happy to have a new dad, and I was hoping that Bridget would be like Nudge's mom, who baked cookies and smelt like she did, too.
Our wet hair was in our faces, his arm was around me, and we were both flashing matching left canine-missing smiles to a camera, back when our parents used actual camera's instead of smart phones. Now he would have to make some inappropriate remark or "accidentally" grope me if he put his arm around me and I was in a bikini, which I never would be.
I think those were the best times of my life. Dylan and I didn't talk much, and when we did it was always childish, polite questions. But even then, that being the age where I started getting so philosophical, I knew that we were the same. He had nothing, and because his mom married my dad, he was going to have everything. I had everything, but at the same time I had nothing. And he would realize soon enough that money was equivalent to nothing.
Dylan groaned, snapping me out of my state of mind.
"God, you're staring at the floor. Will you stop thinking and entertain me for a minute? I'm bored."
"Then go downstairs." I shrugged.
"Yeah, but that would mean we lost. The whole point of hiding up in the attic is that we're away from Bridget and Jeb, and they have no idea where we are."
"Do you really think they ever look for us when we're up here? They don't climb those stairs. For all they know we're just sulking up in our rooms."
"Or maybe they know where we are but don't care that we're up here." He agreed.
"I doubt it. They probably forgot the attic exists. They haven't been up here in, what, five years?"
"Maybe we should try to rebel in a different way." Dylan suggested.
"Like what? Do drugs? Start drinking? Start cutting? Throw tantrums and run into the attic? Or, and this one's crazy, you can flirt with me all the time! That one's rebellious AND illegal!" I said, my face brightening sarcastically.
He made a face at me. "Okay, so obviously our current methods aren't working. They don't care about anything we do. They just need us to be perfect when there's company. And you said the Sigler's were coming over later, right?"
I shook my head. "I know what you're thinking, and it'll never work. That's like, breaking the one rule they have. And if we break that rule, who knows how many others they'll start enforcing?"
"Don't you ever just want to start taking risks?"
"I already take risks."
"Getting drunk with your stepbrother isn't a risk. And you already know cutting is where I draw the line."
"You cut too, asshole."
He glowered slightly. "I haven't done that since I was thirteen."
"Whatever,"
People might understand why I cut just by looking at me. No friends. No life. No pop music. I match that damned stereotype. But Dylan was living proof that no matter how perfect your life seems, everyone has their problems. He would never cut his wrists, didn't want people to see even though it was the middle of winter. But if you look at the top of his shoulders, his legs, you could still see the faint white lines he made years ago.
My phone buzzed again. Isaac again.
"Hella bored. Wanna hang out?"
This time, because he texted me first, I texted back.
"Sure."
"Cool. I'll pick you up?"
I texted him my address.
"Hey, Dylan." I said. "I'm done with strike for today."
He groaned. "Why?" He whined.
"I'm going to go ask if I can go hang out with Isaac."
"Your boyfriend?" He taunted.
I scowled at him.
"You're insufferable."
"We had an attitude problem this morning. They're not letting you out of the house."
We flipped each other off as I ducked out of the attic, our special sibling wave to each other.
"Good luck," He said, still flipping through the old book.
"No." Bridget said, almost apologetically. "We're not going to reward behavior like yours by letting you play with your friends."
"Hold on, honey." Jeb said. A lot of parents have this thing where they don't correct each other in front of their children. Bridget and Jeb were not these parents. "Did you say you would be seeing a friend?" He asked expectantly, seeming a little surprised.
"Yeah. I don't even have to drive out anywhere, he'd pick me up."
"So it's a he?" Jeb asked, not even bothering to hide his hint of shock.
"Yeah."
"What's his name?"
"Isaac."
"Isaac what?"
"Isaac Knight."
"That's a pretty name." Bridget said, raising her eyebrows and nodding slightly.
"Does he do drugs?" Jeb asked.
"Nope," Probably not.
"Does he smoke?"
"Nope," I put my hand in the pocket of pajama pants and crossed my fingers.
"Does he drink?"
"No, dad."
"Does he cut?"
I through my hands in the air, seemingly exasperated. "Dad! Why do you think that the first time I make a friend it's some freak? Isaac's perfectly fine!"
I think I died a little on the inside by using the word freak. The word felt weird on my lips and left a bad taste in my mouth.
"Alright," Jeb sighed. "How long will you be out? Where will you be?"
"I don't know. A while I guess. Maybe his house. I'll text you." No I wouldn't. "I'm responsible." No I'm not.
"Okay… But on one condition."
"Yeah?"
"First, you need to improve your attitude. And secondly, don't wear those goth clothes. Wear nice girl clothes, knowing how early the Sigler's show up you won't have time to change."
I mentally groaned. Knowing I was still walking on thin ice, I didn't inform Jeb that that was actually two conditions, not one.
"Thanks, dad." I said, bouncing up the stairs slightly.
I blocked out of the sounds of Bridget and Jeb talking about me.
My room is not organized, so to speak. It's a little cluttered. But my closet is very organized, split down the middle between things I like and things I hate. The clothes I liked were a tad darker, a tad more conservative, and a tad less a-fucking-unicorn-threw-up-on-everything. The clothes I didn't like were lighter, less conservative, and much more a-fucking-unicorn-threw-up-on-everything.
I really didn't have much of a problem with the clothes I didn't like. They were fine on other people, nice people could be girly and feminine. It's the fact that I had to put said girly and feminine garments on my body that I had a problem with. It was winter and I wanted to wear a freaking thick sweater and jeans. My parents preferred that I would wear lighter, pastel sweaters and a pretty circle skirt. But it was okay! I had leggings to wear under the skirt that would keep me warm!
Insert the sound of shrieking.
I wasn't allowed to flat iron my hair when guests came over. That was considered too goth, which I am not. My hair was quite a betrayal to me. Naturally, it was a brown, dirty blonde and had a confusing mix of waves and curls. I had bleached it blonde, almost white because of a phase I went through when I was fourteen. And I thought it suited my better. I knew I would have to take out the braid I had did this morning. According to my lovely step mother, if I have long hair, I am to leave it down whenever I can. I also suggested I could get a pixie cut. Those suggestions have been ignored.
Isaac, the perfect gentlemen, came to the door. My father immediately didn't like him, I could tell. But I had a friend. And that was better than nothing. He snickered as we settled in to his car.
"Well, don't you look pretty today?" He snorted.
"Shut up."
