I'm going to have to kill myself.
"Rickiejollen!" Emma squealed as I walked through the door.
"Emma!" I squealed back. We exchanged hugs; I grimaced at Sam behind her back.
You know those chick-flick movies when two characters who completely hate each other hug and act like they're best friends to each other's faces, even though they both know they hate each other's guts? That's Emma's and my friendship. If you could call it that. More like friendshit. All she does is criticize my clothes and annoy me with her 'helpful' fashion hints. Wait for it… wait for it…
"Your outfit is, um…"-Her face scrunched up, making her look like a shrunken potato- "…interesting."
We have liftoff! "Aw, thanks. Only took me two minutes. How long did it take you to get ready this morning?"
Her face went all blotchy, and I smiled with satisfaction. "Not that long," she said snidely. "Unlike you, I wouldn't want to have country folk dirt on my best clothes, would I?"
Bitch. "I suppose so. Oh, wait, I think there is some on them already. Probably from you. Too bad, isn't it?"
Her face went all tight as she said through a gritted-teeth smile, "Yes, it is quite unfortunate."
I flashed a large grin at her again, feeling the need to think back on Dean's offer on that shotgun. I'm sure my mom would understand… Or not.
"Well, I'm going to take a nap," Emma announced, stomping towards the stairs.
"At four o'clock in the afternoon?" Is she insane? Did the Mean Queen not get enough beauty sleep? Or does she really hate me that much that she has to go to sleep early to avoid me?
"Unlike you, some of us civilized people like to catch up on our sleep. Not that you would know anything about civilized," she said nastily, continuing up the stairs.
"At least I know what it means," I muttered under my breath.
"Just chill, Rickie," Sam said, glowering after Emma. Sam is always kind, but is reeeeeealy over-protective. Like, FBI protective. It's kinda scary when he gets mad, but that's just my opinion. Dean chose this moment to come through the door, looking slightly ruffled, probably from me kicking his butt. (Ha-ha.)
"What is it?" Dean asked, seeing my face.
"Her," I growled, jerking my head towards the stairs.
"You know, I still have that shotgun, Rickie," Dean coaxed. "Take it or leave it…"
"I'll take it!" I shouted.
"That's more like it!" Dean said, clapping me on the shoulder.
"Can you keep it quiet down there? Unlike you, some of us need peace and quiet to sleep," Emma's snide voice called from one of the upstairs guest bedrooms.
"I'm going to show her what unlike really is," I growled. I began to stomp toward the stairs, but Dean grabbed me by the collar of my shirt.
"No fighting yet, Rickie. Save it for the Anti-Clause," he told me.
"Please? I won't even hurt her. That much."
"Nice try. No."
I sighed and looked upstairs at her door. "If she thinks I'm not going to get back at her, she is sadly mistaken," I snarled. I rounded on Sam and Dean. "You know what she did the last time she was here? She put Nair and red food coloring in my shampoo! And the time before that? She sprinkled itching powder on my clothes! Even my baseball cap!"
"These sound sorta familiar, don't they, Sammy?" Dean grinned. We turned to Sam. I was surprised to see he was staring out into space, looking dumbfounded.
"Ralshala!" Sam sputtered.
"What?" I asked in disbelief, but Sam had already twirled around, dashed up the stairs into his room, and slammed his door shut. I turned to Dean, bewildered. He also looked taken aback. Sam came out a few minutes later, looking panicked.
"What's the matter?" Dean inquired.
"What happened, Sam?" I asked.
"It's not the Anti-Clause!" Sam said, alarmed.
"What?!" I cried. "What do you mean 'Not the Anti-Clause'?!"
"It can't be, I checked for deaths that happened at Christmas, none of them are kids, I called Bobby, it's something different, and now we have to make up a whole new plan in less than three hours!" Sam said, sounding like an overwhelmed student with too much homework.
"Okay, okay, let's just calm down. What do you think it is if it's not the anti-Clause?" Dean asked.
"A Ralshala," Sam said, trying to calm down.
"A Ralshala? Ralshala…Oh, son of a bitch!" I moaned. "I hate those freakin' things."
"Okay. Um, what's a Ralshalsa?" Dean asked.
"It's a cousin of the Rakshasa," I moaned. "The same thing, only it's even worse. It gives the kid gifts, mostly food, to make them fatter until they eat them."
Sam added, "…And can make itself look like anyone or anything, preferably a guy between his teens or thirties, or something whimsical, like…"
"An evil Santa Clause?" I shook my head. "You would have thought they would think of something original."
"Maybe it's looking like someone else, who dresses up as Santa for kicks when it goes to see Carrie," Sam suggested.
"Maybe. What did Bobby say?" I asked.
"Uh, that we're morons?"
"Okay. So who do we know who's between those ages?" I asked. Sam thought for a moment and opened his mouth, but got cut off by two boys.
"Hi, Rickie," Joe beamed. He had gotten taller since I had last seen him, and looked older now, much older looking than his eleven years. His dark hair looked like Sam's; long and a deep brown, falling in front of his forehead, which was a departure from what he used to have: a short, army cut. He still had his dark, dark blue eyes that were like his dad's.
"Hi, Joe," I grinned back. "Nice haircut."
"Are you kidding? I haven't got it cut since I-don't-know-when."
"It was a year ago. I vaguely remember you wearing a ski mask and football helmet, refusing to take them off until your hair grew back."
"Oh."
"Hey, Rickie," John added. He also looked like Joe, but had hair that was short and sticking up, like Dean's, and brown eyes, like his mom and sister's. He was tall too, too tall for his age. Wait, how old was he?
"Hi, John. Geez, you've gotten taller," I said.
"Nah, you've just gotten shorter," he smirked.
Hardy-har-har. I'm dying of laughter. Not. It's not fair. He's only two years older and is 5'7; a whole 7 inches taller than my 5 foot nothing.
"Ha-ha-hilarious. How old are you?"
"Fourteen," he said proudly.
Crap. "Wow, fourteen! Those teenage years are great, aren't they, Sam, Dean?" I said loudly, looking at them. The look on Sam's face told me he understood.
"They sure are," Sam agreed, confirming he knew what I meant.
Crap. I can't believe this. The Ralshala has to be, out of all the things it could be, the one person who we'll have trouble explaining to the parents why we stabbed their child with a brass knife. Why couldn't it have been Emma? I'm nearly ready to stab her with a knife, anyway. But no, it has to be the one person near my age that makes me look like a friggin' dwarf. Terrific. Flippin' terrific. And we have to make another plan. In less than three hours. I should have recognized it as soon as I heard Carrie's description.
Bobby's right. We are morons.
Hello, everyone! I'm sorry I haven't updated in a while, but now that it's summer, I'll have plenty of time to write. I love you all! Please leave a review for me! Thank you!
always-a-country-girl
