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It’s coming from Britney’s room.
Worried, I open the door and enter.
She’s in the bathroom.
I pause by the bed when I see the junk food on the floor: potato chips, donuts, and chocolate bars.
Everything’s partially eaten.
My concern for her soars.
I hear the toilet flush, followed by running water. I fidget in the spot, waiting for her.
Britney exits the bathroom, hair disheveled, and sticking to her sweaty face.
She freezes when she sees me, flicks to the mess on the carpet, then steers her gaze back to mine.
Tightly folding her arms at her tiny waist, she asks, “What are you doing in my room?”
“I heard you throwing up. Are you all right?”
Britney huffs and eyes the door. “I’m fine, Brandon. Please leave.”
“Brit...” I stare at the pile of junk. “If something’s wrong, you can tell me.”
“Nothing’s wrong,” she grunts, irritable for whatever reason. “I have a recital tomorrow. I need to rest.”
I frown. “I’ll help you talk to Mom.”
“Ugh.” She unfolds her arms and waves to the door. “Goodnight, brother. If you don’t mind, I’d like to go to bed.”
“What’s all this then?” I snap. “Maybe I should speak to both our parents.”
Her eyes expand, a devious look I’ve never seen blooms. “You better not, Brandon. If you say one word to them, I’ll tell Kayla what happened to you in Ohio. I know how embarrassed you are about that.”
I wince from her threat as if she slapped me. It’s surprising how my twin could be so malicious. “I can’t believe you.”
Britney twists her mouth and steers away from my gaze as if realizing what she’d said. “Look, just get out of my room.”
“Whatever.” I pivot in my anger and storm out the door.
To hell with Britney. She can go ahead and destroy herself for the sake of perfection.
