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An answer but not an answer. An answer that evokes another question. An answer I have a feeling is entirely purposeful.
10
JACKSON
Fire Brick.
It’s the name of a paint that lives in my collection, a standard shade of deep red. The exact shade currently staining my younger sister’s hair.
It knocked me back a step when I first saw it glowing in the late October sun. I blinked a couple of times, wondering if it was just a trick of the light. I opened my mouth to say something undoubtedly eloquent along the lines of ‘what the fuck, Lottie?’ But before I could, Lux yanked my arm and shot me a look. A look I know well; shut your mouth or risk the wrath of a hormonal teenage girl.
So, I did. And I have.
But, from where I stand on the front porch, I can’t stop staring at Lottie through the kitchen window, hair even more fiery against her prim and proper white dress. She eyeballs me right back, squinting a silent dare as she presumably reads my mind.
Tugging on the uncomfortably itchy collar of my over-starched shirt, I avert my gaze to the girl standing ram-rod straight beside me, glaring at the hem of her knee-length skirt. “Since when does she like red so much?”
“Since she sold her soul to the devil, maybe.”
“Lux.”
Unbothered by my reprimand, Lux snorts. “See if you’re still defending her by the time this weekend is up.”
“If we survive this weekend.” The slacks suffocating my waist yet billowing too loosely around my calves might kill me first. Or the fancy, previously unworn shoes blistering my feet to hell. Or, more likely, the passengers in the spotless white BMW kicking up dirt on the horizon might be my,our, end.
Dragging my gaze from our impending doom, I glance over my shoulder and sigh at all that red. “They’re not gonna like it.”
“She’s their favorite.” Lux plays nonchalant but her twisted expression gives away her concern. “She’ll be fine.”
It’s not Lottie I’m worried about; it never comes down on her. The responsibility always lands on the girl fiddling with the tarnished pendant hanging between her collarbones. “Everything looks okay, right?”
I plant a hand on my sister's shoulder and squeeze, the tension rolling off her palpable. “Everything looks great,” I assure her, wishing my false optimism was successful in soothing the dread knotted in my stomach.
Our grandparents' visit is a rarity. I was surprised as hell when Lux told me about it while requesting my presence. They rarely leave their Malibu mansion—we called it the Barbie Dreamhouse, back when we still used humor to counter the shit hand we’d been dealt—and we like it that way. We like our freedom, our slice of peace and privacy.
But occasionally, they make an appearance. Usually just our grandmother; the only good thing about our grandfather is his blessed indifference. Mercifully quick visits but still long enough to taint our day. And with every inch closer the ridiculously impractical car travels, the sense of foreboding grows.
The screech of a door opening is as slow and reluctant as the rest of my sisters are to join us on the porch. When a body tucks itself against my side, I wrap an arm around the calm to her twin’s chaos. “You think they’re coming to congratulate me for making varsity captain?”
It’s a joke but still, I wish I could say yes. Instead, all I can do is give Grace’s ponytail a tug and say, “I’m proud of you.”
“I know.” A head hits my shoulder. “Lottie made the track team again.”
“She did?” Soft hair brushes my neck as Grace nods. “I didn’t know she was trying out.”
Grace cracks a smile, I can hear it in her voice. “She didn’t. Coach saw her running circles around the boys’ team and practically begged her to join.”
“Good.” Really good. Having something to channel all that anger into can only be a good thing. Maybe she’ll run off some of that goddamn attitude. “You know what sparked the makeover?”
Something in Grace’s expression falls. She glances toward the far side of the porch where her twin lurks, a sad downward tilt to her mouth as she quietly reveals, “They called her a dumb blonde.”
“What?”
“Some boys at school. They called her a dumb blonde so she dyed it.”
Fuck.
Well, now I feel like a dick.
