That does it.
“Oh my God. You’re such a narcissist,” I snap. “I’m honestly shocked you haven’t married your own reflection.”
“At least I’d be married.” Amber snatches a pillow off my bed and hurls it at my face. “No one’s ever gonna marry you.”
The pillow whizzes past me and lands with a muffledthwackagainst the bed. In retaliation, I snatch her hairbrush from the floor and fling it at her. She shrieks and ducks as it ricochets off the mirror and clatters to the ground—just as Mom bursts in.
“What on earth is going on in here?” she asks, eyes wide, arms folding across her gauzy white peasant blouse. She’s dressed for the game in full boho regalia—giant gold hoops, stacks of bangles, and atie-dye scarf wrapped around her hair like Stevie Nicks’s long-lost twin.
“She started it,” Amber says, pointing one manicured finger at me.
“Alysander Sage Smith.” Mom whirls to face me, her voice like tempered steel. “You’re too old for this nonsense.”
“Of course you’d take her side.” I snatch my belt bag from the floor and fasten it around my waist, heat rising in my chest, fast and sharp.
It’s always like this. Amber gets away with murder, and I’m the one who gets scolded.
In moments like these, I can’t help but wonder what life might’ve been like if my father had stuck around. Now that I know we look alike, I can’t stop thinking about what else we might’ve shared. Would he have understood me? Backed me up?
It doesn’t seem fair that I’ll never know the truth. That all I have are my mother’s hazy stories and half-baked delusions.
But this definitely isn’t the time to bring any of that up.
“Can’t you two ever get along?” Mom sighs, exasperated. “Your auras are all clouded and red. This kind of deep-seated anger is toxic.”
“You’re absolutely right, Mom,” Amber says, syrupy sweet. “I will if you will, Ally?”
God, she’s such a fake.
“Thanks, sweetie,” Mom says. “I knew I could count on you.”
“Seriously? She doesn’t mean it.”
Mom turns to me, her face hardening. “I’m not dealing with this attitude all day, Alysander. Fix your mindset or you can stay home while your sister and I go to the game.”
“Stay home?” My voice spikes. “This ismyHomecoming. You stay home.”
“I don’t like your tone, young lady.” Her lips flatten. “You’re lucky you have a mother and sister who want to go with you. I don’t see anyone else volunteering.”
Ouch.
That one lands harder than it should. Nothing like your own mother casually implying you’re a social pariah.
I try to let it roll off. I know she doesn’t mean it, not really. She just hates the constant bickering.
Still. It stings.
“It’s okay, Mom,” Amber says softly, taking our mother’s hand. “Ally’s just having a bad week. We should go easy on her.”
I pause, unsure whether she’s genuinely trying to defend me or just racking up more brownie points with Mom. I’m leaning toward the latter, but before I can fully decide, a knock sounds at the door. Amber’s on her feet instantly, practically sprinting toward it, leaving behind her usual cloud of overly sweet, floral perfume.
Mom lingers, turning to give me one last long, disappointed look.
“I just don’t know what to do with you sometimes,Alysander,” she says, and then turns on her heel, following after Amber.
I groan and flop back onto my bed for half a second before grabbing my phone and heading after them. My mother can be so damn sensitive. I get that it’s part of what makes her such an intuitive empath—and so good at her job reading people—but she really can’t take even a flicker of heat without wilting.
And now that I know about the letters and her mental health spirals, I worry even more. One wrong move and she might shatter.
