She's not getting mad. She's getting even.
Lola Melese has it all: a great job, the worlds most entertaining best friend, a loving boyfriend and a squeaky clean reputation.
That is until her all-american boyfriend cheats.
Now, Lola's regarded as the...
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"THE FOOD IS ready!" I call out from the kitchen as I pluck out a fork from one of the cabinets and place it onto the side of the side of the plate.
Anthony's hard footsteps rush into the kitchen. His gaming headset rests unevenly on his head as he yells at his friends over the speaker.
"No, boys we need a full squad. Just invite Josh! I don't care if he sucks I'll carry him—"
He shoots me two thumbs up before grabbing onto his plate with one hand and balancing both his controller and a freshly poured glass of apple juice in the other.
"Don't spill anything!" I call out with a scrunched-up nose.
The last time 'we' spilt juice all over the sitting room's carpet, Mom almost killed us and we'd had to pay for the steam cleaning she'd hired.
Anthony had almost bent himself over in half and cried himself to sleep when he gave up a sum of his birthday money.
It cost me half a shift of earnings, which turned into the entirety of the shift after I felt bad for my younger brother and paid his dues back to him.
I pick up my own ceramic bowl of spaghetti and head over to the couch in the living room. I fold my legs over themselves and place the white bowl in my lap before reaching over to the end of the chaise sofa and grabbing the TV remote.
I flicker through an endless cycle of channels until I reach one that's coincidentally playing only the sappiest of romantic movies of all time: Me Before You.
Great, not only can I not grieve this relationship of mine but I'll also have to cry myself to sleep.
I've been surprisingly going strong since school ended, although I think that has more to do with the fact that I could never in good conscience cry in front of Anthony.
The boy barely knows how to take care of himself when he grazes his knee let alone his crying sister.
With a half-hearted sigh, I shuffle back into the couch and dig into the pasta. I only register how much time has passed when my fork hits the bottom of the ceramic bowl and scrapes against it.
Cringing at the sound, I lean forward to place the bowl on the coffee table before bringing my knees up to myself and hugging them there.
Distantly, Anthony's voice rings out as he and his friends yell at poor Josh because 'can't you see we're carrying you!' I don't know what it is about twelve-year-old boys and their inability to maintain their calmness when playing video games but I refuse to let my brother be plagued by it.
Anthony is still yelling at the rest of his friends for picking on Josh when the doorbell rings.
I straighten up at that.
We live on a pretty quiet street that is lined with single-story houses filled with small families like ours. We aren't close to our neighbours but the Arnold family are a God-fearing casserole-making family who up until last year I thought had no pets, but have six.
