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that persisted through our freshman and sophomore years. Occasionally in class she would make a cutting remark about me if the opportunity arose, and the class would laugh, but this year she seems to have finally gotten over the fight. She no longer glowers at me or goes out of her way to avoid me in the halls or takes the farthest seat from mine in the cafeteria and classrooms. While not overtly friendly, there’s a sense of tentative acceptance between us now.
    The cease-fire must have lulled me into a false sense of security. That’s the only way I can explain why I opened up to her as much as I did and didn’t immediately move away. And what did I get for letting my guard down? Mocked.
    I try to shake it off and tell myself not to care. In less than two years I will be out of this town, in college and with people I like. Who cares what a couple of vapid school kids think of me?
    But as soon as I deposit the pizza boxes on the kitchen table, I head for the bathroom and examine myself in the mirror, trying to picture how I must have looked to them.
    It’s simply me in the mirror, though my cheeks are a little red from the cold, and my hair is a little windblown. A horrifying thought strikes me: I ate a Milky Way earlier that my English teacher had given me for finishing a massive paper. (He loves to reward hard work with candy.) I accidentally sat on the empty wrapper before I threw it away. What if some of it melted on my pants? I turn around and look over my shoulder, already anticipating humiliation. There’s nothing there. I heave a sigh of relief, thanking God for that favor.
    My steps are heavy as I go to grab a couple of slices of pizza with my brothers. If there is nothing unusual about my appearance, it just means that simply being me is worthy of ridicule. Not a comforting thought.
    I’m mostly successful at putting the encounter out of my mind for the rest of the night. I forgo returning to my books to watch TV and eat pizza on the overstuffed, coffee-colored sofa with Jimmy while Sam sits at my feet, guarding the remote control. There’s a crime show on, one that I don’t mind watching. Police procedurals bore me, but this follows the FBI as they chase down all sorts of criminals, and it isn’t very long before I’m as absorbed in Special Agents as Sam.
    Jimmy leaves during a commercial and returns with a plate and two lukewarm slices on it. He goes to Mom’s bedroom and raps gently at the door before letting himself in. He’s only inside for a minute, his and Mom’s voices emanating in a low murmur. When he reappears I give him an inquisitive look, but he just shakes his head and closes the door so softly behind him it doesn’t make a sound.
    He sits back down next to me. Sam seems to have missed the whole exchange, and I’m never sure if he’s playacting not noticing our parents and their situation, or if he really doesn’t pick up on what is happening most of the time. At any rate, he’s more content with his life than Jimmy was at his age. Or that I am with mine right now, come to think of it.
    I prod him in the small of his back with my toes to get a reaction. Just because. He doesn’t acknowledge me until the third poke, when he whips around and glares.
    â€œStop it!”
    â€œStop what?” I ask innocently, legs crossed demurely at my ankles. As soon as he rights himself I jab him again.
    â€œ Aaaaaudreyyy !” he whines, slapping backward to ward me off.
    â€œWhat?” I’m grinning as I poke him again. It’s stupid, I know, but there’s such perverse fun in tormenting a younger sibling.
    â€œCome on, you two,” Jimmy says, bored and not looking away from the TV. Sam hits back again, and this time makes contact with the sore spot left by Scarlett’s shoe. I gasp and grab my leg—in pain, yes, but mostly in surprise. It hadn’t been hurting, and I’d forgotten about the