Now we’re in two lawsuits.

Now things are brought to light.

All because she was there.

I can’t stand her. I can’t.

It takes everything in me to look away from her so I don’t rush up to her and do something that can’t be forgiven. Do I sometimes dream of her lips? Of the way she tastes?

Yes.

And it pisses me off even more.

Because everything was perfect.

Until it wasn’t.

Until I was standing there staring at a body bag.

At my mom bawling her eyes out.

At Mary-Belle saying it was her fault, on her grass-stained knees, a day after I was inside her, thinking this was it, she was mine, I was hers, and this was forever.

I slam my locker door twice before it finally closes and grab my bag, tightening it on my shoulder, my grip so strong my fingers turn numb.

I wish the rest of me would be numb instead of all these feelings. I wish so many things. I wish I would have listened more to my dad and that I would have been more of a man than the punk kid I was.

But now, I’m forced into a world I never wanted to be a part of.

And again, it’s her fault.

The foster girl with her black trash bag and hole-filled shoes.

I turn.

She’s there, right in front of me, with the fancy bag my mom gave her, it’s a Prada backpack, black, she has whatever else my family gave her in it, like her shiny new cell phone and credit cards since my mom felt guilty she had nothing.

And she’s holding a book.

History.

Ironic, isn’t it?

Her hair’s cut to her shoulders, dirty blonde, and her eyes lock on mine. Her uniform is pristine like she’s just ironed it up. Her black thigh highs dip into red combat boots, and her lips have a shiny gloss that would entice any guy, gay or straight.

Her brown eyes search mine for something I’m not willing to give, so I look away. I can’t take it.

It’s hard enough living with her.

Even worse, going to school with her.

Even worse than that? The fact that the entire school, regardless of what she does, seems to think she’s suddenly the second coming.

She volunteers for everything.

She’s a straight-A student.

She’s just nice to everyone no matter how they treat her, which is irritating in and of itself—and she’s done all of this in the span of a semester. Sometimes I think she does it on purpose just to make up for her sins.

I wish, for once in my fucking life, that she would be cruel the way I know her to be cruel to destroy something so perfect.

Instead, she continues her Mother Teresa act like its normal when I know she’s a killer.

Am I being extreme? Yes. Emotional? Yes. But get back at me when your dad dies at the hand of someone you trusted who refuses to tell the cops what actually happened.