Unfortunately, I’m most clumsy when I’m nervous.

It’s a horrible attribute. I wouldn’t wish it on my enemy, but then again, I doubt my enemies would ever feel nervous enough to be clumsy.

Ryke slams the trunk closed, and then we head towards the sidewalk. A cameraman sprints in front of me and walks backwards as he films. “What’s your name?!” he asks over the other paparazzi.

“She’s my cousin,” Loren lies with a dark glare. “So watch what you say and do.” He stuffs a hand in his pocket, the action casual but somehow threatening.

About this time, we reach the sidewalk, a direct shot to the glass double doors of the apartment complex. Lo said they can’t follow us inside. So I practically hold my breath in anticipation of ditching the eight—no, twelve cameramen that flank us.

And then, the weight on my shoulder goes from slightly heavy to very, very light—followed by a crash and a crack! I freeze in place and look down at the cement, wide-eyed at my backpack’s contents.

Shit. The bottom of my backpack ripped.

And my laptop… I’m about to bend down to check it, but I notice other items that litter the sidewalk.

Like an extra T-shirt and shorts for overnight “crashing in my car” purposes. An extra pair of panties—these really childish looking blue pair with purple hearts.

Lots of highlighters, sticky notes, and pens.

What’s most abundant: tampons. And not just one or two. There is an entire box of pink plastic-wrapped applicators. I know this because I bought a box recently, dumped it into my backpack, and thought nothing of it.

I tense up, locked in a shell-shocked state, most likely ghostly pale.

My heart plummets, leaving a hollow hole in its place. My brother—a new brother—and his intimidating half-brother plant their gazes on me. And to make it worse: I’m surrounded by men with cameras who will no doubt post this on the internet.

I’m not ready to be a meme. Oh my God.

I can’t move. I can’t squat. I just stare like maybe this moment will rewind itself, and my jean backpack won’t rip apart.

“Oh shit,” one of the cameramen laughs.

I barely register Loren’s murderous glare, plastered on the camera guy. He shrinks back a little and holds up a hand in surrender.

And then Ryke sets down his box. What is he doing—

No!

He starts collecting my tampons like they’re pencils and not feminine products. I dazedly animate, like my legs belong to another girl—a higher force pulling the strings attached to my limbs. I kneel and quickly gather all the items, frantically stuffing them in my backpack’s side pocket that’s still intact.

Not a lot can fit there, so I bundle everything else in my arms. I decide to check the state of my laptop later, but upon glance, it seems okay.

“I can get that,” I practically whisper to Ryke, gesturing to the tampons and two comic books in his clutch. I’m not sure he hears me, but I outstretch my free hand, showing him that I’ll take it.