ditto
ʟɪᴠɪɴ' ʟɪᴋᴇ ʟᴀʀʀʏ
Mer’s eyes shifted around. Her hand grabbed CK’s arm, shoved his shoulder to get him to look anywhere but at her. Though she was surely trying to avert his suspicion, it obviously had the opposite effect. CK’s lips flattened into a line, and he glared down at his little sister as he turned back to her and she released his arm. “Cut the —“
A chorus of loud TCHs interrupted his choice words, followed by scattered shrieks and yells. CK glanced over his shoulder toward the noise, and his lip curled up in confusion when he saw what was happening on the field. Who the fuck turned on the —
It clicked. He jerked his head back at Mer, a furious, knowing expression on his face.
“CK, listen,” she said, an uneasy smile on her face. “If you know what’s good for you —“
“What’s good for me?!” he demanded, yelling over her. The choir of screaming teenaged girls and boys, as well as his own yelling, made the rest of her words unintelligible. He could feel his neck growing red and hot with anger; he dropped his helmet and balled up his fists. “What’s good for me, Mer?! What the fuck do you —“ Her eyes darted to something behind him. “Fucking look at —“
A look of panic set in her face, and she cut in with a loud, “Drake! N—“
SPLAT!
There was only a slight pain in the back of his head, and then a burst of wetness that he could feel on his scalp and his neck. CK still stood for a second in shock. His face went blank, unreadable. For a split moment, everything about him appeared calm.
Then, his face snapped into fury.
His cleats tore a bit of the wetted grass as he spun around to see a cackling Drake Martin, holding what must have been a duplicate of whatever the hell hit his back. Acting purely on instinct, without anything really registering in his mind, the blindly angry Chelsea reached out and grasped the balloon-holding boy by both shoulders. He yanked him up, and he gave him an aggressive, solid shake. “Give me one good fucking reason,” he growled, getting up in Martin’s face and throttling him again, “why I shouldn’t rip your fucking limbs f—“
SPLAT!
He turned his head slightly away from Martin, glancing in the direction of the noise, just to see his little sister covered in glue and glitter. For a moment, he stared at her, tensely silently fuming and assessing whether or not she was hurt.
And then, she started laughing, which converted both his concern for her and his fury for Martin into fury right for her. Dropping Martin with a shove, he pivoted back around toward his sister. The look in his eyes was that of a hawk, lasered in on its prey.
“You’re dead,” he said, and he made a lurch for her.
And like skittish prey, she ran away.
CK immediately took off after her, running through the sprinklers and the mud they had caused, as balloons sailed all around him. “You’re dead!” he yelled. “Dead!”
The car, for the first couple of minutes, was tensely silent. With the car radio and air conditioner off, the only sounds were that of CK’s Mercedes-Benz’s engine purring and the wind rushing by the windows.
There were so many fucking things that CK wanted to say to his sister. You’re making a fucking mockery of us, or, Dad’s going to wring my neck because of you, or, I’m going to have fucking glitter in my hair for weeks, or, You fucking ruined the biggest game of my senior year, of my last fucking year. It wasn’t just his football game that she ruined, though. For shitheads like Rivera? With fucking nothing to call their own? She might have just taken away the one game that would’ve gotten a scout’s attention. She might’ve just taken away the bastard’s future, just for fucking laughs. Not that he cared about him or anything, but it was seriously just shitty. Did she think this was funny shit, huh?
Her fucking rebel phase. It was going to kill the family, or kill their reputations at the very least, and kill CK because he always had to take the fall for her shit. Because Mer was fucking perfect, hung the fucking moon and stars, and even when she got in trouble, really, it was CK’s fault for not keeping her in fucking line.
Chelsea didn’t pry his eyes away from the windshield. He knew, if he looked in her direction, he would lose his temper. Instead, he worked his jaw, grasped the wheel tightly in both hands, kept his face straight ahead, and focused on long, deep breaths.
They stopped at a red light, behind a very long chain of cars. With the car still, there wasn’t much noise at all, and the air grew even thicker with tension. The moment demanded some words to be said, and yet CK, in his thorough anger and disappointment, was at a loss for what to say.
Finally, one question made its way out of his mouth: “Are you proud of yourself?”
He paused a long time, and then looked over at her, his gaze stifling. He worked his jaw for a moment, and then repeated, “Are you fucking proud, Mer?”
But that wasn’t quite what he wanted to say, or ask. He looked forward again, and then breathed out another sigh. “Did that balloon hurt?” he asked, begrudgingly, through a tense jaw.
But that also wasn’t what he wanted to say. He sighed once more. “Let me guess: you still want me to drive you to the party, huh? You still expect me to fucking do that for you?”
A chorus of loud TCHs interrupted his choice words, followed by scattered shrieks and yells. CK glanced over his shoulder toward the noise, and his lip curled up in confusion when he saw what was happening on the field. Who the fuck turned on the —
It clicked. He jerked his head back at Mer, a furious, knowing expression on his face.
“CK, listen,” she said, an uneasy smile on her face. “If you know what’s good for you —“
“What’s good for me?!” he demanded, yelling over her. The choir of screaming teenaged girls and boys, as well as his own yelling, made the rest of her words unintelligible. He could feel his neck growing red and hot with anger; he dropped his helmet and balled up his fists. “What’s good for me, Mer?! What the fuck do you —“ Her eyes darted to something behind him. “Fucking look at —“
A look of panic set in her face, and she cut in with a loud, “Drake! N—“
SPLAT!
There was only a slight pain in the back of his head, and then a burst of wetness that he could feel on his scalp and his neck. CK still stood for a second in shock. His face went blank, unreadable. For a split moment, everything about him appeared calm.
Then, his face snapped into fury.
His cleats tore a bit of the wetted grass as he spun around to see a cackling Drake Martin, holding what must have been a duplicate of whatever the hell hit his back. Acting purely on instinct, without anything really registering in his mind, the blindly angry Chelsea reached out and grasped the balloon-holding boy by both shoulders. He yanked him up, and he gave him an aggressive, solid shake. “Give me one good fucking reason,” he growled, getting up in Martin’s face and throttling him again, “why I shouldn’t rip your fucking limbs f—“
SPLAT!
He turned his head slightly away from Martin, glancing in the direction of the noise, just to see his little sister covered in glue and glitter. For a moment, he stared at her, tensely silently fuming and assessing whether or not she was hurt.
And then, she started laughing, which converted both his concern for her and his fury for Martin into fury right for her. Dropping Martin with a shove, he pivoted back around toward his sister. The look in his eyes was that of a hawk, lasered in on its prey.
“You’re dead,” he said, and he made a lurch for her.
And like skittish prey, she ran away.
CK immediately took off after her, running through the sprinklers and the mud they had caused, as balloons sailed all around him. “You’re dead!” he yelled. “Dead!”
• • • • •
The car, for the first couple of minutes, was tensely silent. With the car radio and air conditioner off, the only sounds were that of CK’s Mercedes-Benz’s engine purring and the wind rushing by the windows.
There were so many fucking things that CK wanted to say to his sister. You’re making a fucking mockery of us, or, Dad’s going to wring my neck because of you, or, I’m going to have fucking glitter in my hair for weeks, or, You fucking ruined the biggest game of my senior year, of my last fucking year. It wasn’t just his football game that she ruined, though. For shitheads like Rivera? With fucking nothing to call their own? She might have just taken away the one game that would’ve gotten a scout’s attention. She might’ve just taken away the bastard’s future, just for fucking laughs. Not that he cared about him or anything, but it was seriously just shitty. Did she think this was funny shit, huh?
Her fucking rebel phase. It was going to kill the family, or kill their reputations at the very least, and kill CK because he always had to take the fall for her shit. Because Mer was fucking perfect, hung the fucking moon and stars, and even when she got in trouble, really, it was CK’s fault for not keeping her in fucking line.
Chelsea didn’t pry his eyes away from the windshield. He knew, if he looked in her direction, he would lose his temper. Instead, he worked his jaw, grasped the wheel tightly in both hands, kept his face straight ahead, and focused on long, deep breaths.
They stopped at a red light, behind a very long chain of cars. With the car still, there wasn’t much noise at all, and the air grew even thicker with tension. The moment demanded some words to be said, and yet CK, in his thorough anger and disappointment, was at a loss for what to say.
Finally, one question made its way out of his mouth: “Are you proud of yourself?”
He paused a long time, and then looked over at her, his gaze stifling. He worked his jaw for a moment, and then repeated, “Are you fucking proud, Mer?”
But that wasn’t quite what he wanted to say, or ask. He looked forward again, and then breathed out another sigh. “Did that balloon hurt?” he asked, begrudgingly, through a tense jaw.
But that also wasn’t what he wanted to say. He sighed once more. “Let me guess: you still want me to drive you to the party, huh? You still expect me to fucking do that for you?”
♡coded by uxie♡