Page 53 of Break Away
The second I opened the door, my little sister looked me up and down like I had personally offended her by existing. Fourteen years old, pale blond hair pulled into a ponytail, mascara too carefully applied to be casual, phone clutched in one hand, and the kind of dramatic boredom only teenage girls could weaponize.
“You look tired,” she said.
“Hello to you too, Sky.”
“You always say I look tired when I FaceTime you after school.”
“That’s because you look tired after school.”
“That’s called being academically oppressed.”
Behind her, my mom snorted while hauling a bag over one shoulder. She wore jeans, boots, and a black Fury hoodie she had washed so many times the logo had gone soft around the edges. Her hair was twisted up in a clip, and the shadows beneath her eyes told me she had worked too close to this trip.
She still smiled like the world had not figured out how to beat her yet.
“Move, baby,” she said. “Your sister has been trapped in a truck with a playlist called Hot Girl Emotional Support for two hours, and I deserve coffee, a medal, or a new identity.”
Skylar rolled her eyes. “My music has layers.”
“It had screaming.”
“That was artistry.”
“That was a woman threatening a man with arson over a bass drop.”
I stepped back, and Mom walked in first, reaching up to squeeze the back of my neck as she passed. She did it quickly, like affection was something she could disguise as checking me for a fever.
Her fingers paused for half a second, and I knew she felt the tension there because mothers had a witchery to them that was terrifying.
Her eyes flicked to mine, and I looked away first.
Vivi stood behind her with purple sensory headphones over her ears and both hands tucked into the sleeves of her Demon Slayer hoodie. Twelve years old, smaller than Skylar had been at that age, her eyes scanned the doorway, stairs, lights, shoes by the mat, and the guys visible down the hall.
Her mouth moved silently, and I could tell she was counting because her left thumb tapped each finger inside her sleeve.
I crouched enough to bring myself into her line of sight without blocking the door. “Hey, Vivi.”
Her eyes landed on my mouth, then my chin, then the gray hoodie I had thrown over my shirt. She lifted one hand and tapped two fingers against her sleeve.
“Two thirty,” she said.
“Two thirty,” I agreed. “Right on time.”
“Your game starts at seven oh five, but warmups start before that.”
“Warmups at six thirty.”
“You have to tape your stick.”
“I already did one.”
“You need two.”
“I have two.”
She nodded once, satisfied. “Good.”
Something in my chest loosened as Skylar pushed past us, dragging a small overnight bag that looked too expensive for me not to recognize the hit to my bank account.
