Total pages in book: 50
Estimated words: 47086 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 235(@200wpm)___ 188(@250wpm)___ 157(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 47086 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 235(@200wpm)___ 188(@250wpm)___ 157(@300wpm)
And you’d think she’d be thankful. You’d think my baby sister would be grateful to have an older sibling looking out for her, one who’s responsible for finding a place to live and handling all the arrangements for the funeral.
But Ann-Marie is something else because this girl is an all-out diva, horrifically self-centered. The last time I heard “thank you” was probably when she was five, but then again, I think she treats everyone like that. Hopefully, it’s a phase. Oh god, I hope it’s a phase otherwise this girl is never gonna get by.
But for now, things are okay. My sister’s so gorgeous that everything goes her way. It’s like she’s a beautiful rose, and everyone bends over backwards, letting the precious flower gets its share of sunlight and water. It’s crazy sometimes. People on the street smile when they see her coming, dogs nose over to nuzzle against those twig-like legs, and of course, there’s the men. Men from the ages of ten to eighty worship Ann-Marie, they can’t see her shortcomings because she’s so goddamn gorgeous.
So sometimes I feel like I’m the only one who really knows her. Sometimes I feel like I’m the only one who can see inside, who knows what a spoiled, immature child the redhead is. And there’s no way out. As my only family left in the world, Ann-Marie’s all I’ve got, and I’m the only person she’s got too.
By this point, I’m eating my TV dinner standing at the kitchen counter, and whaddya know, but in the midst of my thoughts, Ann-Marie prances into the kitchen with just her bra and panties covering her willowy frame, skidding to a haughty stop in front of me.
She looks thoroughly pissed, those narrow eyes cat-like and angry, but even that look works for her.
“Did you hear me or not?” she demands, planting her hands on her tiny waist. “Where’s my dress? I told you not to take my stuff,” she accuses.
I snort. While my figure is full and overflowing, my sister’s body is long and toned. She probably only weighs a hundred pounds soaking wet, so what is it with the dress thing?
I shoot her a long look.
“I don’t have your dress, Ann-Marie. What would I be doing with it?”
She huffs, sliding me a critical glance down the bridge of her perfect nose.
“I don’t know. Explain to me why it’s missing then. Clothes don’t just grow legs and walk away, you know.”
Planting my hands against the kitchen counter, I study her for a second and heave a sigh.
“You must have misplaced it,” I offer in return. Far too tired for this petty conversation, my mind wanders to the book I’ll be reading later, filled with a gorgeous guy waiting on bended knee. Is there someone like my sister in the book? God, I hope not, it’d just ruin the night.
But Ann-Marie doesn’t let my daydream last more than a few seconds
“No, I’m pretty sure I’d know where my own clothes are,” she insists with defiance shining in her eyes. “Come on Anna, tell me where it is.”
“Look, I never touched your dress,” I say stiffly. “If I wanted something of yours, I would always ask first. Besides, it would never fit me anyways, we’re two completely different sizes, so how would I squeeze into it?”
“Last,” I huff, gathering steam, really on a roll now. “Where would I wear your purple dress? From what I remember, that thing had rhinestones and sparkles on it. Where would I be going in that?”
Ann-Marie smirks, the expression ruining her pretty face.
“You’re right,” she says breezily. “You wouldn’t fit into it, and yeah, there aren’t exactly guys asking you out on dates. But still, maybe you took it to try on. You know, to pretend you’re me.”
I gasp.
“To pretend I’m you?” I ask disbelievingly. “Really?”
“Yeah, sure, why not?” replies Ann-Marie, waving her hand airily. “I mean, everyone wants to be me,” she continues, as if that were obvious. “Especially you, Anna. I’m just a little younger, a little taller, and god knows, a lot lighter. Guys ask me out whereas you’ve just got your make-believe boyfriends in books,” she says with a pitying look. “The kind that look like Fabio and star in fake butter commercials.”
I literally can’t speak. The words seize in my throat, my mind spinning because my sister’s level of self-absorption is at a new level. I pity whatever poor guy is hanging out with her tonight. I really feel sorry for him because seriously, it doesn’t matter how beautiful a girl is when she’s got the attitude of a thirteen year-old adolescent.
But when I see that my sister’s absolutely serious, I give up. Shrugging my shoulders, I say shortly, “Fine. You’re more than welcome to search my room if you want. I guarantee you won’t find it there, but fine.”