Ave
My throat burned. It was the one thing we had left of JJ- Halloweens and holidays. And she was taking that away.
"I'll be in the treehouse," I said sharply and promptly stormed, in a very Ave way, into the woods behind the house, pajama clad and sketchbook in hand. I heard Bethie sigh. I didn't even want to know what Zave was doing.
The treehouse was always my place- so picturesque, calm. After dumping my sketchbook on the hammock reserved for me, I dashed back in the house to grab an armful of food and bottled strawberry lemonade, and then back. Putting that in a cooler, I slammed the wooden door shut and threw myself on the hammock, burying my face in the pillow. I pulled a quilt around me and covered all of me save my forehead. Mm. Warm. And the good, strong build (and air control unit) meant my quilt was bug-free and... not icky.
So, after a good ten minutes of crying quietly- oh. Maybe I should explain the massive emotion? Okay. So, I know for a fact that Tiffani is set against any of us acknowledging the real JJ. Because apparently that's not the 'real' real JJ. Still with me? Good. So she comes over to meet us, as a favor to JJ, who she obviously didn't care for. Takes one look at zoned out, unresponsive me, with my abstract sketches and hugely wide eyes, and says, as if I can't hear, "Justin, your sister's, like, autistic or something."
Even Zave got mad at that. He's the only one who's allowed to do stuff like that, make jokes about my less than stellar responsiveness, and even then, he doesn't push it quite this hard, and he's known me since birth. Every time since, she's taken a look at us and stuck her nose up- like we were the losers at her school which doesn't make since we don't even attend.
And now JJ, the only brother I had who truly was affectionate of me, was leaving us for that.
But enough sniffling, I scorned myself. Grabbing a bottle of strawberry lemonade and a muffin, I flipped open my sketchbook and start on a clean, creamy sheet. JJ's face, looking so pained as Tiffani came swinging up, voice strained and eyes sharp; he knew she wasn't good for him.
The second I can see the hurt in his eyes, I tear out the sheet and stuff it in a drawer, even if it is one of my best drawings to date, my eyes welling up again.
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