“Isabella?”

I quickly looked up at the sound of her unmistakably vexed tone, to see layers of dark circles and the cream and powder that desperately attempted to hide them. Her hair was pulled back in a tight bun at the top of her head, so every wrinkle of displeasure was open and evident.

“What, mom?”

“Did you hear anything I just said? I asked you how packing was going.”

“Oh, it’s good. I … “

There it was, the kick again. I could feel my cheeks getting warmer as my blood pressure rose; I wasn’t in the mood to play around and this happened every night without fail. He shifted back in his chair and pulled his legs up underneath him, to make it more difficult for me to kick him back. He emitted a chuckle and buried his face in his knees, trying to muffle his laughter.

“Isabella! Stay with us, I’m trying to talk to you!”

I gave her that look of mine that I knew she hated, the look filled with shades of “Really mom?” and “I couldn’t care less”. I saw her body tense up, her jawline harden, and her eyes narrow. She parted her crimson lips to speak, artificial lips that were tired out from years of affectation and from channeling too many bitter words that were running out of steam. I interrupted her train of thought.

“I’m done packing. I’ve done it a million times before, so just focus on Ryan’s packing for Vegas. He’s the one who needs your help.”

I felt a sharp pain running up my toes and to the tip of my knees, relaying back down past my calves and encompassing every nerve of my foot. I could physically feel my tolerance and patience melting away, and I snapped.

“Ryan!” I yelled. He grinned, satisfied with his handiwork and satisfied with the sweet taste of revenge. His shameless smile lit up his entire eleven-year-old face, revealing his dimples and uneven rows of teeth. His chair squeaked as he inched farther and farther away from me; he was trying to distance himself from my wrath so he could view the storm from a safe distance, but not become swept up in my thunder.

I stood up and became almost animalistic with my shouts that thawed at his grin, slowly erasing his dimples and darkening his eyes. My kicks reinforced my poisonous words, and I let everything go with the guise of irrationality, from my stress from school to my anger at a boy who couldn’t care less. My mouth wouldn’t stop, even when I saw the fire in my mother’s eyes die out, the fire that fueled her reprimands and tirades. Only sadness remained as she stared up at me in disbelief that such words were still leaving my lips.

His first tears had formed somewhere in the middle of my outburst, but the impact of my reaction didn’t sink in until the last foul words had escaped my mouth. The sheen of wetness hugging his eyes couldn’t hide the bitterness and disbelief in which he gaped at me. My sturdy mental walls of self-defense were beginning to erode as the tears progressed, but despite everything, I did my best to keep up my hostile exterior.

As my mom brought her chair up closer to him so she could wrap her arms around him, kiss his tears away, and whisper “It’s okay” and “I’ll make you some hot chocolate later,” he glared up at me with the coldness that an eleven-year-old shouldn’t be capable of producing. I tried to think of something to say to mend the situation, or at least make it a little better, but I found myself slowly turning around and walking up the stairs, away from it all, with the burning sensation of their disappointment on my back.