April was crying. Loudly. Theatrically. The kind of sobbing that always made my mother’s eyes soften and my father’s jaw relax, because in our house tears weren’t proof of pain. They were proof of power. April’s tears meant she was the one who mattered. April’s tears meant she would be protected.
“I didn’t do anything!” she screeched, pointing at me with shaking fingers, face red and wet and perfect. “She shoved me first!”
That was a lie.
I hadn’t shoved her. I hadn’t touched her. I hadn’t done anything except stand in the kitchen doorway and ask her, as evenly as I could, why she kept taking my stuff and hiding it. It was a stupid question. I knew that even as I asked it. In our house, asking why was always the beginning of punishment.
April had held my phone charger in her hand, dangling it like bait. “Because it’s funny,” she said with a smile that never reached her eyes. “You always look so stupid when you’re searching for things.”
“Give it back,” I said.
