Page 7 of Between the Lines

I shake my head. “Nope. I’m a live-in babysitter for my never-ending sibling train. So, actually, in a way, yes?”

Damn. Maybe Idoneed something a little stronger.

I’m not usually outwardly bitter about watching my siblings, but at the thought of having to duck out of plans to make sure that Harper and Ryan take showers, and that Zoey and Michael get their homework done before they hop onto their tablets, and keeping Oliver from sticking a fork into a light socket, I realize that I kind of don’t want to head home to that.

But alas. Dad works late. Mom has her precious social life. And that, ladies and gentlemen, means that Claire has the kids.

“Damn. That sucks.”

I nod mechanically. Because it does and it doesn’t.

I love my siblings with all my heart, but also? I want the choice to have a beer to celebrate my first mostly-successful day in my first real job that isn’t waitressing. Oh well.

Just like I always do, I paint on a sunshine attitude. I can’t control the number of siblings I have or the fact that they’re my responsibility starting in forty-five minutes, but Icancontrol the way I look at it.

I have a rent-free roof over my head; breakfast, lunch, and dinner; the clothes on my back; and a fully functioning minivan that can get meandthe Benson circus from point A to point B. Which is when I remember…

“Shit. It’s Wednesday, isn’t it?”

“Mhm,” Drake nods, beer pressed to his lips. “Why?”

“Zoey has cello on Wednesdays. I’ve gotta run.”

I slug back the rest of my iced tea and wave over my shoulder at the coworkers that get to stay out as late as they want, because they don’t have parentally-imposed schedules.

They get to be real adults.

“How was your lesson?”

Zoey, in typical Zoey fashion, tried to hop into the front seat ofthe car and put her headphones on. But me, in typical Claire fashion, conveniently hid them while she was inside Mike’s Music for the last half hour.

“Where are my…” she murmurs, searching the cupholders, the door pocket, and the floor between her shoes before I dangle the headphone case she’s looking for in front of her.

“You can have them back once you tell me three things about your day,” I say in a sing-song voice that only grates more on her nerves the deeper into adolescence she gets.

“I woke up, existed as a blob of cells, and gained one stress-related headache from my older sister who thinks she is my parent.”

Ha. Oh. Sweet Zo. How Iwishthe parentage was my idea.

She reaches for the headphones, but I’m too fast.

“Threepositivethings, Zoey-Ba-Boey,” I tut, knowing that would be her answer before she could drench me in sarcasm. She exhales, and narrows one eyelid, twitching it at me in annoyance.

“One positive…” I prompt, the car still in park, Oliver still happily playing with his busy book in the backseat.

“I scored a ninety-four on my science lab.”

“Proud of you!”

She doesn’t return my high five. I didn’t expect her to.

“One thing that could’ve gone better?”

“I could have worked alone and gotten higher than a ninety-four on my science lab.”

“Billy Mitchell?”

She exhales a forceful,Yes, and settles into the seat, buckling at the same time that she opens up. If venting is what does the trick, I’ll take it. My sister rants about her poor excuse for a lab partner the whole ride home.

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