Page 32 of The Darkest Note

With a deep sigh, I sit up and roll out of bed. Viola will be home soon and I try to have at least a pb&j prepared for her. She’ll whine and refuse to study if she’s hungry.

I’m slathering jelly on one side of toast when the front door opens. I expect my little sister to walk in, but I see a walking sandbag instead. The sandbag is hefted to the floor and Viola’s dark eyes twinkle at me.

I stick the butterknife in the punching bag’s direction. “What’s that?”

“I found it leaning against our door. I thought you ordered it.”

Heart racing, I throw the knife on the counter and hurry to the bag. “Does it look like we have money to order anything right now?”

I inspect the mysterious item further and notice a note flapping on the side. Snatching it off, I read a man’s crab-like handwriting.

This might be a better stress-reliever than screaming. It worked for me.

-Hunter

My eyebrows jump.

Viola grabs the note and reads it, a slow smile climbing on her face. “Who’s Hunter?”

“Rick’s friend,” I mumble, lifting the punching bag and inspecting it. There are a few discolored areas, but it otherwise looks intact.

“Rick?” Viola’s expression shifts instantly. “He’s talking to us now?”

“Not exactly.”

“Oh.” Her shoulders slump and she stares at the ground.

“What do you say we try it out?” I offer, hoping to cheer her up.

“Really?” Her voice squeaks. “I thought for sure you’d throw it in the trash.”

“It doesn’t exactly fit the decor in here but…” I glance around for somewhere to put the punching bag and decide to hang it up on the hook in the living room that’s never held a picture frame.

“Can I try first?” My sister asks.

I nod and gesture for her to go ahead.

She bounces in place like a seasoned wrestler and rolls her neck back and side-to-side. Her ponytails bounce on top of her shoulders.

Since Viola’s school—my old high school—doesn’t require wearing uniforms, she gets to choose whatever she wants. Today, she paired a T-shirt with a daisy in the center with a pair of high-waisted jeans and pure white sneakers.

It’s amazing the way she makes thrift-store clothes look so expensive. I know that if she keeps posting with consistency, she might start to get views. I just don’t trust that those views can actually turn into money.

Surging forward, Vi slams her fist into the punching bag and makes a guttural roar. “That’s for calling my makeup cheap, Tiffany!”

The punching bag whirls around like a runaway piñata.

I stare at my sister with concern. “Who’s Tiffany?”

“This poser at my school who thinks she’s better than everyone just because she has a thousand followers. Whatever.” Viola rolls her brown eyes in that expert way young teenagers do.

Then she gestures to me. “Go on. Your turn.”

“My turn?” I shake my head. “I have to get to work.”

“You have time.” She juts her chin at the punching bag.

“I don’t…”

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