Free Color Me Pretty by C.M. Stunich Page A

the drawings go in the baggy pocket of my saggy assed jeans. I might be coming to certain conclusions about fashion, but none of said conclusions are ever going to change my mind about these hideous mom jeans. Sorry, M. I pause at the door and think about my sister for a moment. Do I still hate her? Yeah, I'm pretty sure I do. That hasn't changed. In fact, in the heavy, gray light that's leaking through the window, it doesn't feel like anything is different although I know that it is. This is a slow process; it's like watching a flower grow. You're not going to see it happen, no matter how hard you try.
    I leave my suitcase inside the door and head over to Kylie's room. I figured she'd be asleep, but she's not.
    “I bet you're just dying to walk out of this shit hole,” she says. She's painting her nails with some weird, organic nail polish. Regular polish is banned here, too. I wonder why. Never heard of anyone dying from Peony Pink before.
    I lean against the door and cross my arms over my ridiculously flat chest. I miss my boobs. Seriously. I want them fucking back. Even if I have to eat a slice of cake for every meal … Okay, so maybe not, but I really, really want to be able to fill out a bikini top at the beach. There's no point in being skinny if I look like a damn boy.
    “Aren't you?”
    Kylie shrugs and looks up with a smile. The light beside her bed is on, painting her face with a yellow glow. She really does have a nice face.
    “I don't know. I'm still debating on whether I'm going to off myself or not.” Kylie pauses to put the cap back on the polish. The way she talks about dying is so … casual. It's a little scary.
    “I wish you wouldn't,” I tell her and this gives her pause. She sets the pink bottle on her nightstand.
    “Why?”
    I have to think about this for awhile.
    I want to give her an honest answer, something that comes from the heart. I could whip up some flowery words, some bullshit about the meaning of life and blah, blah, blah, but I don't think Kylie would care. I may have only known her for three days, but we're kindred spirits, so I'm pretty fucking positive that the straight truth would work better.
    I stand there for a minute and stare at Kylie, meeting her green eyes with my gray ones. Then I give her the best answer I can.
    “I'd like a friend,” I tell her. “And right now, you're it. Besides, from what I can tell, you're an interesting person. The world needs more of those.” Kylie's smile gets big and when she stands up, it's to give me a hug.
    “Thanks, Claire,” she says, and the words are simple but the feeling behind them is not. She's thinking. I've just given Kylie something to consider. When she pulls back, I keep going, for better or worse.
    “Relationships can be forged as quickly as they're broken. I'm not saying go around burning all your bridges, but … ” Kylie steps back and holds my thin hands in her freshly painted fingers. “This guy, the one you'd die for, he's not worth it. If he was, he'd have taken the knife and plunged it into his own heart first.” I think of Emmett, of course, and my family. If love was measured in lengths of time, my family would not be pushing to have me committed, and Emmett would not be driving up here to pick me up. I wet my lips and reach into my pocket, pulling out the wads of notebook paper.
    Before I hand them over to Kylie, I bend down next to the nightstand and dig out the crayon that's wrapped up in the pages. First, I write down Emmett's number, so she can reach me, then I scribble my first poem, the one that represents a letter to my shattered self. I write that down, so Kylie can see that she's not alone. All of us in this world, we're in this pain together whether we know it or not. It's what makes us human; it's what gives us soul.
    When I place the wad of paper in her hand, I close her fingers around it so that she makes a fist.
    “Wait till I leave?” I ask and she nods. Neither of us sheds a tear.
    “Take