Oh Claire, how you love her.With the girls sitting on the back porch, you know you need to make an entrance. You dramatically kick the screen door open, causing it to slam against the aluminum siding and then fly back shut against your body. The girls laugh and you feel your face redden. Whatever, ignore it. As you walk up to your sister, she takes a sip of Mountain Dew and passes it to the girl beside her.
"Why does it matter?" She says shrugging, "I mean it's a soda not a medicine, anyone can have it." Stupid baby. You try to give her the same explanation you gave your mother, but by the time you're comparing yourself to a machine, she and her friends are laughing at you. Whatever. Forget it. Time for Plan B.
Plan B is pushing your sister over to the ground, causing her to get dirt on her skirt. Childish, yes, but also effective. Well, until she stands up and punches you in the face. You try to block it in a swift motion, but she evades your flailing arms and quickly sends you to the ground in a flurry of hits. You beg her to stop. And, surprisingly, she does.
You pick yourself off the ground, straighten out your wrinkled black t-shirt, and begin walking away, but stop when you feel a hand on your shoulder. You flinch and jerk around expecting another hit from your sister, but find yourself face to face with Claire. Oh lovely Claire, lovely, lovely Claire. So kind and smooth skinned. Being so close to her makes you wince with excitement. She takes one last sip of the soda, and a few drops escape from her lips and slide down her chin, dripping off onto her shirt. You want to lick it off, but instead you put your hands in your pocket and lean forward while giving a silent sigh.
"We're heading out to the mall" she says, "maybe we could take you to pick something up."
Emma Stone was the most paranoid person I had ever met. In private she wore a full suit of medieval armor at all times, visor down.
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