by Justin McFarr
Kelly said I should just keep my mouth shut about what she was doing upstairs in Mom and Dad’s room with that creepy, sweaty guy who lives down the street. I was going to keep it shut, I wasn’t going to say anything, until she threatened me like I didn’t have my own feelings about the whole thing. My sister thinks she’s entitled to all the deep emotions, the messed-up and confusing thoughts that come with being a teenage girl, just because she had her period first. “That’s not fair,” I told her, “just because I’m not going through all of the physical stuff you are, it doesn’t mean I don’t feel things as intensely as you do. Just because I’m not a slut who lays my wares out for anybody who thinks I have a 'sweet ass' doesn’t mean I’m not maturing and developing like you are.” That’s when she slapped me in the mouth and I decided I would tell everyone that would listen about what Kelly was doing with that creepy, sweaty guy who lives down the street.
Justin McFarr is a fiction writer living in the Los Angeles area. His work has appeared in Scribendi Magazine and on the backs of unsuspecting passersby. His love for you is rivaled only by his hate for all things fluorescent.