Lots of people wish they could turn back time to the good ol' days and that's Michaela.
"Tag! You're it! Now go stand by the tree and count!" Michaela told her sister, then ran off to hide.
Emma nodded, turned to the tree and started counting.
"1… 2… 3… 4…"
Michaela ran up the hill and back down the hill, to the middle of the big cornfield and laid in one of the rows. She waited.
After ten minutes she got bored, turned on her back and squinted at the light gray, cloudy sky.
Emma was always terrible at seeking. Either that or Michaela was really good at hiding.
Either way, Michaela was bored, so bored that she just wanted to walk out of the cornfield and yelled, "Emma! I'm in the cornfield! Come find me!" so they could move on with their day.
As she got up and made her way to the fence that surrounded the field, Michaela heard a scream: Emma. Michaela hopped over the fence and ran as fast as she could to where she heard the scream: the road.
When she got to the road, she didn't see Emma. "Oh no. Emma!" Michaela called. She heard a giggle.
She looked up in the tree next to the road. There was Emma, hugging the branch she was perched on, giggling and swinging her legs back and forth. Michaela put her hands on her hips and tapped her foot. "Down, Miss Trickster," She ordered with a slight smile.
Emma grinned and giggled all the way down. "Gotcha." Emma pointed her fingers at her sister like guns. Michaela ruffled Emma's short hair then said, "You better run or I'm gonna get you for that!" Emma started running and Michaela gave chase. Both girls giggled the whole way back to their house.
12 years later: Michaela: 24; Robert: 27
"Michaela. Michaela!" Robert shook her. Michaela slowly opened her eyes and rubbed them. "Wake up, sleepyhead! We gotta go out there and make that dough!"
Michaela looked at Robert with an unimpressed look on her face. "Why do you talk like that?" She asked.
"'Cause it's dope, bro." Robert laughed and stuck his tongue out like a punk rocker. Mainly because he was.
He was decked out in clothes that made him look like a punk rocker: his black hair was gelled up into a mini-mohawk; he had a nose ring and multiple earrings puncturing both his ears; he wore a black leather jacket, covered in metal studs and a shirt underneath his jacket, that read: "Punk's Not Dead, You Are"; his pants were ripped and shredded and his leather boots were as studded as his jacket.
Michaela looked similar, except she looked more emo than punk: she sported a short, layered, full-of-gel hairstyle, and her originally blonde hair was now dyed black with bright red tips; her black emo shirt had no sleeves—when she bought the shirt, she thought it looked better without the sleeves—and read: "Normal People Scare Me"; her eyes were underlined with black eyeliner; her skirt was decked with black and red tule, and she wore shredded tights underneath; finally to complete her outfit, she wore plain black sneakers.
Michaela rolled her eyes and said in a disgusted tone, "Leave, Robert." Robert raised his hands like he was surrendering and walked backward until he reached the door, then he turned around, opened the door and left. The door was open a crack, just enough to tick Michaela off.
"What have I told you about not closing the goddamn door all the way!" She yelled. Robert was in the hallway, howling with laughter. The door closed shut.
Michaela plopped back on her bed and curled up. She acted like she could bite off Robert's head on the outside, but on the inside, she was full of anxiety.
Her thoughts mainly consisted of what her parents would think about her new lifestyle and Emma.
Where was Emma?
They hadn't talked or contacted each other in ten years.
What was Emma doing?
Was she okay?
Did she have a family of her own?
Was she doing better than her failure of a sister?
"Well, anxiety-stricken self, let's continue on with our hell of a life." Michaela thought to herself. A knock came on the door.
"Come in, Robert," Michaela responded. Robert peeked his head in.
"How'd you know it was me?" Michaela gave him the unimpressed look and responded, "You're Robert. You're predictable."
"I came in to say that we're going in ten minutes, so take the cake!" Michaela was touching up her eyeliner while Robert was talking, but as soon as he said "Take the cake!", she stopped, looked at him—unimpressed look still on her face—and replied, "That made zero sense."
She got up and walked past Robert with a walk that said, "Don't mess with me."