NINE YEARS OLD
I hate Amelia Malone.
More than I hate letting my younger sister, Keelie, watch her stupid cartoons.
More than when I get grounded from my PlayStation.
She wears annoying clothes. What girl wears leather jackets?
And the brat has thrown rocks at my head too many times.
Everyone says we’ll get married one day, but that’s disgusting.
Who’d want to marry a girl who drives you bonkers?
Not me. That’s for sure.
Let some other stupid boy have the lunatic girl.
But somehow, no matter how much we hate each other, we always end up in the same place. Even when I try to stay away, to not tease her, those are the days she decides to become my worst nightmare.
If I don’t push, then Amelia pulls. If she doesn’t pull, then I push.
“I can run faster than you,” I say, standing next to Amelia, a mischievous smile on my face. “If I win, you have to give me your ice cream later.”
Amelia snorts, giving me a dirty look before sticking her tongue out at me. “You wish, Jaxson.”
“What did I tell you about calling me that?” I nudge her side. “My name is Jax, Millie.”
“And my name is Amelia.” She rests her hands on her hips, kicking out her foot and showing off her black Converse with pink laces.
I had my Converse sneakers first.
Amelia made fun of them and said my green laces were stupid.
But now, she’s wearing them with ridiculous pink laces.
“I’ll call you Gross Girl or Millie,” I say. “Take your pick.”
She swats her dark hair out of her eyes. “My pick is you losing to a girl … again.”
“I wouldn’t have lost last time if you hadn’t cheated.”
“I don’t cheat. I just …”
“You what?”
Instead of answering, she shoves me onto the grass and takes off running. Taken off guard, I fall backward, and she laughs while sprinting toward the large tree we deemed the finish line to our race. The same tree I’d snuck behind and put gum in her hair last week.
“That’s the only way you can win, cheater!” I shout while standing.
I go to chase after her, but Ava’s voice stops me.
“Don’t you think it’s time to stop bullying her?”
“I’m not bullying her,” I reply with a frown.
“What do you call it then?”
I tap my chin, struggling to recall what my mother called us the other day.
It hits me.
“They’re like little rivals. It’s cute,” was what she said.
“We’re rivals,” I state.
“Rivals?” Easton, my friend, repeats. “What are rivals?”
I laugh. “If you don’t know what it means, then you’re dumb.”
Joke’s on me because I don’t know what it means either, but, hey, if my mom says we’re rivals, then we’re rivals. My mom tells the truth. Like last week, she said I was the best son ever. The woman never lies.
I dash toward the tree where Amelia is hunched over, trying to catch her breath.
“Cheater.” I push her side.
She picks up a wad of grass and throws it at me. “You’re such a jerk.”
“No, I’m your rival.” I smirk.
TWELVE YEARS OLD
I hate Amelia Malone more than I hated her years ago.
She frustrates me.
She makes me want to pull my hair out.
Like just now, when we’re at my house at a birthday party for my older sister, Molly, Amelia looks right at me and says, “My dad’s bar is better than yours,” out of nowhere.
We weren’t even talking about our dads’ bars, but of course, she finds another reason to think she’s better, another reason for us to argue.
“You’re dumb,” I reply as we sit by the pool, our feet dangling in the water. “My dad has had his bar way longer. My grandpa and great-grandpa worked there too. I win.”
“No, you’re stupid, Jaxson.” She kicks her feet so that water splashes in my face. “My dad’s bar is bigger.”
“I’m not stupid,” I argue. “I got all As and Bs on my report card.” I make a take that face.
I’m proud of my grades. I did overhear a teacher say I was pretty smart for being a little asshole though. I probably shouldn’t have taken that as a compliment and could’ve tattled—or threatened to tattle—for a better grade, but I’m really not a little asshole.
“I got all As,” she says smugly, playing with her long braid.
“My teacher said I’m a smart asshole, so that means I’m smart.”
She gasps and points at me. “You just said asshole. I could tell on you.”
“I heard you say bitch with Ava earlier. I’ll tattle on you too.”
“No one would believe you.” She laughs. “Besides, aren’t you the one who got soap in his mouth last time?”
That incident was all Amelia’s fault. She told my parents I’d told her to fuck off. My mom threatened if I said the F-word again, I was getting soap in my mouth.
I got cocky because I wanted to look cool in front of Amelia and said, “I don’t want that shit in my goddamn mouth.”
And then I really did get soap in my mouth.
So, the next day, when Amelia and I were together and alone, she looked straight at me and said, “Shut your goddamn mouth.”
I told on her, but she called me a liar.
She didn’t get soap in her mouth, but she did get grounded and missed a ski trip she had been looking forward to. That was when she wrote me a letter, threatening to put spiders in my mouth and saying she hoped I coughed them up for days. She also called me a jackass and drew a lame excuse for a donkey.
I wrote her back. My note had a better donkey drawing, and I pointed out that she couldn’t draw worth a crap. Then, I actually did put spiders in her bed. I got grounded for that one, too, and I had to miss a birthday party, which sucked because it was at an amusement park.
The next time Amelia came over, she left pictures on my bed—pictures of her and our friends at the amusement park. On the back, she wrote, Didn’t wish you were there.
“You’ve never even been in your dad’s bar before,” I say. “I’ve been in mine.”
That’s somewhat of a lie. My parents have never allowed me to go into the bar, but there’s an apartment above the bar, where my mother and father once lived. If they have to work and don’t have a babysitter, then I stay in the apartment. One night, my sister was stuck babysitting, so she and her friends were hanging out at the apartment. I got bored and snuck downstairs to the bar.
It was crazy, but I liked it. I knew from that moment that, someday, I was going to be like my dad and work in a bar. Hopefully his bar.
There was a guy at the front of the bar, singing into a microphone and playing music while people—some I recognized, even the teacher who’d called me a little asshole—were dancing to the music.
I walked around for a bit, seeing the shocked stares when I passed people. A guy spilled a beer, and his friends called him a “fucking douchebag.” I made a mental note to call Amelia that the next time I saw her. I didn’t make it long until one of my dad’s waitresses spotted me and ratted me out.
I got grounded for that too.
Man, do my parents love to ground me.
Amelia crosses her arms. “I don’t believe you. It’s against the law for you to go into a bar, and if you had, you’d have gone to jail.”
“That’s for those who get caught.” I wink at her.
Her expression changes. “Truth or dare?”
“Dare.”
“I dare you to sneak me into the bar with you next time.”