My feet make quick of my escape. The voices behind me are familiar and just as prying and annoying as always.

It’s prom, and how I have managed to be so, utterly humiliated is beyond me. Well, I suppose _I_ didn’t mange it. _They_ did — the girls following me.

They projected a video of me in nothing but a bra and underwear onto the screens in front of the whole school. I was drunk and didn’t know what was going on at that party.

Everyone started laughing at me. They pointed and whistled. Some even grabbed at my dress as I ran out the room.

Why must life be so difficult? My dad died five years ago, when I was twelve. Now my mom is married to this new guy — a business man. He’s not horrible or anything. Its just hard because he will never compare to my _real_ father.

Finally, I stumble upon an empty classroom. It is the nurses office so I find myself releaved to find the door open. This seems to be the one place where I can calm myself.

I push through the bathroom door and lock it behind me. Usually I would turn the lights on, but it doesn’t cross my mind. Right when you walk in, their is a toilet to your right, propped against a wall. I sit just behind it and cry into the silver fabric of my dress. The tiled floor is cool beneath my feet.

The tears cause my mascara to smudge down my face and make dark streaks on my cheeks.

People are so cruel. I already deal with enough negativity and drama with my step brother, Zac. He wants nothing to do with me. Every interacting that we make is like watching an innocent mouse get run over by a car over and over again. He’s a jackass.

From the first time we laid eyes on each other, we were at odds. I’ve tried to be kind. Every time I ask him if he wants to do something with me, his response is always dry and dismissive. The times where I ask how his day is going, he replies with a quick “Worse now.” Then I take that as my cue to leave with my hands fisted.

He says things like _“Stop pretending,”_ and _“You know we’re not really siblings, right?”_

I am _convinced_ he hates me.

There was a time when he actually seemed . . . okay. When I got drunk, one of the girls was kind enough to call Zac to come pick me up. This was after the whole “scene” had occurred. He had actually arrived and carried me to the car. The next day, he had even lied for me to our parents.

However, lying probably come naturally for him. You could tell he’s probably sneaked out to many late-night parties.

It didn’t help that after mom and dad had left my room to let me sleep, Zac turned to with an icy rage. He said “You owe me.” Then he walked away.

Funny, here I was thinking this prom would be me escape. Really, it was just another cage.

A sound the other side of the door has me lift my head. “Just fuck off! Haven’t you already done enough,” I yell.

“Shut the fuck up and open the door.”

_Zac_.

I thought he was Jasmine or one of her little servants. But why would Zac be here?

I don’t answer him.

“I will break this door down. I have no problem sabotaging school prop—“

“Shut up.” I rise and unlock the door, quickly hiding behind the toilet again. Zac seeing me cry, is not something I would want to add to this shitty day.

I hold my knees and continue to weep.

“You said you weren’t coming,” I state.

As I was getting ready for prom, I had asked him if he was excited. He stared at his phone and said “Not going.” As usual, that was my time to leave him be. One thing you do not want, is an even more pissy Zac.

He ignores my words. “I saw the video,” he explains.

This causes me to grunt in frustration.

Great. Not only have those girls ruined prom for me. They uploaded that damn video to Instagram — the video they told my they had deleted. Of course, a part of me new Jasmine had kept it.

“Why are you crying,” he speaks in an almost disgusted tone.

My anger rises and I turn to face him.

“Why did you come here if you were just gunna make me feel like _shit_,” I yell.

Zac is quiet. His hand fidgets with a lose strand of string at the end of his black hoodie, as he bites his bottom lip.

_Odd_.

I turn back to my dress and burry my face into it.

By the sound of the careful shuffling next to me, he’s on the floor, too.

“Sasha.” He tries to move a piece of my hair from my face but I turn away. “C’mon, look at me—“

“Why do _you_ care,” I spit out.

There is a moment of silence. Through the small opening of my hair I watch him stare at his shoes. There’s no way he could actually be feeling sorry.

“I’ve been an asshole—“

I scoff. “Like _hell_ you have.”

He’s silent once more. This is possibly the longest we have ever spoken. The tension in the room is as obvious as a black splotch on a perfectly white piece of paper. This amount of closeness — if this is what this is — is not common for us.

He shifts next to me. “I’m not used to this — the whole being _considerate_ thing,” he says.

That much is evident. He speaks what I already know. When is he gunna say something useful?

I grab the fabric of my dress, resting my head on my knees. The tears have slowed, but I still cannot seem to completely stop them.

“The truth is, my mom and little sister died in a car accident when I was thirteen,” he explains furtheremore, and I find my head turning to watch him. “I just didn’t like the idea of them being ‘replaced’ or whatever . . .”

How could I have not known this until now? Noeone uttered a single word of this to me. Mostly, I am surprised at my mom. One would hope a parent would give a heads up that this might be hard for the new brother who lost his mother and little sister in a crash, so he might have a really hard time connecting.

It makes so much sense, now, why he’s been acting the way he has. It must be hard for him to even talk about this. But as I stare at his face, his expression is hard, unwavering. He is trying not to cry. I know by the way he plays with the ring on his finger — something I, myself, do often.

“This- this isn’t an excuse . . .” He tells me. I believe him. “What I’m trying to say, is that I’m sorry I’ve been such an asshole.”

I stare at him in shock.

“But you shouldn’t let those girls get to you like that. They’re just jealous.”

Jealous of what?

“All the guys talk about how your so hot and this and that. The whores are insecure.”

I would smile if I wasn’t still crying. “Insecure,” is not a word I would use to describe them. Rude, yes. Selfish, yes. Annoying, definitely. I would have never described them as “insecure,” however.

Silence seems to be our main focus for what seems like hours. It must only be a few minutes, though.

“At least you don’t suck at this,” I finally speak.

I watch him chuckle behind a soft smile.

“I’m sorry about you’re mom and sister,” I say. “If I had known . . .”

“Yeah, but you didn’t, so it’s more my fault than yours.”

“No, it’s mine too—“

“It’s mine infinity — no take-backsies.” He turns to look me in the eye.

I chuckle.

This is so weird. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I am happy that we’re getting along, finally. I suppose I just wish it was sooner.

But it all makes perfect sense why he’s treated me the way he has. He doesn’t want a new little sister.

“Me and my mom aren’t here to replace them,” I say.

He huffs through a tight jaw. “I know,” he finally says. “Wouldn’t want you to anyways, asshole.”

He gives me a side-glance with those iconic, hazel eyes of his and I smile. He does, also.

“Wanna leave now,” he asks me. I shake my head.

“Just a few more minutes,” I say.

“Alright.”

Those few minutes were possibly the best of my life. It’s when I _really_ received a big brother. Of course, we were bound to still have our ups and downs, as all siblings do. At least love is more powerful than anger.

As the distant sounds of music continue on for a little, I find my heart lifting a tad more, every minute I speak to Zac. So _this_ is what a brother is.