Northern Daughter

Avery Channing

Why not? He's right, I don't have anything to take care of and the less time I spend breathing the same air as my father the better.

"Where are you going?" he asks me when I come into his sight behind the newspaper he's holding up with such devotion.

"Out," I answer, not even tying my shoes before I rush out to avoid his questions. However, taking a few of those precautions I've been taught, I make sure to disappear into the woods and run around Avery's house instead of just strutting down to his door. A girl, her features almost identical to Avery's, but with slight indications of an age gap, opens the door, smiling a dimpled smile when she sees me.

"Scarlet, right?" she asks, keeping her hand on the door as she examines me.

"I-," I try, my energy giving up on my verbal abilities as it's currently busy thinking about how Avery said he's alone at home. "Yeah...."

She drops her hand, motioning inside.

"I'm Chloe, Avery's sister. Come in."

She takes a step back and lets me enter the house. Unlike what the exterior, and the comparisons to make with my own house whose outer walls are structured similarly, the house is gigantic. The walls are white, patterned with pictures of different people in different ages.

Chloe tells me to follow her, leading me to a living room. The two couches and the armchairs have a blue fabric with gold wood as armrests. There are paintings on the walls, a huge TV, some expensive rug and some small tables. The dead furniture itself says a lot about why Avery is as spoiled, bratty and arrogant as he is.

"Avery talks a lot about you," is what Chloe says before Avery rushes into the living room, glaring at his sister.

"Thank you Chloe for that information made public," he tells her mockingly.

Chloe grins just the same grin Avery has, shakes her head and leaves. Avery relaxes a bit and sits down in one of the armchairs.

"I thought you said no one was here," I say.

"I said my parents weren't home, no one talked about my sister being here," he responds, my eyebrows rising just like my desire to bitchslap him all the way to wherever his parents are.

"So you talk a lot about me?"

"She doesn't know what she's saying, she likes to fuck up my life."

"Then how the fuck does she know my name?"

"Told her you were coming over."

He grins, eyes mockingly narrowed.

"Whatever you say."

He laughingly walks upstairs before I've responded. I sigh once and follow him.

The second floor is just like the first. There are paintings, pictures, some pretty expensive sofas and two small tables. He opens one of the doors and walks inside with me just some steps behind him. A bad takes you one third of his room, the rest of the area covered by a desk, a flat, a walk-in closet, a balcony from which I assume is how he gets to my room and a toilet.

He watches me in silence as I walk out to the balcony, my eyes scanning over every inch of my house. It almost looks normal.

"What?" I spit out when the staring becomes too obvious too ignore.

"What?" he asks.

I turn my face to him, keeping the same interrogatory glare as I let my eyes wander over him, looking for a flaw, a loophole, anything that's supposed to give him away. Expose him. Make him easier to read.