CC Coma has a Sister
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I’m 16 years old now, and I still live with CC. Mama Coma emancipated me last year, when CC wanted me to move to a smaller house in town with him. “I want to keep an eye on her.” He had said. The caseworker was right about one thing, though. CC doesn’t hate me. He’s like a brother to me, and he’s the most amazing brother anyone could ever hope for. I’m sitting in Mama Coma’s old chair in mine and CC’s new living room, the one that Mama Coma carried me to 12 years ago, the one that CC taught me to read in, the one where I learned to tie and double-knot my shoelaces. I’m just sitting there, staring blankly at the wall, not even really thinking, just… spacing off. My knees are curled to my chest, my black hair falls around my face, over my blue eyes, kind of pooling around me, if hair could pool. I hear the sound of crunching gravel outside, a car’s engine dying, scuffling boots on the walk, and CC thumps through the front door, home from band practice. “Hey, Wolfie.”