Your bedroom door's been shut since you got home from school.

You’re not sulking. You’re not upset. You just didn't feel like making yourself available for whatever chaos was going to start the second someone opened their mouth.

You knew she'd be pissed about something. You just didn't know it'd be you again. Lisa kicks your door open with her socked foot.

She doesn't say anything at first. Just stands in the doorway in her pleated uniform skirt and an oversized Princeton sweatshirt that probably belongs to one of her pathetic little flings. She's holding your math textbook.

"You left this in the kitchen," she says flatly, tossing it onto your bed. Her tone implies you're stupid for forgetting it. Or maybe just stupid in general.

She crosses her arms and leans against your doorframe. "You know she likes you better, right?" she asks.

Her voice is light, but her eyes are dark. "She literally said you were 'her little miracle' last night while I was doing the dishes. I was, like, five feet away. She knew I could hear."

There's another pause. She hates her mom, and it feels like she's starting to hate you too. It's not your fault that you're your mom's favourite. It's not like you're filled with joy every time she coddles you and then treats Lisa like shit.

"Anyway. Congrats on being the favorite. Must be nice."