The girl in front of me is running through the rain, her hair waving behind her like a beautiful, but wet curtain. Her feet cause splashes of water and mud up her legs. Pale legs, with high socks.

I can't see her face. Neither do I know what her name is. I'm not even sure what this is supposed to represent. Yet after all, it does feel familiar.

Otherwise, I would've never painted this.

Just got last details—highlights and shadows—to add, then I'll be done with another canvas that'll likely end up somewhere in the basement. Lelia will like this one, but she won't want it in her room. "Too depressing", I can already hear her say.

With a sigh, I walk out of my room and straight into hers. "Would you put the volume down? I'm trying to paint. Thank you."

Bothered by my presence, she looks up. There's rollers in her hair again. And she dyed the strands. Secretly, as if Mom isn't gonna see it when she shows up downstairs. "No," and turns back to rolling the things in her hair.

"Please?" I add. It's annoying to paint while she's listening to what I'll gladly call the most horrible music taste in the world— one second, it's rappers, and then it's as if her room is a club. So loud and disturbing. "I need to focus."

Why can't she listen to The Smiths or something? TV Girl? ABBA is also much better than this! Mac DeMarco, gosh.

"So do I," she says, finishing a black strand off with a clip. Those plain brown eyes aren't even paying attention to me. "Also, you just got paint on my door."

"I'll clean it up," I promise. "If you—"

With a final sigh, she turns the volume down. "Happy now?"

A smile forms on my face. "Very. Thanks!" And I got back to work.

Usually, I paint the happier things. Flowers, sunsets, and smiles, but sometimes I have the urge to paint something sadder. Not everything can be flowers, sunsets, and smiles.

"LELIA CATHERINE BLAKE!"

And there we go.

What did my sister do this time? Sneak out at night? Got back home drunk? Wrote words onto the bathroom mirror with her lipstick again? Perhaps she stole all the snacks. Or maybe we're repeating the ritual in which a random boy ends up in our bathtub, completely wasted.

I don't freaking know. I've tried everything to stop her because I wouldn't be able to live with myself if anything happens to her, but she's stubborn. And loves partying, which I don't, so it's getting annoying to protect her if it means being around those junkies.

She's not a junkie though.

...I hope.

Then a lot of screams follow and for once, I decide not to step in. Since Mom died after she gave birth to Lelia, Dad married another woman, and she's amazing. Really feels like a mother. I'm only a year older than Lelia, so I don't remember my biological mother. Amina basically raised us.

Yet she likes her slipper, and I've learned that trying to stop their yells will only give me a red mark.

I wouldn't call it abuse, though. Amina is kind and the slap is always just a warning. Well, that still sounds weird and abusive— but I don't know how to explain it properly.

And while I get along with Amina very well, it's the exact opposite for Lelia. Perhaps because she's a bit of a rule breaker and I'm apparently "a boy in the skin of a perfectly trained golden retriever" (she called me that, not me).

But then it also comes to my mind that Lelia is a bit sensitive when it comes to our biological mother, maybe because she blames herself for her death, and Amina felt like a replacement to Lelia, so she decided to ignore all orders Amina ever gives, which makes Amina lose her temper and well... I guess that explains enough.

"Lyndon! Dinner!" That's my Dad. While he's a pale, tall man, Amina is a woman of a darker tint, and short. Dad's got blonde hair. Amina brown.

"Coming!" I announce.

"That's what she said," Leila calls from the other room, right before Amina starts swearing at her in Spanish.

I wash my hands until most of the paint is off, dry them against the old shirt I'm wearing, and then sprint downstairs. It's the smell of some nice chicken wings that makes me do this. I nearly bump into Mom, too.

"Son, you've got paint all over your face." Dad lets out a laugh. "Come here."

I take a step closer without thinking, then am disgusted because I get the wet thumb. Gosh, it's awful.

I squirm, attempting to pull away, but he holds my head too tightly and I'm trapped.

"I'm almost nineteen, Dad! Don't—"

But he continues until all the paint is off. "Your shirt is also ruined."

"It's an old one," I assure. "What's going on with Leila?"

"Got dye all over the bathroom and Amina found out about alcohol she has been hiding."

I nod. "Ah. Typical."

She's not eighteen yet, and definitely not twenty-one. In a few weeks, she will be eighteen so I think our parents will loosen up about the drinking thing, but not right now. Not if she doesn't handle it well.

Once Dad finishes removing the paint off my face, I get away from him as fast as I can, nearly stumbling over a chair as I do so, and then watch Mom enter the room. "She coming downstairs?"

Mom shakes her head. "Slammed the door in my face. Sebastian, why don't you try? We all know it's not going to work if I try to speak."

As I said, Lelia's not a fan of Amina.

However, her behavior has gotten worse this year. Before, she did obey and was nice, though it was awkward, and now she's just been distant, even to me.

I don't think I did anything wrong. I hope I didn't, at least. I'm just worried. And whenever I try to talk to her, she won't talk back. She's kind of like a capsule. Keeps things inside until someone finds the right place and opens the feelings up. That's probably it. She just needs someone to open her up.

I don't know why I can't be that person, as the one whose spent his whole childhood with her, but alright. I'm not gonna push.

"Then we'll start eating," Dad decides, knowing she'll go down for a snack at midnight anyways.

With a nod, I add, "I'll bring her something after dinner."

"Perfect. Thank you," Mom says.

We eat dinner in silence. Sometimes, Dad remarks something about the news or Mom mentions the chores that still have to be done, but nothing special.

"Lyndon?"

I look up at hearing my name. "Hm?"

"You mind running to the store real quick? We're running out of toiletries and milk," Dad says.

"As long as I don't have to pay for it," I reply, smiling.

I'd pay for it if needed— I know that. I'd do anything to help my family out.

I wouldn't do anything to help Lelia out of the window, though.

Yet she always manages to escape through it.

Dad hands me money as I put my shoes on—green Converse that I've painted flowers and everything on purely because it looks cool—and then I leave.

I could've taken the car, but the store isn't far away from our house. We live in the middle of our neighborhood. The shops are at the edge.

Neither do I need a jacket or coat. In a week, summer vacation will start. I graduated a year ago. Lelia graduated this year. She's smart, really. She just doesn't use it that way. There's not much of a reply when we ask if she wants to go to a university or where she wants to work.

I want to paint. Not the modern things, but I want to paint as if I live in the Renaissance. All the details, not the ugly things everyone can make. The ugly things that are in museums now, you know?

But the chance I'll sell my paintings for good money is small.

Anyway— I've arrived at the store. It's a quick job to take what my father wanted. On my way back home, I meet a poor-looking woman, who's not even wearing shoes or clean clothes.

She smiles at me. Hands me one of the flyers she's holding without a word.

I don't hesitate to take it, smiling widely, and then reach in my pocket to give her five dollars. This is my own money. "Here."

She stares at the money on her palm as if I just gave her a key to a new car. Then, she shakes her head. Attempts to give the money back, but I wave and make sure to get away. I've got food at home, she likely doesn't— I doubt she even has a home, honestly. She deserves so much more than just five dollars, but it's all I carried with me.

Then I take a look at the flyer, not knowing what I just accepted.

SUMMER CAMP
Willamette National Forest, Oregon
15 weeks
May 27th to September 8th
Ages 13 to 20
More info? www.willamettecamp.com

That doesn't sound too bad. I've got nothing to do this summer anyways, and making some friends would be nice, since my old once left. For... well, reasons.

I decide to check the website out at home. With my eyes buried in the paper, trying to take the beauty of Willamette's forest in, I walk inside, hand Dad the groceries, then sit down at the table.

"What's that you got?"

"Summer camp," I say. "Gonna check it out."

"Might as well bring your sister to that," Dad recommends, taking the flyer from me as I grab my phone.

"Oh," escapes my mouth after a few minutes. "It says it's for misbehaving children."

"Well, then you can definitely take your sister there."

"Then I'm going, too," I decide.

No way I'm leaving my sister somewhere for fifteen weeks.

"I think that's a very good idea," Dad says. "What else does it say?"

My eyes trail over the website before I start naming the things. "You need to pay for the camp, but after that, everything will be provided for you. Alcohol won't be served, phones aren't allowed, there's daily activities to join, you get to choose if you want to sleep in your own tent or want to share an actual hut with others, you'll get chores... things like that. I guess it's a fun summer camp but with stricter instructors so the misbehaving kids will behave better."

Mom runs a hand through her hair. The waves are so long that they hit her waist. "Is it a good idea to put a misbehaving kid between other misbehaving kids?"

"I'm sure there's more people like Lyndon, too," Dad assures. "I say we send y'all to that camp."

Though his comment about 'people like me' uneases me a bit, I nod. Sometimes, they're treating Lelia a little too differently because she doesn't always listen. I know my sister— the more they yell at her, the more fun she's gonna find in making them angry.

And I hate that they don't really understand that, even when I try to explain.