word count : 3700
Two days before East Highland
School holidays meant freedom.
Fifteen days until East Highland's semester started, two days until they left LA forever. Which meant today was Operation Stock Up On Everything Because East Highland Is Basically Farmland.
The mall was packed but Mara didn't care. She had a mission.
"This one." She held up a dress that was more fabric suggestion than actual garment. Black, backless, the kind of thing that would show off every curve she had. "What do you think?"
Jules tilted her head. "I think dad would have a stroke."
"So that's a yes."
Into the basket it went.
They'd been at this for three hours already. Jules had a system — she'd try something on, strike about fifteen poses in front of the mirror, make Mara photograph her from every conceivable angle, then decide it made her look "too basic" and put it back. Mara's system was simpler: does it make my ass look good? Does it show enough skin to get me laid? Buy.
"Okay, fitting room time," Jules announced, arms full of options. "Fashion show."
The fitting room became their personal runway. Jules went first — emerging in a cropped mesh top that showed her bra underneath, paired with low-rise jeans that sat just below her hip bones. She posed, one hand on the doorframe, the other on her hip.
"Well?"
Mara wolf-whistled. "Ten out of ten. Would bang."
"You're disgusting."
"You asked."
Jules did a little spin, checking herself out in the three-way mirror. The jeans hugged her ass perfectly, the kind of fit that made people walk into walls. She'd filled out beautifully on hormones — all soft curves and long legs and the kind of effortless femininity that Mara envied sometimes.
"Photos," Jules demanded.
Mara obliged. Shot after shot — Jules smoldering, Jules laughing, Jules doing that over-the-shoulder thing that models did. Then a sundress that floated around her thighs. Then leather pants that made her look like a rockstar's girlfriend. Then—
"Oh my god." Jules emerged holding up a lingerie set. Delicate pink lace, barely-there cups, the kind of thing that existed purely to be taken off. "I have to try this."
"Go. Go now. I need to see."
Jules disappeared. Mara scrolled through the photos, deleting the blurry ones, keeping the ones where Jules looked like she belonged in a magazine.
The curtain pulled back.
Damn.
Jules stood there in nothing but pink lace, all long limbs and confidence. The bralette pushed her small breasts together, creating just enough cleavage. The matching panties were high-cut, emphasizing the length of her legs. She looked like a Victoria's Secret angel. Like something out of a dream.
"You're literally so hot it's unfair," Mara said.
Jules preened. Actually preened, doing a slow turn so Mara could capture every angle. Her ass in those panties was criminal. The lace barely covered anything.
"Your turn," Jules said, finally.
Mara had been saving her selections. She'd grabbed everything that screamed daddy issues and bad decisions — strappy things, sheer things, things held together by hope and underwire.
She started with the red dress. Bodycon, mid-thigh if she was lucky, neckline plunging almost to her navel. She pulled it on, adjusted her tits until they sat right, and stepped out.
Jules's jaw dropped.
"Holy shit."
Mara did a slow spin. The dress clung to every curve — her ass, her hips, the slight softness of her stomach. Her tits were pushed up and presented like offerings. She looked like someone's wet dream.
"I'm literally going to have to fight people off you," Jules said. "That dress is illegal."
"I know."
Photos. Lots of photos. Mara pouting, Mara smirking, Mara bending over just enough to show that the dress barely covered her ass.
Then the lingerie.
She'd picked something black and strappy — more straps than fabric, really. A bralette that was basically just triangles of mesh connected by thin bands, showing everything underneath. Matching panties that were mostly string. She looked at herself in the mirror and felt powerful.
"Okay, now you're just showing off," Jules said when she emerged.
"Obviously."
They took turns photographing each other. Jules in sheer, Mara in lace. Jules in something baby blue and innocent-looking, Mara in something red and decidedly not innocent. Lingerie that would never see social media but would absolutely see action.
"I need this," Mara said, holding up a set that was basically just strategic straps. "For... reasons."
"Slut reasons?"
"The best reasons."
By the time they left the mall, they had bags hanging off both arms. Dresses, skirts, tops that showed too much skin, lingerie that showed even more. Matching sunglasses they'd never wear. Heels that would probably give them blisters. Everything they'd need to survive in the fashion wasteland of East Highland.
David's credit card was crying somewhere.
Worth it.
-x-
Home
David was waiting.
Arms crossed, expression grim, standing in the living room like a disappointed statue. The posture of a man who'd received some very alarming credit card notifications.
"Hey, Davy!" Mara said brightly, trying to slide past toward the stairs. "Love what you've done with the place, very minimalist, very—"
"Sit."
She sat.
Jules sat next to her. United front.
David held up his phone. The screen showed a number. A large number. A number with more digits than Mara was comfortable seeing.
"Would either of you like to explain this?"
"Shopping?" Jules offered weakly.
"Shopping." David's voice was flat. "You spent more on clothes than I spend on groceries. In a month."
"East Highland doesn't have—"
"And you." He rounded on Mara, eyes narrowing. "I've been getting charges from Steam. For months."
Mara felt the blood drain from her face.
Oh no.
"I— those are— that's—"
"Games." David's voice was deadly calm. "You've been buying games. While grounded. On my card."
"They were on sale?" Mara tried.
"Mara."
"Some of them were gifts! For friends!"
"You don't have friends."
The words hit like a punch. Mara clutched her chest, staggering backward on the couch.
"David. David. That hurts. That physically hurts. I think I'm dying." She collapsed sideways, tongue lolling out, playing dead with theatrical commitment. "Tell Jules I loved her. Tell the Steam library I'm sorry. I'm gone. I've passed on. You've killed me with your—"
"Mara."
She stayed dead.
Beside her, Jules's lower lip started trembling. Her eyes went glassy. A single tear tracked down her cheek.
"Dad," she whispered, voice cracking. "We're sorry. We just— we're leaving, and we wanted— we didn't mean to—"
She dissolved into soft, pitiful sobs.
Mara, still playing dead, cracked one eye open to observe. Jules's crying was Oscar-worthy. Actually impressive. Better than hers, and she was the sociopath.
David's stern expression faltered. Crumbled. He looked at Jules crying, at Mara's corpse pose, and his righteous anger deflated like a sad balloon.
"I—" He ran a hand through his hair. "I'm not— look, I was going to cut you both off, but—"
Jules sobbed harder.
"Fine! Fine. I'm not cutting you off. Just— be more careful, okay? We're moving. Budget. We need to budget."
Jules's tears stopped. Instantly. Like someone had hit a switch.
"Okay, Dad!"
Mara shot upright, fully resurrected. "Thanks, Davy! You're the best father a girl could ask for!"
They high-fived.
David stared at them. His expression cycled through confusion, realization, betrayal, and finally landed on hollow acceptance.
"You two are—" He shook his head. Turned. Started walking toward his room. "I need to lie down."
"Love you!" Mara called after him.
He didn't respond. Just disappeared into his room with the defeated energy of a man who'd been thoroughly played by his own children.
"That was almost too easy," Jules said.
"He's getting soft in his old age."
"He's forty-two."
"Ancient. Decrepit. Basically mummified."
They were still giggling when David came back.
His expression was different now. Hesitant. Uncomfortable. The kind of look he got before delivering news he knew they wouldn't like.
"There's one more thing."
The laughter died.
"What?" Jules asked.
David took a breath. "Before we leave... you need to visit your mother."
The room went silent.
Something cold settled in Mara's chest. Something hard and sharp-edged that she'd buried years ago and didn't want to look at ever again.
"No," she said. Flat. Final.
"Mara—"
"I said no."
"She's been clean for over a year. She wants to see you both before—"
"I don't care."
"She's your mother."
"She's not my anything."
Jules hadn't spoken. Mara finally looked at her — saw the rigid set of her jaw, the way her hands were clenched in her lap. Something dark and old flickering behind her eyes.
"Jules?" David prompted quietly.
A long pause.
"I'll go." Jules's voice was empty. Hollow. "If Mara goes."
Mara wanted to scream. Wanted to throw something. Wanted to tell them both to go fuck themselves.
But Jules was looking at her. And there was something in her sister's eyes that Mara had never been able to say no to.
"Fine," she spat. "One visit. That's it."
David nodded, relief flickering across his face. "Tomorrow. I'll drive you."
He left.
The silence stretched.
After a long moment, Jules reached over and took Mara's hand. Held it tight.
Neither of them said anything.
They didn't need to.
That night, Mara dreamed of before.
Flashback — Years Ago
Amy Chen met David Vaughn in the sophomore year of college.
She was a cheerleader — blonde, gorgeous, legs that went on forever. The kind of girl who had guys lining up just to hold her pom-poms. She knew exactly how pretty she was and wielded it like a weapon.
David was... not that.
He was a nerd. Glasses, rumpled shirts, always had his nose in some book. The kind of guy who spent Friday nights in the library instead of at parties. Who probably hadn't talked to a girl outside of study groups since freshman orientation.
He asked her out on a Tuesday.
Stuttered through the whole thing, face red, clearly expecting her to laugh in his face. Asked if she maybe wanted to get coffee sometime, if she wasn't busy, if she didn't think it was weird, he totally understood if she said no—
She said yes.
She didn't know why. Boredom, maybe. Curiosity. Or maybe something about his earnestness was refreshing after all the smooth-talking frat boys who kept calling her up on a Friday night.
The date was... actually good.
He was funny. Not in the obvious way — in the quiet, observational way that snuck up on you. He made her snort-laugh so hard coffee came out her nose, and when she was mortified, he told her it was the cutest thing he'd ever seen.
He listened when she talked. Actually listened, not just waiting for his turn to speak. He asked follow-up questions. Remembered details. Looked at her like she was the most interesting person in the room.
One date became two. Two became ten. Before she knew it, they were that couple — the cheerleader and the nerd, the unlikely love story everyone was surprised by.
They married at twenty-four. Started trying for kids at twenty-six.
It took three years.
Three years of negative tests. Of doctor's appointments. Of Amy crying in the bathroom while David sat outside, helpless. Three years of wondering if something was broken, if it would ever happen, if maybe they weren't meant to be parents.
And then came Jules.
The pregnancy was hell. Amy was sick constantly — throwing up every morning, exhausted by noon, her body rebelling against the life growing inside it. She spent half the pregnancy on bedrest.
But when Jules was born — small and red and screaming — Amy held that baby and felt something shift. Something permanent.
She'd wanted a boy. She'd always wanted a boy — some deep-seated thing from her conservative Christian upbringing, something about carrying on the family name, about having a son to raise into a good man. And she got one. A perfect, healthy baby boy. She looked at Jules and felt like God had answered every prayer she'd ever whispered.
She named him Julian. After her grandfather.
Mara came a year later. A girl this time. Easier pregnancy, easier birth, easier everything.
Amy loved Mara. Of course she loved Mara. But the overwhelming devotion she'd felt with Jules — it was different this time. Muted. Maybe because Mara wasn't the boy she'd prayed for. Maybe because Mara was content to be held by anyone, didn't cry when Amy left the room. Easy.
Too easy, maybe.
David picked up the slack. He was the one who rocked Mara to sleep, sang her lullabies, sat by her crib at 3 AM when she fussed. Mara became his girl the way Jules was Amy's boy.
It worked. It balanced out.
For a while.
-x-
Mara was a genius.
Walking at nine months. Full sentences at eighteen months. By three, she was reading chapter books, sounding out words she'd never seen with terrifying accuracy.
"Once in a century," her preschool teacher said. "I've been teaching for thirty years. Never seen anything like her."
Amy didn't know what to do with that. Smiled, nodded, said all the right things. But part of her felt... intimidated. By her own toddler. By this strange, watchful child who seemed to understand too much.
Mara didn't notice the distance. She had David. She had Jules.
She followed Jules everywhere. Toddled after him like a duckling — he was still him then, still the son everyone saw — trailing him from room to room, tugging on his sleeve, demanding his attention. She showed him every drawing. Every gold star. Every test with a perfect score.
"Look, Jules. Look what I did." (A/N : Jules was a nickname then.)
And Jules would scoop her up, spin her around, tell her she was the smartest person in the whole wide world.
Mara believed it. Why wouldn't she? Jules said it, so it must be true.
-x-
Then things changed.
Jules was eleven when the darkness started.
Mood swings that seemed too intense for preteen hormones. Withdrawing from friends. Picking at food. Hours spent in the bathroom, staring at the mirror with an expression Amy couldn't read.
She watched her child suffer and didn't know how to help. She prayed. Went to church. Lit candles and begged God to fix whatever was wrong.
It got worse.
Jules started hurting himself. Small things at first — scratches that could be explained away. Bruises that might've been accidents. But Amy saw. Amy knew.
And then Jules told her.
Not about the self-harm. About something else. Something Amy's Christian upbringing had no framework for.
I think I'm a girl, Mom. I think I've always been a girl.
Amy didn't handle it well.
She wanted to. She tried. But every time she looked at Jules, she saw the son she'd raised. The boy she'd dressed in blue, taught to throw a baseball, imagined walking down the aisle someday. The idea that this person had been someone else all along—
It broke something in her.
The fighting started. Jules screaming. Amy crying. David standing between them, useless, not knowing whose side to take. Mara — ten years old, too smart for her own good — watched from doorways and corners. Collecting information she didn't know how to process.
Amy started drinking. Just a glass at dinner. Then two. Then a bottle.
Then came the hospital.
-x-
Amy told Jules they were going on a road trip. To see a therapist. Someone who could help.
Jules believed her. Why wouldn't he believe her? Mothers didn't lie. Mothers protected.
By the end of that session, Jules was being admitted to a psychiatric facility.
David knew. David had agreed — or at least hadn't disagreed hard enough. He was scared, lost, thought maybe the professionals knew best. Amy was convincing when she was desperate.
Mara got shipped to Grandma's. Nobody told her what was happening. Nobody explained why Jules was gone, why the house was silent, why her mother's eyes were always red.
She figured it out anyway. She always did.
The first night Jules was in the facility, Amy heard pounding. Her child, her firstborn, slamming fists against the door. Begging to be let out. Screaming for her mother.
Amy sat in the parking lot and listened. Didn't go in. Couldn't.
She didn't sleep for three days after that. The pills helped. Made everything softer, further away, easier to bear.
She didn't realize she was becoming an addict. Or maybe she did and didn't care.
-x-
Jules was in the facility for five months.
Five months while Amy and David's marriage collapsed. Not with a bang — with a slow, grinding erosion. They stopped talking. Stopped touching. Stopped looking at each other. The only thing they had left was guilt, and guilt wasn't enough to build on.
At Grandma's, Mara cried herself to sleep for the first two weeks. Then she stopped crying and started getting angry. Angry at Amy for sending Jules away. Angry at David for letting her. Angry at everyone for treating her like she was too young to understand when she understood everything, she always understood everything—
She missed Jules so much it felt like a wound. Like something vital had been carved out of her chest.
When Mara and Jules finally came home, everything had changed.
Amy had moved out. Divorce papers being processed. David looked like he'd aged a decade in five months.
And Jules—
Jules was different. Quieter. More certain. Something steel-forged in her eyes that Mara didn't recognize.
Mara ran to her sister and sobbed.
"I missed you. I missed you so much. Please don't leave again. Please."
Jules held her tight. "I'm not going anywhere."
-x-
The custody arrangement was strange. David got Jules. Amy got Mara.
Nobody asked Mara what she wanted.
She moved in with Amy and immediately started fighting. Every day, every interaction, a battle. Amy was drinking more. Using more. Barely present even when she was there. She made Mara's meals — three times a day, food appeared on the table — and that was it. The rest of the time, Mara was invisible.
She only saw Jules twice in those first months. Twice.
The anger built. The loneliness built. Everything built until she felt like she was going to explode.
She started stealing money from Amy's purse. Small amounts at first, then larger. Amy was too high to notice.
Three miles away, there was a self-defense gym. The real kind — not the watered-down shit they taught suburban moms at the Y. Mara paid cash. Lied about her age.
The instructor was a retired Marine named Charlie. He'd seen some shit and didn't ask questions.
Within a month, she was beating kids twice her size. Within three months, she was putting grown men on the mat.
She broke every record the gym had. Speed, precision, power — all of it. They'd never seen anything like her.
"Kid," Charlie said after she dropped a two-hundred-pound man in under ten seconds. "I need to meet your parents."
Mara packed her bag and never went back.
-x-
She learned about Jules seven months after the facility.
Not from Amy. Not from David. She overheard it — bits of phone conversations, half-sentences that didn't make sense until suddenly they did.
Jules was transitioning. Jules wasn't a boy. Jules had never been a boy.
Mara sat with it for a day. Turned it over. Examined it.
Then she went downstairs and screamed at Amy until her throat was raw.
You put her in a hospital. You locked her up because she knew who she was. You're her MOTHER and you tried to FIX her like she was BROKEN—
Amy was high. Amy was always high. She looked at Mara with glassy eyes and said something dismissive, something cruel, something Mara can't even remember anymore.
And then Amy hit her.
Slap across the face. More shock than pain.
Something in Mara snapped.
She kicked Amy in the stomach. Watched her double over. Kicked her again. Mounted her. Punched her — once, twice, three times—
She stopped.
Amy was on the floor, bleeding from her lip, staring up at her daughter with something that might've been fear.
Mara felt nothing.
That was the scary part. She felt absolutely nothing.
She went upstairs, packed a bag, walked out the front door.
-x-
David opened the door at 2 AM.
Mara stood on his porch. Bruised knuckles. Cold eyes.
She looked at him and hated him. Hated his passiveness, his uselessness, the way he'd let Jules suffer while he wrung his hands and hoped someone else would fix it.
But Jules was inside. And Mara needed Jules more than she needed to hate anyone.
He let her in.
She found Jules in her room — fully Jules now, pronouns settled, confidence blooming. Jules looked up and saw her little sister in the doorway.
Mara collapsed into her arms.
"I hit Mom," she sobbed. "She hit me first and I hit her back and I liked it. I liked it, Jules. What's wrong with me? What's wrong with me?"
Jules held her. Stroked her hair. Let her cry it out.
"Nothing's wrong with you," Jules said quietly. "You survived. That's all. You survived."
-x-
Amy gave up custody without a fight.
David insisted she get help. Paid for the rehab himself.
She'd been sober for over a year now. Living alone, working some job, trying to rebuild from the ashes. She hadn't reached out to her kids. Not once.
David said it was because she didn't think she deserved to be their mother anymore.
Maybe she was right.
-x-
Present — 3 AM
Mara woke gasping.
The dream clung — Amy's face, the facility, Jules pounding on doors that wouldn't open. She lay in the dark, staring at the ceiling, waiting for her heart to slow.
Across the room, Jules was asleep. Breathing soft and even.
Safe. Here.
Mara watched her for a long time.
Tomorrow they'd see Amy. Tomorrow she'd have to look at the woman who'd broken everything and pretend to be civil.
She didn't know if she could do it.
But Jules had said she'd go if Mara went. And Mara would walk through fire for Jules. Would do anything for her.
Even this.
She closed her eyes.
She didn't sleep again.