Page 2 of Made for Cyn

“Where are we going again?” I ask, staring at my reflection in the mirror.

While I get my petite stature from my mom, my coloring and standoffish demeanor are strictly from my dad. My mom could charm a snake with a smile. My dad, not so much.

This gives me anxiety about my wish because I know it will be a struggle to make new friends. Frankly, I don’t even know how to be normal among my peers. I don’t wear makeup. I know nothing about the latest fashions, nor do I care. I’ve never even been on social media, and I don’t understand the incessant need to be glued to a damn phone for the sole purpose of sharing everything right down to what I’m eating for dinner.

What the hell am I going to talk about?

Iris pulls my dark hair through her fingers and into the hot iron, creating soft, pretty curls when she’s done. Her own bright red hair cascades around her face like a halo. She’s got the same dark brown eyes like me, but her hair and porcelain complexion are firmly her dad’s, of whom she refuses to speak, referring to him as her sperm donor should anyone ask.

She’s tall and reed-thin, with perky small boobs I envy and a wide smile. In comparison, I have lush curves to go along with my tiny frame and dark hair, accompanied by a perpetually sober expression. I mean, if I had a dollar for every time my dad told me to turn my frown upside down, I’d be a millionaire.

“Bonfire by the water. It’s our last party before school. Ugh. Thank god it’s our senior year,” she says, her face screwed up in concentration as she smooths a curl beside my ear.

“Oh.” My stomach swoops painfully at the thought, and I curl my hands to quell the nerves settling in my belly.

Will I fit in better here? My incessant need to know more was a constant source of frustration for Prophet Jim. In his world, you didn’t ask him why, which created much in the way of tension.

Although lovers at heart, my parents clashed with Jim, who commanded and demanded at every turn. As a result, Joey and I were the problem children, and frankly, I think Jim was relieved to see them go—me, not so much.

It’s one of the reasons I insisted on leaving. Prophet Jim no longer looked at me with the kind eyes of an adult to a child but with a sparkle it took me a while to understand. After that, I avoided being alone with him and concocted my dream of attending high school like a typical teenager. Little did I know it would inspire my parents to leave altogether.

“There will be lots of hot guys. Maybe you’ll find someone. I mean, you’re eighteen, Rain,” she teases.

Rolling my eyes, I refrain from pointing out my previously small pool of eligible bachelors and huff instead. “How about I just figure out how to fit in?”

“You’ll do fine. They’ll all be staring at your tits anyway.” Her mouth curls in a wicked grin, and with a laugh, I throw a cotton pad at her face, which she dodges like a pro.

“Seriously, Rainy, this is your year of freedom. You have to let loose a little. Have fun. Do something wild,” she says, her dark eyes sparkling.

“I thought living without a cell phone was wild,” I mutter dryly.

With a smug smile, she yanks on my hair, and I gasp. “Something you’ve never done before, you little shit.”

“Okay. Okay. Bitch,” I grumble, and she grins.

“Good. Now . . .”

???

We arrive at the beach a little before dusk, and the vista before me is so beautiful, I draw in a deep breath of appreciation. The sun lingers on the horizon, painting the ocean in umber hues that reflect a perfect picture. I’ve never been close to the sea before, and it doesn’t disappoint.

I follow Iris down the path with sweaty palms, spying twenty or so people gathered around a roaring fire. Despite Iris’ insistence that I’ll be fine, I already feel as though I’m crawling under the shell I tend to retreat to whenever I’m uncomfortable.

The girls are dressed in tiny shorts and skimpy tops, unafraid to bare their skin, much like Iris, who’s wearing a skintight dress that ends at her thighs and looks dangerously close to scooting into no-man’s-land.

She looks good. Frankly, they all do, and I stand out like a sore thumb, but I declined the offer of borrowed clothes, preferring my flowy ankle-length skirt and shirt. I’m hardly risqué in this outfit, and I doubt the guys will be scandalized by the slice of my stomach that shows when I lift my arms.

I knew my fashion choices would make me different, but I don’t mind because I enjoy my gypsy skirts and sandals. It’s who I am, and I will never fit in if I try to be anything else.

“Hey, dicks!” Iris calls out, and I smile.

Perhaps one of the few things Iris and I have in common is our filthy mouths. I suspect this is a Flaherty thing because I learned every dirty word I revel in speaking from my dad. Mom generally tends to roll her eyes and look the other way, but Dad enjoys it immensely, and sometimes we have wars to see who can be the most inventive.

Still, I often wonder how Iris and I can possibly come from the same family because she’s so free, and I’m . . . not. The almost painful shyness that clutches at my throat frustrates me, and I don’t know how to get past it beyond forcing myself to speak. But when your fucking chest is wheezing with fear, it tends to make the actual conversation fall flat.

“Yo, Iris, looking good, baby,” someone calls out, and she flashes her middle finger.

“Shut it, Bobby.”

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