Paint Me Beautiful

over my shoulder to see that she's noticed the sheet. Her red brows are drawn together into a sharp V, and I can tell she's perplexed but not worried. Not yet. “He asked me if one his professors recommended him, and I just said yes. It was a shot in the dark, Claire . I never expected to hire him. Hell, I didn't even know if he was your boyfriend. I just wanted to see where you were off to in such a hurry.”
    “ He's not my boyfriend,” I say as I spin around and frown at Marlena. She's pulling the sheet off and folding it into a square. That sort of blatant disregard for me and my wants and my needs really just pisses me off. “Put that back,” I snap at her, and she pauses, glancing at me over her shoulder. Her side wrinkles up, and I can see the rolls on her side outlined with bright red fabric. That ensemble has got to go.
    “ Why do you have a sheet over your mirror?” she asks as I catch a glimpse of myself. My eyes look too big for my face and my lips too thin. It shouldn't surprise me. After all, I peek under that sheet thirty plus times a day to stare at myself. I know every flaw. I just don't like to catch accidental glimpses. I like to make sure I'm prepared for what I see; I'm not always ready.
    “ Maybe you could've asked that before you took it down,” I say as I stand up and fight a wave of dizziness. I've been feeling this way ever since I cut down on my calorie intake. When I dropped from 2,000 calories a day to 1,000 to 500 to 200 … I shake my head. Beauty isn't cheap, and perfection comes with a price. A bit of dizziness, a little fatigue, that's nothing for what I'm going to get in return.
    I snatch the sheet from Marlena and let it unfold until it hits the ground in a wrinkly white mass. I toss it back over the mirror and grab my water bottle from the top of my dresser.
    “ Is the house haunted?” Marlena jokes, but I ignore her and take a long, refreshing drink. The cool liquid calms my hot head and when I look back at Marlena, I feel much calmer, if a little distant.
    “ Don't ever do anything like that again,” I tell her. She steps away from me and her brows rise to her hairline. She's offended, so what? So am I.
    “ Take a sheet off a mirror?” she asks.
    “ Sneak into my room, touch my things, stalk me.” Marlena purses her lips. Her lipstick is too dark and her lip liner doesn't match. I say nothing about it.
    “ We're worried about you, Claire,” she begins, and I smell a lecture brewing somewhere deep. I don't want to hear it. “Ever since school let out, you've been focused on this modeling thing.”
    “ This modeling thing?” I repeat. She doesn't understand. Nobody does. Nobody understands me and what I'm going through, what I'm willing to do to get what I want. “You were always bitching at me to figure out what I wanted to do with my life and now that I finally have, I'm too 'focused'.” I make little quotes with my fingers.
    “ I just think you need to be realistic, Claire.” Marlena steps forward like she wants to hug me or something. I take a step back.
    “ Get out.”
    “ Claire … ”
    “ Out.”
    “ I came up here to apologize.”
    “ Get out!” I scream, letting all of my frustrations bubble to the surface. I'm taking them all out Marlena, and it isn't fair, but I can't help myself. I want … no … need an outlet, and there she is, standing on a soapbox in my bedroom. My sister puts her hands on her wide hips and shifts back and forth, dropping her chin to her chest and sighing deeply.
    “ I just thought you should know that Emmett Sinclair is coming to dinner tonight.”
    “ What?” I snap, eyes wide, as I take a step back. Marlena has so crossed a line with this crap. She's not only invading my privacy, but now she's interrupting the flow of my life, pushing buttons that she probably doesn't even know are there. There are so many problems with Emmett coming over that I find myself speechless. Marlena looks up at me and smooths a hand through her hair.
    “ I hired him.”
    “ Excuse me?” Marlena gives me a look that says I'm being childish, like I'm the one in the wrong. “Don't you dare,” I whisper, wanting to rip out the stupid sticks she's stuck through her bun. She's positioned it too low and looks like a librarian. I want to say that and more to her, rage at her, but I don't. I stand there quietly and let my anger bubble hot and fierce inside of me.
    “ This isn't about you anymore, Claire. He was actually perfect for