pebble. nine.

Well, they kicked Erin out at my age. I shouldn't be surprised I was thrown out on my ass just like her. It's honestly a miracle Mom kept me around that long. Not that we were supposed to compare ourselves to each-other, I was a secret stored away on my lonesome for a rainy day and she grew up with brothers. Our brothers. And yet I don't even know their names.

Funny that, huh? Blood relatives, if a little watered down, and I only know of Erin. Nobody calls her that anymore, nobody but me. It's why it took me so damn long to find her, trawling through the streets asking any and all girls if they knew of Erin and all I got was a shake of my head back until I gave up. All it took was an honest mistake of another to grab me by the ponytail and pull me into an alley and hiss "Eli, what the fuck are you doing out here?"

And for me to hiss back: "Who the fuck is Eli?"

And for her - it's a girl, by the way, the one who nearly ripped my scalp off of my skull - to look at me like I just asked what the sun was and poke me in the chest with her forefinger and say "Ain't you Eli?"

I'm not one for confrontation, but I hadn't eaten all day and this was just getting annoying. I asked who was asking and, once again, who the fuck Eli was, and I got semi-kidnapped by a bunch of girls who couldn't be older than thirteen. When we arrived, people grumbled about Eli, and more people looked confused, and after much scuffling about and nearly two hours with a bag over my head I eventually ended up face-to-face with my sister. 

"But if you're.... Eli?" gawped a little girl, her head bobbing between mine and Erin's and back to mine.

"Erin?!" I'd scoffed, thinking her dead - or worse.

".....Pebble?"

"Who the fuck is Erin?!" someone else asked. 

At that point I smiled, looking at her sheepish, lofty expression, and replied.

"Erin's my sister."

So that's how I joined a gang. I had a choice, of course, but at that stage it seemed that the universe had made the choice for me. So I packed my shit up at Dad's house, flipped the bird twice for good measure, and skipped off to join the girl they called Eli and learn how to fire a gun.

They quickly realised I was a long-shot better than Erin at talking, walking, flirting, weapon-handling, and pretty much everything else she attempted. I know she's good with the young girls and all, and there's value there, but she's kind of a wimp. A cute, dimpled, loveable, tough, stoic wimp, but a wimp all the same. But I think she's okay with that, just like how I'm okay with being taller, leaner, doe-eyed and still able to do a wicked cat-eye in a broken mirror. Short skirt borrowed out of what we call the costume bin and a shirt with a neckline high enough to keep them interested, hair up or down but always curled. I'm good at being pretty, but I'm great at being a distraction.

That's what they call my job requirement anyway: distract. Some of the boys aren't even that bad looking. I don't have to do anything I don't want to, kissing is enough - sometimes even just talking works. The conversation might be vapid and false, but I kinda like picking their brains and pretending I care. I like making up stories: names, places, things that happened but not really. It's a challenge trying to remember every detail and making it as believable as possible. Boys are idiots, anyway, they wouldn't notice if I slip up once or twice. Not the ones I talk to, anyway.

We get to share a room, which I think is pretty neat. I'd rather share my space with a sister than a stranger, although it sort of felt like the same thing in the beginning. But with those late nights lying awake or empty afternoons off conversation filled the time, real conversation. She told me about her Mom and I told her about my lack-of one, about the things we had left behind and the scars we both shared. Living with brothers sounds shit, I said, and she just sighed and shrugged - somehow still sweetly, sadly, happy. Living alone sounded dreadful, she said, and I agreed. I think it's why I wanted to room with her.

See that's the big difference between she and I. I'm a glass half empty, and despite all the shit thrown her way she's still thinking the glass is half full. We have the same fluffy eyebrows, the same sandy blonde hair, the same small lips and big ears and dull brown eyes and tall faces and crooked elbows and wonky left feet and yet inside, we're far from similar. 

But I like her company. Yeah she's a bit of a crybaby, but I kind of like drying her tears and making her laugh telling her about this stupid boy I walked home with, reenacting his goofy voice and getting her to giggle. Sometimes I come home in a right foul mood and she just pats me on the back and says in her sing-song voice "at least we weren't shot today!" She'd know, she's the one that packs and ships off the fucking things - if anyone was to accidentally set off a loaded gun it'd be her, the silly girl. She spends all day looking after those kids, someone's gotta look after her and that someone's me.

She looks after me, too, my big sister. Even if she doesn't know it.