Michael My patience sometimes amazes me.
On any normal day, I am the most impatient person in my family.
One of the perks of being the youngest is that I usually get what I want, if I ask my parents nicely enough of course.
I never ask for anything extravagant; I understand that there is a limit.
However, anything my parents can provide for me is never refused.
If I want the new PlayStation, I will get it tomorrow.
For my eighth birthday, they even got me a whole park full of inflatable balloon castles.
I think they do this kind of stuff to overcompensate for denying me the freedom to really be myself, which means that despite always being given most of the things I asked for, I didn’t grow up to be spoiled.
I did, however, become an impatient child, and it stuck with me since then.
However, today is War Day.
On those days, I am always so concentrated on getting my task done that my patience is practically endless.
I can tell what each of my brothers is responsible for, thanks to the trails left behind by their individual scents.
Mason made his move this morning when I woke up and stuffed my feet into whipped-cream-filled slippers.
Before I could even start planning how to get back at him, Danny apparently also glued my shoes to the floor.
Then Nate made sure my bedroom was locked from the outside, and he probably has the key.
At first, I wasn’t sure if Connor had done his part yet or not, but then I notice that Burns isn’t in the room, even though the window is closed, and I know that he did.
I usually leave the window open for Burns at night.
He would leave and eat mice, or whatever it is cats do at night.
But Burns either should have been back already, or the window should have been opened, because he always closes it after he comes back, right before crawling next to me to sleep.
I could have forgiven my other brothers’ harmless pranks by going easy on them, but my eldest is so going to pay.
Nobody messes with my cat.
I found him myself when I was sixteen.
Burns was left by his mother to die in the corner of a diner where my brothers and I like to hang out.
He was so tiny, and he was crawling blindly across the dirty ground, all blackened from rolling in the filth around him.
It was only after I washed him that I found out Burns was actually grey with a white underside, and that it wasn’t all dirt.
I fed him every day with a dropper for a few weeks, until he could see and walk around on his own.
But then Burns started following me home.
I didn’t even lead him here; he found me on his own.
So I asked my parents if I could keep him, and they let me.
Sometimes, Burns acts more like a creature with a conscience than a cat.
He’s attached to me, even though it shouldn’t be possible, because I am in a way related to dogs.
But I am still very protective of him.
As motivated as I am right now to hatch the perfect evil plan and get back at Connor before going to the others, being trapped in my bedroom is kind of a setback.
I could just break the door, but I might as well shout out that I’m awake and lose the element of surprise.
Besides, it would make my parents very angry, and that’s never a wise decision.
So that’s how I ended up sneaking out of my bedroom window, just five minutes after waking up.
Connor’s room is right next to mine.
All I have to do is carefully climb up the tree outside my window, go to the side facing Connor’s room, swing down, go in through his window and execute my master plan.
Piece of cake!
The climb is the easy part, the result of strong muscles combined with years of practice.
With four older brothers, a girl is bound to learn how to get by.
When I get to the branch at Connor’s room, I sit on it sideways, with the window to my right.
I lock my legs firmly around the branch, and I swing to the right with the intent of grabbing on to the windowsill.
But then my foot gets stuck between two smaller intertwining branches “Shit!” I cry out.
It’s too late for me to catch myself, and I end up dangling with my foot painfully wedged and twisted to the side.
This only fuels my anger and desire to have revenge, and the pain becomes a distant feeling in the back of my brain.
Without thinking twice about it, I use my lodged foot to swing myself back up and then break the part of the branch that’s keeping my ankle tied.
Sometimes, having werewolf super strength is awesome.
Okay, it’s awesome all the time, but still; on War Day, it’s a big bonus.
After freeing myself, I change tactics by sitting on the branch while facing the window, using the back of my knees and my hands to hold myself.
Swiftly, I swing backwards with more ease this time.
My speed again gives me an advantage.
I spin so fast that a second later, my hands come in contact with the edge of Connor’s window.
I immediately let go of the branch.
I am so focused that I don’t feel anything; not the way the wood bites into my skin and tears my pajamas, nor the fact that my ankle is starting to throb.
When I am done with my mission, I can think about the rest.
Once again, climbing is the easy part, especially with my strength.
Seconds later, I am standing in my brother’s room, feeling rightfully smug.
I know exactly what I am going to do to him.
Instantly, I go to the first drawer of his bedside table where I know he keeps his phone.
He only grabs it when he leaves the house or when his girlfriend comes over and takes possession of it.
The screen flashes and demands his password, which makes me hesitate for a second.
Connor changes it almost every week because of me.
What can it be this time?
I try the old one, just in case; 6764, the letters NPNG, which stand for “no pain, no gain”.
All of my brothers are so obsessed with their muscles.
It’s ridiculous.
The password doesn’t work, though, and I have to stop and think for a moment.
What’s Connor more obsessed with than himself lately?
I wonder.
A smirk plasters on my face when I figure out the answer and type 26627.
The irony of it makes my plan seem even smarter and more perfect.
The screen unlocks immediately.
I dive for the door to take a peek out and make sure no one is upstairs.
Then I close and lock it.
The third drawer in his dresser is my next target, because that’s the one his current girlfriend, Sandra –or is it Kendra?– uses nowadays.
I feel disgusted at what I find in there, because it just confirms how often Connor’s girl spends the night.
After much searching, a grimace on my face, I thankfully find what I am looking for.
I’m pretty sure it can fit me.
Hastily, I take off my sweatshirt and unwrap the custom-made bandages I have been wearing since I was thirteen, along with the shirt that hides the edges, and which I use to conceal my obviously feminine chest and make it look, as well as feel, flat.
I don’t wear bras, for obvious reasons.
But if I ever want to try putting on a pair, just to get a feel of what it’s like, I would never in a million years have chosen something this lacy or pink.
Looking at myself in Connor’s mirror, I am surprised by how well they fit me, and how hot I look in them.
My dark brown hair, which I’ve kept short over the years, is pretty disheveled, considering I just woke up.
It’s sticking up in a pixie-like hairdo, which looks weirdly cute.
Although my eyebrows are as full and messy as can be, my face retaining the peach fuzz I was born with, my skin looks smooth and glowing.
My torso is usually hidden, but right now, with nothing but the bra and my boy sweatpants on, one can plainly see the curve of my waist and chest, and the thinness of my stomach.
For a moment, I just stand there staring at myself in the mirror, amazed that I actually look like a girl for once, a sexy one too, minus the slight facial hair.
I even strike a pose and try on my best seductive smile.
But then I remember that I have a mission, and I execute it as fast as I can.
When I’m done, I make sure there’s nothing to suggest my presence in Connor’s phone, which I return to the drawer.
Then I unlock the door and casually stroll out into the hallway.
Two seconds later, I remember that I am still wearing someone else’s underwear, so I run back into Connor’s room and take it off.
I fix my bandages and put my shirts back on.
Right as I am putting the bra back into the drawer and getting ready to close the latter, he comes in.
“Busted!” he yell.
I jump and knock my elbow against the dresser.
“Hey, Con!
What’s up bro?” I ask as casually as I can while facing him.
At six foot seven and as bulky as he is, you’d think he wouldn’t be able to fit through the door.
However, there he is, leaning against one side of the frame with his arms crossed, making his biceps bulge out of the same white shirt he always wears in the mornings, his blond hair still messy and his eyebrows raised in a questioning manner above his sea blue eyes.
Anyone who doesn’t know him would call him dangerous after taking one glance at his sharp and angular face combined with his giant physique.
But we, as his family, know better.