“It’s hot as Hell,” Livie exclaims at the same time that I sense a trickle of sweat run down my back. It’s late morning and the sun already blazes down on us like a fireball in the sky. So different from the autumn chill we left in Grand Rapids. She pulls off her red hoody, earning a string of catcalls from a group of guys on skateboards, ignorant to the ‘do not enter’ sign in that part of the covered parking lot.

“Picking up already, Livie?” I tease.

Her cheeks explode with pink as she slinks over to hide behind a concrete pillar, out of view.

“You do realize you’re not a chameleon, right? ... Oh! The one in the red shirt is coming over here right now.” I stretch my neck expectantly toward the group.

Livie’s eyes flash wide with terror for a second before she realizes I’m only joking. “Shut up, Kacey!” she hisses, smacking my shoulder. Livie can’t handle being center stage to any guy. The fact that she’s turned into a raven haired knock-out over the last year hasn’t helped her avoid that.

I smirk as I watch her fumble with her sweater. She has no idea how striking she is, and I’m okay with that if I’m going to be her guardian. “Stay clueless, Livie. My life will be so much easier if you’re oblivious for the next, say, five years.”

She rolls her eyes. “Okay, Miss Sports Illustrated.”

“Ha!” In truth, some of the attention from those asshats probably is directed at me. Two years of intense kick-boxing has given me a rock-hard body. That, topped with my deep auburn hair and watery blue eyes garners loads of unwanted attention.

Livie is a fifteen year old version of me. Same light blue eyes, same slender nose, same pale Irish skin. There’s only one big difference, and that’s the color of our hair. If you put towels over our hair, you’d think we were twins. She gets her shiny black color from our mother. She’s also two inches taller than at me, even though I’m five years older.

Yup, to look at us, anyone with half a brain can tell we’re sisters. But that’s where our similarities end. Livie’s an angel. She tears up when children cry, she apologizes when someone bumps into her, she volunteers in soup kitchens and libraries. She makes excuses for people when they do stupid things. If she was old enough to drive, she’d slam on the brakes for crickets. I’m … I’m not Livie. I might have been more like her before. But not now. Where I’m a looming thundercloud, she’s the sunshine breaking through.

“Kacey!” I turn to find Livie holding a taxi cab door wide open, her brows raised.

“I hear dumpster diving for food isn’t as fun as it’s cracked up to be.”

She slams the cab door, her face twisting. “Another bus it is.” She gives her suitcase an irritated tug over the curb.

“Really? Five minutes in Miami and you’re already starting with the attitude? Do you want to eat garbage, Livie? I’ve got sweet fuck all left in my wallet to get us past Sunday.” I hold out my wallet for her to inspect.

She flushes. “Sorry, Kace. You’re right. I’m just out of sorts.”

I sigh and immediately feel bad for snapping. Livie doesn’t have an attitude-riddled bone in her body. Yeah, we bicker, but I’m always to blame and I know it. Livie’s a good kid. She’s always been a good kid. Straight-laced, even tempered. Mom and Dad never had to tell her anything twice. When they died and Mom’s sister took us in, Livie went out of her way to be an even better kid. I went in the opposite direction. Hard.

“Come on, this way.” I link arms with her and squeeze her as I unfold the piece of paper with the address. After a long and laborious conversation with the elderly man behind the glass partition—complete with a game of charades and a pencil diagram on a city map circling three transfers—we’re on a city bus and I hope we’re not heading toward Alaska.

I’m glad, because I’m beat. Aside from my twenty minute catnap on the bus, I haven’t slept in thirty-six hours. I’m tired and worried and I’d much rather ride in silence, but Livie’s fidgety hands in her lap kill that idea quickly. “What is it, Livie?”

She hesitates, furrowing her brow.

”Livie …”

“Do you think Aunt Darla called the cops?”

I reach down to squeeze her knee. “Don’t worry about it. We’ll be fine. They won’t find us and if they do, the cops will hear what happened.”

“But he didn’t do anything, Kace. He was probably too drunk to know which room was his.”

I glare at her. “Didn’t do anything? Did you forget about that disgusting old-man hard-on that pushed up against your thigh?”

Livie's mouth puckers like she’s about to vomit.

“He didn’t do anything, because you bolted out of there and came to my room. Don’t defend that asshole.” I’d seen the looks Uncle Raymond gave a maturing Livie over the last year. Sweet, innocent Livie. I’d crush his nuts if he stepped foot inside my room and he knew that. Livie though …

“Well, I just hope they don’t come get us and bring us back.”

I shake my head. “That’s not going to happen. I’m your guardian now, and I don’t care about stupid legal paperwork. You’re not leaving my side. Besides, Aunt Darla hates Miami, remember?” Hate is an understatement. Aunt Darla is a born-again Christian, who spends all of her free time praying and making sure everyone else is praying or knowing that they should be praying to avoid Hell, syphilis, and unplanned pregnancy. She’s certain that major cities are the breeding ground for all evil in the world. To say she’s fanatical would be an understatement. She won’t come to Miami unless Jesus himself is holding a convention.

Livie nods her head. She lowers her voice to a whisper. “Do you think Uncle Raymond figured out what happened? We could get in real trouble for that.”

I shrug. “Do you care if he does?” Part of me wishes I ignored Livie’s pleading and called the cops over Uncle Raymond’s little “visit” to her room. But Livie didn’t want to deal with police reports and lawyers and Children’s Aid and we’d certainly deal with the full gamut. Maybe even the local news. Neither of us wanted that. We’d had enough of that after the accident. Who knows what they’d do with Livie, since she’s a minor? Probably stick her in foster care. They wouldn’t give her to me. I’ve been classified as “unstable” by too many professional reports to trust with someone’s life.

So Livie and I struck a deal. I wouldn’t report him if she left with me. Last night turned out to be the perfect night to run. Aunt Darla was away at an all-night religious retreat so I crushed three sleeping pills and dumped them into Uncle Raymond’s beer after dinner. I can’t believe the idiot took the glass I poured for him and handed to him so sweetly. I haven’t said ten words to him in the last two years, since I found out he lost our inheritance at a black jack table. He didn’t clue in to the deception though. By seven o’clock, he was sprawled and snoring on the couch, giving us enough time to grab our suitcases, clean out his wallet and Aunt Darla’s secret money box under the sink, and catch the bus out that night. Maybe drugging him and stealing their money was a little excessive. Then again, maybe Uncle Raymond shouldn’t have gone all creepy pedophile.

***

“One-twenty-four,” I read the numbers on the building out loud. “This is it.” This is real. We stand side-by-side on the sidewalk outside of our new home—a three-story apartment building on Jackson Drive with white stucco walls and small windows. It’s a neat-looking place with a beach house feel to it, though we’re half an hour from the beach. If I inhale deeply, I can almost catch a whiff of sunscreen and seaweed.

Livie runs a hand through her wild dark mane. “Where’d you find this place again?”

“www.desperateforanapartment.com?” I joke. After Livie stormed into my room in tears that night, I knew we needed out of Grand Rapids. One internet search led to another and I was emailing the landlord, offering him six months’ of rent in cash. Two years of pouring over-priced Starbucks coffee, gone.