“Chill, Jace.” Ember stretches her long, bony feet out even further, touching the side of the car.

“I can’t very well chill with your wet feet in my lap, Ember.” I glare at her and she looks out through her long red dreadlocks to glare back.

“MERGE!” blasts out Marx happily.

“Be quiet, everyone!” admonishes dad from the driver’s seat. “We’re almost there.”

“Oh, thank GOD.” Sighs Christian from the backseat. “I can’t TAKE this much longer.”

“You,” shoots out Ember, waving her nailbrush for emphasis, “are a narc.”

“And a total drama queen.” I add, rolling my eyes. The day Christian gets off his high horse and acknowledges that the world does not revolve around him will be the day the Pope marries Madonna and goes to live in the Space Station. Which is not likely to be anytime soon.

“I said quiet!” snaps Dad. “Grace? Back me up here?”

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