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"SUGAR PIE, HONEY BUNCH! YOU KNOW THAT I LOVE YOU!"

The Four Tops' greatest hit blasts from the depths of the brass pavilion, echoing through the thin, eggshell walls. A rustic lightbulb shines through the burgundy fabric, its shade casting a dark pink hue throughout the room.

Found scattered on the dark oak vanity are many, but necessary things: a strawberry-scented candle, its wick standing alone in a pool of fruity wax; an empty metal lunchbox to hold haircare and moisturizer; a spotless mirror, garnished in golden brass vines; a cluster of eyeliners wrapped in an elastic band; whoreish pink rouges and red lipsticks, a Playboy mag, and Marlboros locked away in a compartment, the key taped to the inside of the undergarment drawer.

           Silk or lace nighties, frilly socks, and cheeky pantyhose. Hangers upon hangers of polka-dot dresses, pleated and plaid skirts, modest-cut blouses that are too sheer for Mother's taste. Blocked by a last-season fur coat is a pair of worn white Chucks and stacks of Grandpa's folded t-shirts.

           Brown, black, and white Mary Jane heels are organized in favoritism, while slippers are kicked underneath the bed. A cream-soda-colored rug separates the cracked cherry oak wood floorboards and umber posts holding up the squeaky box spring.

            Virginal white sheets, freshly cleaned, warm, and pressed, are haphazardly thrown and crumpled as the girl jumps on the mattress.

Rory sings off-tune, mostly lip-syncing along, pretending the handle of her hairbrush is a microphone, and her bedroom is a makeshift stage.

Her face stiffens as the light green gloss of cucumber melon starts to dry; her hair is tightly wrapped in curling rolls, and her skin is soft from the sweet-scented coconut oil. Her grandfather's old auto-mechanic tee swallowed her petite body whole, the perfect nightgown.

"Lorelei Anderson, turn that music off!" Her mother yells at the bottom of the stairs, before quickly realizing that she would have to climb the fourteen steps if she really wanted her house to stop shaking. Sighing in frustration, Mrs. Anderson walks back into the yellow kitchen where she spots her son figuring out this morning's Sudoku. Still dressed in the same khaki slacks and loafers but switched his sweater for a short-sleeve collar shirt, to combat the evening heat. His hair was in a frenzy, still stubborn about using curling cream.

"Randall," his mother starts, grabbing a cutting knife and a tomato to begin chopping up the vegetable for tonight's dinner. The steak still marinating in its stew, the mashed potatoes waiting for its gravy, and the salad bowl needs something else besides Thousand Isle.

She glances upwards, taking note of the grandfather clock across the foyer before watching the oldest reluctantly shift his tired eyes from the paper to hers. "Are you going out tonight?"

"Yes, with Marcy," his lips turn into crescent lines, always beaming at the thought of his girlfriend. "The Drive-In is hosting a double feature; you know that new onewith Paul Newman? I still  haven't seen it. Cherry and Bob are tagging along too. Why are you? —" He begins to question untilhis mother eyes him a certain way.

"No— No, you cannot be serious?"

As if on cue, a bump and subsequential cackle is heard through the ceiling, oblivious to the discussion being held below.

"Hey," Mrs. Anderson settles down her cutting knife, looking at her son with serious eyes, "the only reason Rory's locked in her room is because of something you did. She may not talk to me anymore, but I can tell when she's mad at you."

"She's mad at life," Randy scoffs, reaching over the counter to grab a pencil, he finally figured out a box, "she'll get over it as we all did."

"Just apologize," His mother sighs, placing her  on the table, the wedding crystal shining in the subdued sink light. A murky reminder of marriage's consequences. "Go sweet-talk her enough to tag along? You don't even have to watch her the whole time, just get her out of the house."

"Ma, it's a double date," Randy sighs, dragging the pencil's lead to write a number eight in the tiny black square. "I do not want her to be with us. She'll just be annoying."

Please, Randall? Just this once?" His mother lifts her chin, dark hickory eyes glinting with worry. Nipping on her bottom lip, the vulnerability radiating off her olive skin. "I-I just don't want her home when your father comes from work. You know he's already pissed off as it is, with that boss of his, having him working late, imagine how he'd be with all that ruckus."

The oldest Anderson wipes his annoyed expression clean from his face, his muddy gray eyes sharing pitied glances. Swallowing his protests, he succumbs to his mother.

Mr. Anderson favored a quiet house after a long day of grueling work, risking the opposite could be fatal— especially since his little sister had nothing to lose except their lifestyle. This house was built on terrorizing thin ice, one slip-up and an avalanche would kill them all.

"Fine," he obliges, pushing himself away from the morning paper's game section and towards Rory's bedroom upstairs. "Whatever makes it easier to handle him."

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"WHEN I CALL YOUR NAME, GIRL! IT STARTS THE FLAME BURNIN' IN MY HEART"—

—"Rory, come on! !" Randall yells, banging incessantly on the whipped-cream wooden bedroom door.  been at the door for less than five minutes, but it started to get late, and he would have to get ready to head over to the twins. He began to regret agreeing to his mother's outrageous plan.

Suddenly, the old door nearly broke off its brass hinges as Rory swings it open with annoyance engraved on her face. The matted melon cracked and imitated rivers along the smile lines and furrowed brows. "What in God's name do you want?"

Randall snorts with laughter, before coughing into his hand, trying tohide his teasing smile. "Sorry, t'was not expecting," he waves his hand upward,"whatever this is."

She scoffs. "This," Rory emphasizes her figure, "is self-care. This isyour doing."

Her eyes are in angry slits as she holds back her spiteful, forked tongue, "I thought I was too fucking stupidto be near you." She accents the latter, reminding him of the vulgar wordshe addressed to her back at the diner in front of all those people.

"I want to apologize," Randall swallows away the bitter resentment on the tip of his tongue, trying to find the right words and act as if he meant it. "I-I shouldn't have acted that way."

Rory shifts her weight onto her left heel, growing extremely tired from all of this. The music bounced from wall to wall and circled back to her ears. "That's all?"

"No," he shakes his head, telling her one half-truth after another. "I'm sorry that I hurt your feelings. It's just, I let my emotions get the better of me, I guess."

She drops her shoulders, feeling a bit bad about how she practically threw herself toward the notorious grease. It was not like her at all. She was not thinking straight, severely worsening her already broken reputation.

"Where did that sweet, respectable little girl go? What happened to my little sister? Who are you and what have you done to Lorelei Renetta Anderson?"

She would never be up to her brother's standards, which truly upset her. "It's alright. I'm sorry too."

After she said this, Randy feels the guilty weight lift off his shoulders, only to have entitled armor stick back on his skin, protecting him in blissful ignorance.

He smiles at her, letting his mouth move at speed without hesitation."Right, like, can you really blame me, though? Watching you go up to that hood?Embarrassing me and our friends? I know you're seeking attention, but itdoesn't have to be from the likes of that scum."

With every sentence he spoke, Rory wanted to take back her apology or smack him across the face— Or, better yet, run away into the sunset with Dallas Winston. More and more, he's been the better option. But instead, she'll gladly defend him. "He has a name, you know."

"You're friends with that grease? Listen, Lore," her real name crashes like a tidal wave on a drying, deserted island. He hadn't said her birth name in so long, it felt like he was talking to someone else entirely. "I don't like Connor, but at least he's not a petty fucking thug."

Groaning, Rory rolls her eyes, she told him earlier that Connor Williams is never returning— but he wasn't listening. Too focused on Bob's boring conversation about his mustang's engine or their favorite Playboy bunny.

"Just forget about Connie, okay?" The brunette quickly purses her lips, hating that her heart still has ties to that boy. "I'm, uh, I'm done with him. I told you this morning."

"Right, well, this isn't the first time you've said 'it's over.'" Randy gives her a knowing look, his brownish-gray eyes lodging deep within her heart. "You've gone back to him, like a hundred times."

"Three times, but whatever," Rory corrects, "not anymore." Feeling her heart sink at the memories of late-night screaming matches and manipulation tactics to the disappointed looks from her family and friends the next morning. "Anyway, I accept your half-ass apology, Rands. Now, why are you here?"

Randy scoffs, knowing his baby sister is too smart to get anything past her, even if it's for her own good. "Get dressed. Mom wants you to come out with us tonight."

"Uh, no thanks," Rory chuckles under her breath, hearing her record player switch to another vinyl. Quickly, she turns her head, noticing the signature hot pink and heavily saturated green RCA Victor Studios label. "I got Presley records to go through," she turns back around with a fake strawberry smile, closing the door in his face. "And I don't think you want me at back seat bingo. Bye-bye now."

Immediately, the oldest Anderson grabs her door, propping it open. His demeanor changed from scornful sarcasm to deadly seriousness. "Ain't that a bite, because I  think you heard me, Rory.  going out tonight. You either deal with me, or you'll deal with Father."

Sighing loudly through her nose, she nods in agreement. Randy doesn't answer back, releasing her door frame and heading towards his room.

Rory rubs her aching forehead, the winter-old scar burning on her leftcheekbone. The nicked skin is reminiscent of her mother's vicious backhand in lateJanuary. Rory was caught smoking in the warmth of her bedroom, still some cigarette ashes on her rug. She couldsmell the smoke during the crisp, cold hours of the morning when she was theonly one still awake, crying herself back to sleep.

The youngest Anderson mumbles "God, I hate this family," underher breath, not realizing her brother is still an earshot away.

"Join the club," he replies, before commanding her thrice more. "Meet me outside in ten. You better wear something respectable and hide that shirt before Mom sees you."

"Aye-aye, asshole," she banters, watching as her older brothermakes his way to his room across the hall. With one foot in his room, theirmother yells at him from the kitchen, commanding him to help set the table.Randall heaves in annoyance, turns on his heel, and forgets to shut the dooras he leaves in a hurry.

The door was left ajar; Rory spots crushed beer cans scattered along thefloor, not  to hide his behavior unlike theywere taught. Shaking her head at sight, she softly pulls the door closed,before frustratingly pulling off her shirt. Throwing it harshly at the mirroracross from her, it simply bounces off the surface like a paper ball.

Her image remained intact, glowing with hateful respiration as it strangely stared back at her. Her melon mask melted off her face like that witch in Oz, hair frizzy and static, barely contained. Angry, wild,  and bare, she waltzes over to her vanity record player and raises the amplifier volume so that Elvis can drown out troublesome worries for the night that lies ahead.

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fez speaking!!

here's a little insight on the Anderson siblings' relationship...
it's practically hanging on by a single loose thread.

also,, sugar pie honey bunch RADIATES #DALLORE

next chapter is THE DRIVE-IN scene,, im so excited :))
pls remember to vote and comment, love you all <333