Christina (Daughters #1) Read Online Free

the farms and ranches of the area, most people think he doesn’t speak English. But instead of correcting them, he almost revels in that mistake. He loves the anonymity. He craves it. He is there, but more as a ghost than a human being.
    Sometimes, I feel the weight of Max’s burden on me. I am his voice, and his only connection to the world. I assumed that role by myself, when I was in seventh grade and I first met him. I took him to school with me, and back then, his severe speech impediment made him stutter and slur his words. He’d been mocked and jeered at all his life, while I was well liked and popular. We live in such a small town, that I became a kind of queen bee around everywhere. And I claimed Max as mine.
    He and I are completely different. I am outgoing to almost everyone. I am usually friendly and I hope most people think I’m a nice person. Max is so introverted, like I said, many think he can’t speak English or only broken English. Not true. He can speak perfectly when he chooses to. He remains unfriendly to almost everyone. Except me. Max is usually nice to me.
    And always… there is Max. Sometimes, he is like this huge albatross around my neck. He never even tries to fit in anywhere. He has no friends. He’ll beat up anyone for no real reason. Another oh so not appealing fact about Max is: he loves to pick fights. I mean to the extreme. He’s been running street fights since he was in the fifth grade. He earned a sufficient amount of money doing so, as he was the perfect hustle, owing to his slight build and stature. I’ve seen him fight. He’s fierce. No one sees it coming. And I hate it. One time, I saw him bring a kid to his knees. I ran from him, afraid and crying, and refused to speak to him for a week. He really scared me. He always scares me when he fights. He becomes a different guy when he goes into what I call his fighting “trance.” It’s creepy. This blank expression comes over him. It’s all-consuming and impenetrable. It’s also lethal. Or at least, almost lethal.
    I stare at him, and his facial expression doesn’t change.
    He is usually my best friend. I mean like my real best friend. Not the BFF you hang out with at the lunch table, or exchange idle gossip with about who hooked up with whom. No, Max and I go much deeper. We just are. Always. Best friends. I love and trust him. My aunt and uncle adopted him shortly after he and his brother came to Ellensburg. They were escaping from a really bad life in California. After that, we were officially cousins, so I spent all these years mostly with him. He tagged along everywhere I went, even when no one else really wanted him.  Not that anyone dared to be mean to him in front of me. He didn’t even try to defend himself against idle gossip or rude kids. He only fought to make money. I was the one who, more than once, ripped into someone for mistreating him, or assuming he didn’t speak English. Some even tried speaking louder to him, implying that his reluctance to speak indicated he was a moron.
    I break our silent standoff. “You’re bleeding again. Sit down.”
    He doesn’t comment, but sits on the closed toilet seat. There are no towels. I find a roll of paper towels under the sink and pull several sheets off, which I run under the faucet before approaching him. His eyes never leave mine as he watches my movements. His distrust is high. His fight or flight instinct is ever on alert. Except it’s usually turned on to fight. I lean over and gently touch the paper towel to his bleeding cut at his hairline. It looks like a ring or watchband sliced the skin. He has dark skin, darker than his brother even. No one knows for sure if his father was the same father as his brother, Derek.
    I leave the wet paper towel there for several long, silent moments. Yes, still quiet. We often do that. We do not communicate like any other couple or friends in the world. Everything we say comes through our silences with each other. He knows