Makayla’s Destiny — Still Me

Junie misses the cup again.

Juice spills across the table, slides toward the edge, and drips onto the floor. His socks are already wet from the last time. He looks down at the mess like it surprised him, then looks up at me and smiles—huge, proud, like this was all part of the plan.

“I did it,” he says. “I just missed a little.”

“You didn’t,” Dior says immediately. “You spilled it.”

Which is technically true, but also extremely unhelpful.

Junie adjusts his grip on the cup. “I’m pouring,” he says calmly. “It’s heavy.”

That part is annoying. The explaining. The confidence. The way he expects us to take him seriously.

I grab a paper towel, because that’s my role in this family. Cleanup crew. Damage control.

“Junie, slow down,” my stepdad says from the stove.

“I am slow,” Junie says. “This is slow.”

He nods once, satisfied, and pours again.

Misses.

Laughs.

My stepdad slides a pancake onto Junie’s plate and taps the counter like a drumroll.

“Presentation matters,” he says.

Junie nods solemnly. “I agree.”

Dior sighs like this is a personal attack. “Dad,” she says, waving a paper. “Look. I finished my math.”

He turns, smiling for real. “Nice work. You stuck with it.”

Dior lights up instantly as someone plugged her in.

I notice. Obviously, I just pretend I don’t, which is kind of my thing.

Junie abandons the cup and bangs it on the table. “This system is inefficient,” he announces.

I blink. “You’re two.”

“Yes,” he says. “But correct.”

Dior groans. “Stop talking like that.”

“That is how I talk,” Junie says, offended.

Unfortunately, he’s right.

My stepdad glances at me while flipping a pancake. “Practice yesterday—good enough or character-building?”

“Somewhere in between,” I say.

“Perfect,” he replies. “That’s where the good stories usually start.”

I don’t know why, but that makes me smile.

Later, Junie stacks blocks on the rug. They fall. He stacks them again. They fall again. He doesn’t look around. Doesn’t fake frustration. Just studies the problem as if it personally insulted him.

“I need a bigger base,” he says.

Of course he does.

Dior builds next to him, slower, louder, glancing up every few seconds like applause might fall from the ceiling. When hers stays up longer, she grins. “Mine’s better.”

Junie squints. “It’s taller,” he says. “Not better.”

She yells. He knocks it over by accident. Chaos.

I laugh. Then stop myself. Like, I need permission to enjoy things.

I’m on the couch, scrolling through TikTok without actually watching anything. My volleyball bag sits by the door, still zipped. I dropped it there after practice and never looked back.

Practice was “fine.” Bench talk. Laughing. Arielle stayed after. She always does. I saw her through the gym doors, serving, missing, retrieving, trying again.

I told myself it didn’t matter.

Junie finally balances two blocks. They wobble. Fall.

“I almost had it,” he says, clapping anyway. “Again.”

I look at my hands. Clean. Dry. Unused.

Junie always knows exactly why something didn’t work.

I don’t know if that makes him impressive or deeply irritating.

Mom comes home late.

Junie yells her name like it’s a spell and launches himself down the hall. She catches him mid-fall like a professional.

“How was your day?” she asks me.

“Fine,” I say. That word is doing a lot of work.

She eyes the table. The paper towels. The sticky spot I missed.

“Homework done?”

“Mostly.”

She raises one eyebrow. Just one. It’s rude how effective it is.

Granny chimes in from her chair. “Did it, or did it right?”

“That’s literally the same thing,” I say.

“It absolutely is not,” Granny says calmly.

“Yes, it is,” I say. “You’re just saying it slower.”

Mom sighs. “No one’s attacking you.”

“I know,” I say. “I’m just explaining.”

Which is what I always say when I’m arguing.

“You rush,” Mom says gently.

“They always say that.”

“They also say you’re capable of more.”

“There it is,” I say. “The Greatest Hit.”

Granny sets down her knitting. “You don’t get these years back.”

“I’m thirteen,” I say. “Not a fossil.”

“No,” she says. “But habits don’t care about age.”

Junie crawls under the table. “Habits are patterns,” he announces.

No one asked him.

“I’m fine,” I say. “I get good grades. I’m on the team. I’m not failing at life.”

My stepdad sets a plate in front of me. “No one thinks you are,” he says easily. “We just like having you around.”

That stops me.

“I’m going to my room,” I say finally.

No one stops me.

Which somehow feels worse than if they had.

Upstairs, I flop onto my bed and stare at the ceiling. My phone buzzes. I ignore it.

Downstairs, I hear Junie announce, “Again,” as his blocks fall.

I don’t know why that sticks with me.

Everybody tries.

I just… don’t.

At least, not yet.