Cry Little Sister

The thumping bass of Guns N' Roses 'Welcome to The Jungle' vibrated through the small apartment, a soundtrack to my liberation. I swayed my hips, a box of old vinyl records clutched in my arms, as I unpacked the last remnants of my old life.

Augusta, Georgia, was officially behind me. No more fitting into someone else's mold, no more pretending to care about the latest pop princess. Santa Carla was my fresh start, a canvas for my own kind of cool.

"Nice dance moves, Axl," Maria's voice cut through the music, laced with her usual teasing. I glanced over my shoulder to see her leaning against my bedroom doorframe, a smirk plastered across her face. I playfully flipped her off, earning a laugh. My new Judd Nelson poster went up on the wall, a silent declaration of independence.

"Any reason you're spying on me?" I asked, smoothing the poster.

"Yeah, wanna go to the boardwalk? I have to work tonight, but I can give you a ride." She plopped onto my still-unmade bed, her eyes scanning the familiar faces on my new walls.

"Sure. Just let me shower and change first."

Maria's smirk widened. "What, trying to impress someone tonight?"

"Yep, caught me." I pushed her gently out of the room, her laughter echoing down the hall. A quick shower, a crop top, denim shorts, and my favorite flannel, paired with well-worn Dr. Martens and black Ray-Bans – my uniform for freedom. "Ready?" I called out.

"'Bout time," she sighed, and we headed out the door.