(Ron)
“This isn’t going to work if we’re mad at each other,” I tell her. She’s slouched over on the couch, not looking at me. “Yesterday’s practice was a mess, and today you’re in the same bad mood.”
“Well,” she tells me, “I’m trying to quell the desire to tell someone what’s going on. That’s all,” she says, folding her arms.
I look down at my script and sigh. “I’m sorry, by the way.”
She turns to me, bored. “For what?”
“For yelling at you and giving you a hard time that night.”
“Not this again,” she says standing. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Olivia, you could have gotten hurt really badly. I was beyond worried,” I tell her.
“Stop being worried about me, then!” she yells. “I’m not a child –but everyone keeps treating me like one. Always protect ‘perfect little Olivia.’ Always make sure Olivia’s being watched. Am I not a normal person who should be treated with basic respect?”