She called Leo “cockroach” whenever she wanted to be nasty without getting in trouble for using bad language. She dipped a finger in her sour-apple-green face paint, drew along the edge of her forehead, and rubbed down her cheeks. Leo leaned over the cracked sink, which was always clogged with wads of long dark hair. “Is that you, Leo?” Marisol jiggled the doorknob. Daddy would just wrap his arm around Mamá and say, “You’re small too, Elena, but you’re perfect for this family.” The house was too small, she said, with only one story and more lawn than living space. Mamá always told Daddy that one bathroom for five girls should be considered cruel and unusual punishment. With four older sisters, Leo was used to these morning races, and it was nice to be on the right side of the locked door for once. She could huff all she wanted Leo had no plans of letting her in. Marisol, Leo’s sixteen-year-old sister, banged on the door. Leo let out a cackle to match her Halloween witch costume. Leo sprinted to the hallway bathroom, slammed the door, and locked herself in, just in time.
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