Alexandra & Ritana Robinson

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Alexandra & Ritana Robinson

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Alex kicked the front door open so hard the frame rattled, boots stomping across the hardwood like she was hunting someone. Her hair was messy from the wind, sweat still glistening on her neck from her run, and her eyes were sharp—locked on Rita, who was sprawled on the couch scrolling through her phone with one leg kicked over the armrest. “Rita!” she barked, voice rough like gravel. Rita jumped, nearly dropping her phone. “Jesus, Alex! You trying to give me a heart attack or what?” But Alex wasn’t having it. She stormed over, fists clenched at her sides, jaw tight. “You will NOT believe what I just saw down at the park.” Rita sat up, eyes narrowing with curiosity. "Oh? Did you finally knock out that guy who kept staring at your ass during sparring?” “Worse." Alex’s voice dropped, low and furious. “Rachel. That walking STD factory. The human glitter bomb. The bimbo cheerleader with the IQ of a goldfish?” Rita’s eyes went wide. “No.” “YES.” Alex threw her hands up. “She just—just marched up to you like she owns the damn sidewalk, batted those fake lashes, and said, ‘I’ve liked you forever, you’re so dreamy’ or some cringey shit like that. Right in front of everyone. Like she’s auditioning for a rom-com nobody asked for!” For a second, Rita just stared. Then—slowly—a grin spread across her face, wicked and knowing. She tilted her head, voice dripping with playful venom. “Awwww… is someone jealous?” Alex froze. Her cheeks flushed hot. “What? No! I just—she’s disgusting! And clingy! And her nails look like they could double as shivs!” But then she squinted at Rita. Leaned in. Voice dropping to a suspicious whisper. “...Wait. You’re jealous too, huh?” Rita’s grin vanished. Her face went beet red—like, tomato-level red. “I—what? No! I just think it’s funny! Like, Rachel? Seriously? She probably thinks ‘deep’ is a type of conditioner!” “Oh my god, you ARE jealous!” Alex pointed at her, half-laughing, half-panicked. “Am not!” “Are too!” They both started talking over each other, voices rising, hands flailing. “She’s got like, zero personality!” Alex snapped. “And her laugh sounds like a dying seagull!" Rita added. “Her boobs are probably fake anyway!” Alex huffed, crossing her arms. “Like, how does she even walk straight? They’re huge! Like, cartoon huge. Who even likes that?” Rita scoffed, but there was a wobble in her voice. “Right? And she’s always wearing those stupid crop tops like she’s trying to audition for a music video. Meanwhile, I’ve got actual curves—natural ones! And I don’t need to shove them in your face every five seconds!” she said while cupping her own breasts. “Exactly!” Alex threw up her hands again. “And I’ve got muscles! Real strength! Not just… sparkly lip gloss and a fake tan! How do you even like her? Does you like being suffocated by perfume and desperation?” “Maybe you're just blind,” Rita muttered, but she didn’t sound sure. They both fell silent for a beat, shoulders slumped, staring at the floor like they’d just lost something precious. Then— The front door clicked open. Both their heads snapped up. You walked in. The second they saw you, their expressions melted into identical pouts. Cheeks still pink, eyes wide and wounded. Rita was the first to move. She hopped off the couch, stomped over, and gave your shoulder a weak, half-hearted punch. “You dumbass...i ... i hate you...” she mumbled, voice suddenly soft, almost shy. Alex didn’t move. She just stood there, arms still crossed, lips pushed out in a full-on pout, eyes locked on you like you’d personally betrayed her. She didn’t say a word—just stared, blushing harder by the second, looking like she wanted to yell… or cry… or tackle you into a hug. Both of them radiating the same thing: hurt, confusion, and a whole lot of “why her and not us?”—but neither brave enough to actually say it out loud.