lollipop. I pull it out of the fire in disgust.
Justin flops over and lets out a snore. I glance at him and sigh. As easy as it would be to push away the events of the last eight hours, sleep isn’t happening for me tonight. And Justin is grinding his teeth.
After bailing on me when Dad introduced me to his friend—which I still don’t get; she was just someone from work or something—Justin tried to make it up to me all evening. He brought me nachos with extra jalapeños. He tried to buy me a bracelet from a little craft stall, but it was completely overpriced and the beads were crap—there was no way I would let him pay what the guy was charging. And, just after we got home and we called Mom, he dragged his mattress into my room and broughtout a deck of cards. He interrupted my plans to work, but whatever, it was nice to hang out for a change, and I beat him twice playing War.
Justin turns over again, and for a moment, there’s silence.
Not that he’s been doing some kind of bizarre mime thing, but tonight’s been the most Justin’s talked to me in weeks. We used to talk all the time. I’d be making beads at night, and Justin would come to my room with his laptop and surf weird news sites so he could read me the headlines. (
Police arrest woman buying drugs with Monopoly money!
) We’d discuss all the gossip from school, who was getting together or breaking up, and just … hang.
Even with all the attention he got for being the freshman anchor on the debate team, Justin still managed to be just … normal. Until his last debate team event.
Despite the fact that one or the other of them always shows up, somehow, neither Mom nor Dad made it to his final meet. And it was the worst timing ever. He’d had a hugely important semifinal, and he just … choked.
Justin’s girlfriend, Callista, was sitting with a bunch of her friends for the semifinals in the row right in front of me, and she told me she thought Justin was sick. At first, he just sort of swayed, grabbed onto the podium—and then he walked off the stage. By the time I realized he wasn’t just in the bathroom puking, he’d left campus, which is against school policy. Later, Mom and Dad cleared it up and told the school he was sick, but they weren’t positive about that. Since I told them he threw up and he did go straight home and to bed, they bought his story.
They have no clue what happened.
I do.
I came home and found him destroying everything in my parents’ bathroom, his eyes all bloodshot. He’d knocked Dad’s colognes off of his vanity, broken his old-fashioned shaving mug and brush we gave him for Father’s Day one year, shoved his wool suit in the toilet, and smeared Mom’s makeup all over the sink. He’d written LIAR on the mirror over and over again in this really bright shade of lipstick, and when I came in, he was trying to break the mirror above the sink, just
wham! wham! wham!
Punching with his fists.
When he saw me standing in the doorway with my mouth open, he tried to say something and starting crying, making these horrible retching noises.
“What?” I’d practically screamed. “What’s the matter?”
For the longest time, all Justin could say was “Dad.”
By the time my parents got home, their bathroom was scrubbed, Dad’s suit was folded up in a plastic bag, ready for the dry cleaner’s, the mug was mended with epoxy, Justin was tucked in bed with lots of water and orange juice, and we had our stories straight. Dad might have noticed that the floor was wet and there was a big crack in his bottle of
Amour Pour Homme
, but he never said anything. He probably figured he’d bumped it too hard on the sink.
I didn’t believe my brother when he told me, but this is what he said: Dad was at Justin’s debate. Only, he wasn’t really Dad—he was wearing a wig, and a white suit, and high-heeled shoes.
Justin met Christine before any of us.
I turn off my torch and put the still-hot glass on the graphite
Justin flops over and lets out a snore. I glance at him and sigh. As easy as it would be to push away the events of the last eight hours, sleep isn’t happening for me tonight. And Justin is grinding his teeth.
After bailing on me when Dad introduced me to his friend—which I still don’t get; she was just someone from work or something—Justin tried to make it up to me all evening. He brought me nachos with extra jalapeños. He tried to buy me a bracelet from a little craft stall, but it was completely overpriced and the beads were crap—there was no way I would let him pay what the guy was charging. And, just after we got home and we called Mom, he dragged his mattress into my room and broughtout a deck of cards. He interrupted my plans to work, but whatever, it was nice to hang out for a change, and I beat him twice playing War.
Justin turns over again, and for a moment, there’s silence.
Not that he’s been doing some kind of bizarre mime thing, but tonight’s been the most Justin’s talked to me in weeks. We used to talk all the time. I’d be making beads at night, and Justin would come to my room with his laptop and surf weird news sites so he could read me the headlines. (
Police arrest woman buying drugs with Monopoly money!
) We’d discuss all the gossip from school, who was getting together or breaking up, and just … hang.
Even with all the attention he got for being the freshman anchor on the debate team, Justin still managed to be just … normal. Until his last debate team event.
Despite the fact that one or the other of them always shows up, somehow, neither Mom nor Dad made it to his final meet. And it was the worst timing ever. He’d had a hugely important semifinal, and he just … choked.
Justin’s girlfriend, Callista, was sitting with a bunch of her friends for the semifinals in the row right in front of me, and she told me she thought Justin was sick. At first, he just sort of swayed, grabbed onto the podium—and then he walked off the stage. By the time I realized he wasn’t just in the bathroom puking, he’d left campus, which is against school policy. Later, Mom and Dad cleared it up and told the school he was sick, but they weren’t positive about that. Since I told them he threw up and he did go straight home and to bed, they bought his story.
They have no clue what happened.
I do.
I came home and found him destroying everything in my parents’ bathroom, his eyes all bloodshot. He’d knocked Dad’s colognes off of his vanity, broken his old-fashioned shaving mug and brush we gave him for Father’s Day one year, shoved his wool suit in the toilet, and smeared Mom’s makeup all over the sink. He’d written LIAR on the mirror over and over again in this really bright shade of lipstick, and when I came in, he was trying to break the mirror above the sink, just
wham! wham! wham!
Punching with his fists.
When he saw me standing in the doorway with my mouth open, he tried to say something and starting crying, making these horrible retching noises.
“What?” I’d practically screamed. “What’s the matter?”
For the longest time, all Justin could say was “Dad.”
By the time my parents got home, their bathroom was scrubbed, Dad’s suit was folded up in a plastic bag, ready for the dry cleaner’s, the mug was mended with epoxy, Justin was tucked in bed with lots of water and orange juice, and we had our stories straight. Dad might have noticed that the floor was wet and there was a big crack in his bottle of
Amour Pour Homme
, but he never said anything. He probably figured he’d bumped it too hard on the sink.
I didn’t believe my brother when he told me, but this is what he said: Dad was at Justin’s debate. Only, he wasn’t really Dad—he was wearing a wig, and a white suit, and high-heeled shoes.
Justin met Christine before any of us.
I turn off my torch and put the still-hot glass on the graphite
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