Happy weekend! I thought I'd change it up today and share another quick shot of fiction. This piece does not include any random vocabulary words, it's just a story for story's sake. As always, I would appreciate any and all feedback.
Tangerine Tuesday
I heard the screaming before I heard the door slam, one is usually followed by the other, so I wasn’t surprised to by the routine version of WW3 in our house. Trevor was in his room listening to his music, or practicing the cello, or staring at porn, I don’t know for sure, what I do know is the screaming of our two older sisters broke his concentration, and frustrated him enough to flee the house again for one of his “world is flat” runs. AKA running all-out in a fit of discovery and endurance just like Christopher Columbus. Trevor was a talented runner, but he didn’t run because he wanted to, he ran because had to. I did whatever I needed to in order to never be a reason for him to run; if that meant being invisible, than I was invisible.
The fight started off about the car. They always started about the car. First, it was how June owed Tracy gas money. Then it was how Tracy treated the car like a dump. Next it escalated to who called dibs on it for prom, and on and on.
“Damn it, girls!” Our exasperated mother bellowed from behind the oven. She must have felt the house shake from the front door slam. She closed her eyes long enough to gain her composure and not heave an apple at my sisters. My mother is a saint.
“Sorry mom, but it’s not our fault that he freaks out and runs away like that!” June squealed from within a headlock from Tracy.
“Tracy!” Mom yelled when she turned her head to see her eldest child torturing her favorite.
Meanwhile, I sat on a bar stool in front of the counter watching this mundane insanity play out like any other Tuesday evening. My sisters were so predictable. Being the youngest of four children, I made it my job to track and research my older siblings every move. I wanted to do what they did well, better, and steer clear at what they failed at. Being the youngest is like living the Cliff Notes version of life.
I loved my sisters because I had to; I loved Trevor because I wanted to. He was always kind to me, and at least acted like he enjoyed spending time with me, too. He taught me how to throw a football, how to make a skyscraper-sized ice cream sundae, how to outwit our sisters, and how to laugh. Trevor had an infectious giggle that made us all crack up, but he stopped laughing after the accident.
“Mickey, go look for your brother.” My mother snapped at me as I nibbled on a bowl of Goldfish crackers.
“Really?” I muttered with a cheesy mouthful of crackers.
“Yes. Really.”
“but, he could be miles away by now?”
“Exactly, dinner’s almost ready, GO!”
I climbed down from my observational perch, walked past my bickering sisters in the hallway toward the garage, grabbed my bike, and pedaled down our driveway into the tangerine evening light. I didn’t see which way Trevor turned when he flew out the door, but he usually ran toward our school, so I headed in that direction hoping my sibling-Spidey senses would pick up his scent.
I was proud and confused by my mother’s faith in my reconnaissance skills. I knew that I was a diligent cyclist, my BMX, Sammy, was a boss, but I never noticed that my mom paid attention to my riding prowess. I guess she did? Maybe she knew me better than I thought?
As I started up the hill toward our school, Price Westley High School, I saw a slight, quick silhouette running down the hill in my direction. Trevor. He was moving so fast. I stopped immediately, caught my breath, and then sped off in his direction.
“Hey, Mickey, is that you?” He yelled effortlessly.
“Yeah, it's me, Trev!”
“What are you doing?” He slowed down, and met me underneath the school’s marquee.
“Mom sent me to come find you, ‘cuz dinner’s ready.”
“Huh, okay.” He wiped his nose with the back of his hand, and then started running again.
I turned my bike around and rode quietly next to him. I didn’t need to say anything. I waited in reverence to listen to whatever he needed to say. I knew there was something eating away at him, too many things, really. He was rehearsing day and night for his cello audition for Juilliard, studying for the upcoming AP exams, and trying to forget that he needed his dad. Our dad.
I believe Trevor felt abandoned after our dad died, because he was suddenly the only man in a house raging with estrogen. I didn't blame him, it was the truth. My sisters were always at each other’s throats, and my mom was always on edge; the uneasiness of everyday life grounded him down to the core.
“I’m going home, Mickey, don’t worry.”
“Okay.”
“I’m hungry.”
That was all he said the entire run home. But there wasn’t ever a whole lot that needed to be said between us, he was my big brother, and I was his little sister, we would do anything for each other, even a little Tuesday night rescuing.
The song and video today is my first favorite song from U2, and the video reminds me of many days long ago shooting in downtown LA, The Streets Have No Name.