I go downstairs at ten to grab myself a snack. I’ve been so wrapped up in Tori and the new level our relationship has reached, I hadn’t realized how quiet the house is. I stick my head round the living room door, and yep, there’s Mum, playing zombie. All that’s missing is the rat-a-tat-tat of fake gunfire from the room above.
I creep back upstairs, my euphoria slowly leeching away. Is Bratley even in? He should be. Maybe he’s in there, doing horrible teenage boy things to awful porn? I don’t want to see that again.
But what if he’s not? What if he’s not even here? If he isn’t, then where is he? But, then again, why should I care?
You care because he’s your little brother, a voice pops up in my head.
Is that true? Maybe, once upon a time, when he was a blond-haired moppet who wanted to share his Pokémon facts with me. But now? No. I don’t care, I just don’t need him piling any more stress onto Mum.
I hesitate by his door. I could just walk on by, go back to my own room, scarf down biscuits, and cocoon myself in Tori’s digital embrace. I could. No one would blame me. I’m not his legal guardian. But his legal guardian isn’t exactly in any fit state to legally guard him, is she?
I gnaw on a biscuit for a bit and then tentatively knock on the door.
“Brad?”
No answer.
I turn the handle. There’s no lock, but the door catches on something. An unpleasant smell wafts out of the tiny crack. I push the door a little more, but it just bounces off whatever is on the other side.
“Brad?”
My fear of his teenage wrath is replaced by something deeper and more nebulous.
“Are you in there?”
No reply.
I shove the door and cringe as something crashes down. Now the door opens easily. The foul stench of unwashed clothes, BO, cheap deodorant, and an indefinable musk (which isn’t unidentifiable, unfortunately) rolls out.
“Jesus Christ,” I mutter as I cover my nose with my hand.
I find the source of the door’s resistance pretty quickly. Brat tied some string to a pile of heavy books, which he then looped around the door handle. There’s enough give to slip a hand in to untie it, but because I didn’t know about it, the books have crashed off the shelf and onto the floor. Well, screw him; I’m not picking them up. I don’t care if he knows that I’ve been into his room.
I glance around. Dirty clothes litter the floor and piles of gaming magazines and tissues are scattered around the bed. Eww. I’m not going near those. Posters of scantily clad women line the walls, broken up only by the odd game poster. His current game is paused, his characters frozen in time. No sign of any schoolwork. Lots of evidence of him pissing his life away. Nothing whatsoever that might give me a clue as to where he might be.
I wonder how long he’s been doing this. The thought strikes me, hard. In the evening, I’m usually so wrapped up in my online world that I have never really given his whereabouts any thought at all. Has he stayed out like this before? When did he leave?
Is he ever coming back?
I don’t like that thought. He might be a colossal cockwomble, but he is still my little brother.
Back in my room, I grab my phone and bring up his profile. A flashing on my laptop screen catches my attention—Tori, asking me if I’m okay. My heart swells at that. She does care. She really does.
Soz. Went to get a snack, noticed my brother isn’t in.
Problem?
Could be. He’s 14 and annoying af. I . . .
I pause, my fingers hovering over the keys. I don’t talk about my family much, especially online. I prefer to keep them out of that world, slotted into different little compartments in my brain. Telling Tori about Brad would basically be like dragging him into the room.
And yet I’m feeling the need to share, the need to confide, and I realize it’s because I want her in my offline life as much as my online one—
I take in a shaky breath.
. . . I don’t know where he is, and that’s an issue. My mum’s not well and so doesn’t have a great grip on him. He’s going off the rails, tbh.
God, hun. Sounds shit.
Yeah, it is. I think he’s been bunking off school, and now he’s fucking off at night. I dunno where he goes or what he’s doing. I was gonna text him, but I don’t reckon he’ll reply.
That is worrying. He could be doing anything.
Give me his number. Might be able to track him?
Oh. I hadn’t thought of that. Brat doesn’t feature in my online world—we’re not on each other’s social media, and I have no idea where his main stomping grounds are or even what his usernames are. But I do know there will be ways to track him via the GPS on his phone. I don’t have the expertise, but I have a feeling Tori does, so I give her his number. She tells me to wait, so I spend a tense few minutes sorting through my empty candy wrappers, jumping each time my screen flickers. I’m getting notifications for Project Destroy the Poison Twins every two seconds; normally I would’ve been on them like a whippet on a rabbit, but now I’m ignoring them.
Finally, Metachat flicks up, showing me a screengrab of a Google map. It’s the park just down the road from us. At its center is a little red dot.
Near you?
Yeah. It’s just down the road.
The little shit. Here I am, worrying myself sick, and he’s a five-minute walk away? I can see him now, in my mind’s eye, sitting on the swings with his dickless little friends, swigging cheap cider, possibly sharing a badly rolled joint, thinking they’re the Big I Am because they’re out at night, when in reality they’re just showing themselves up as the stupid little kids they are, and all the grown-ups they’re so desperate to emulate are sitting in their nice warm homes, drinking their proper drinks and smoking their expertly rolled joints, possibly while watching a nice film or maybe eating a nice dinner or lazily making love. The one thing they’re not doing is huddling around the kiddies’ play equipment, pretending they’re rebels while freezing their tiny bollocks off.
You ok?
Yeah. Just pissed off.
You gonna go get him?
Are you kidding? Let the little fucker freeze. I don’t care.
Lol. Atta girl.
At least now I can tell you where he is if he does this again.
Saves you from worrying.
She is so considerate. I am so lucky. Sure, giving out my brother’s number without his permission might seem a bit foolish, even wrong, but he shouldn’t sneak off at night. And she’s totally come through for me, managing to make me feel better in a split second. Why couldn’t she have come into my life earlier? It’s a shame she lives so far away—well, at least I think she does. Remind me to ask her some time.
Come on. Forget your shitty bro. Let’s go and have more fun.
We do. Lots of it. Indigo’s online now. For all her mindfulness and veganism, she’s got a tongue like a lash and swears like a docker. It’s enormous fun—as the old saying goes, I like a girl with spirit.
Soon I’m laughing so hard, I think I might actually wet myself. Most of that is down to Tori’s caustic commentary on Metachat. Indigo and her little fan club try to wrestle back control, but it’s absolutely futile. Me and Tori and our legion of sockpuppet accounts are merciless, and in the end, after blocking and reporting half of our accounts, the lovely Indigo goes the way of the equally lovely Dizzy and shuts down her account.
Two in one night? It’s a new record, people.