Downstairs, the front door slams. I jerk my head up, my heart hammering. I’d been so wrapped up in my online world that I’d forgotten about the dreary real one. I glance over at my clock: past midnight. Has Bratley seriously been sitting in the park this whole time, freezing his nuts off—for what? Some booze? A drag on a spliff?
And people say those of us who have full online lives are sad.
Wait a sec. Brat’s home.
Oh, shit. Your mum okay?
Dunno. Can’t hear her.
She’s probably asleep.
She’s on some pretty serious meds.
Are you gonna say anything to him?
That’s a very good question. I feel like I should. I am his big sister. I’m supposed to look out for him. But do I need the hassle?
Dunno. What do u think?
I’d go for the throat.
Well, of course she would. That’s because she’s brave and daring, everything I’m not. Not in real life, anyway. But what would Tori think if she knew that? That I’m not the cool, fearless person she thinks I am, but rather I’m a big fat coward who gets her kicks making other people feel bad about themselves? I don’t want that. I really don’t want that.
Right. Brb.
I get up off my bed and peer out into the hall. Bratley’s groping at his door, obviously trying to deactivate his little trap. His movements are sluggish; he’s at least a bit drunk. I glance back toward my laptop. Tori’s Facebook page is displayed, alongside the little Metachat window. I was looking through her meager collection of photos of herself, as if that might bring her closer to me somehow. She’d do this. Be brave. Brave like Tori.
I open my bedroom door. “Brad?”
“Beth,” he yelps. “What the fuck?”
“Uh, excuse me? I think I should be asking you that. What the hell are you doing, sneaking off and then not coming back until after midnight? You’ve got school tomorrow!”
“Oh, like you give a shit!” He’s slurring and stinks, rather predictably, of cheap cider. “It’s none of your business, bitch.”
The casual way he tries to dismiss me rankles, and I’m glad I intercepted him. No more being afraid. Time to deal with the beast.
“Look, Mum’s ill, and you acting like this isn’t helping. You think you’re the only one with problems? Think again.”
“Oh, just fuck ooofff . . .” He tries to push his door open, but the books that fell over earlier must be blocking it, meaning he can’t just slip inside and slam the door on me. Instead, he’s got to spend some time trying to figure out how to get into his room in his addled state.
“No. I’m not going to fuck off, because you’re fourteen, and sitting in the park getting drunk is—”
“How do you know I was in the park?” he slurs.
Oh, crap.
“Because I’m not a complete idiot, unlike you.”
He screws his face up and shakes his head, as if that might dislodge me from his vision.
“You . . . you . . . you think you’re so important,” he says when I don’t miraculously disappear. “That . . . that you’re so much better than anyone else.” His face is screwed up in an ugly pout, his eyes blazing with drunken indignation. “You’re not, though. Better than me. You’re just a stupid, fat bitch who can’t face reality. Poor sad, mad, fat Bethany, can’t cope with real life, so she drowns herself in chocolate, talking to her imaginary friends—”
“Shut up!” I hiss, my hands clenched into fists. “I’m not the one worrying Mum sick—”
He snorts. “Yeah, right. You keep telling yourself that. Between Dad and you, Mum hasn’t stood a chance. Neither have I.”
He says the last bit quietly, framing it as an afterthought. The ember of fury flares in me again. How dare he blame me for what Dad did? That’s about as low as you can go. He’s the one who needs to face up to facts. He’s the one who needs to sort his life out.
We stare at each other for a few seconds more. A sneer curls his lip, but his eyes are oddly bright. He then shoves his door open and disappears inside his room, and I turn away, sharpish, back to my own sanctuary, wishing I hadn’t bothered trying to tackle him in the first place.
***
So, how did it go?
Tori’s message is waiting for me when I settle myself back down, but I’m not sure if I’m ready to tell her yet. I’m angry, and there’s now a lump in my throat that just won’t melt, and I don’t know why.
He’s a shit.
Oh. Not good, then?
You could say that.
I can piss off if you want.
But you can tell me. I’m here for you.
And, at last, the lump loosens—only rather than disappearing, the tears it contained flood out of me, and I find myself typing madly, telling her everything Brat said, and how life’s shit since Dad left, and that I don’t think I can cope with Mum’s illness and Brat’s awfulness all at once.
Tori doesn’t interrupt me. She says nothing about my spelling mistakes or my repetitions. She lets me get it all out over the course of four messages, and I am grateful. When she eventually replies, she says just one thing.
I am here for you. You know that, right?
And I cry again, this time with happiness.