I wake up to Chewbacca roaring. I fumble around for my phone. Chewie roars again, somewhere on the floor by my bed. I stretch over to grab it and squint my sleepy eyes so I can read the text.
The Momster: Pancakes or waffles
Mom’s become a Family Breakfast Nazi. She must have read a study in a magazine: “Research Finds Families Who Don’t Eat Together Spin into Different Orbits, Kids Likely to Become Serial Killers.” Dinner doesn’t work because Dad always has meetings, and Jeremy has…whatever it is that Jeremy does. So, unilateral declaration of family breakfast, the four of us, every weekday morning. No exceptions. (Heil, Lydia!)
Me: Don’t care (I will abbreviate when called for, but I am fully committed to apostrophes in texts. Otherwise what kind of world do we live in?)
The Momster: O come on. Have an opinion.
Me: Waffles
The Momster: Yr brother wants pancakes.
Me: Then why did you ask?
The Momster: Hoped yd say p-cakes.
Me: Pancakes r fine.
The Momster: Pancakes FTW!
This, this is my life.
Shower, drag comb through hair, apply new band-aid to forehead, gird loins, etc. Jeremy and Ruby and I are in the kitchen at 6:30, good little soldiers of the Breakfast Reich.
I scoop kibbles into Ruby’s dish, and even though it’s hella early, my brain is on overdrive thinking about everything—the deer, the accidents, Stenn, my injured head… Everything.
Thank God for Ruby. Not much of a talker, but a good listener, and equally happy if I don’t have anything to say.
Mom’s as perky as a Ritalin-sniffing cheerleader. If Morning Person isn’t an official diagnosis, it should be.
“Good morning, Monkey.” She slides pancakes onto my plate and sets down the frying pan with a clank. She hands me my Zoloft.
Yes, Zoloft.
At first I was like, Nokay, no frigging way, I’m not taking an antidepressant. I’m not depressed; I’m sad. There’s a difference, yo. Especially when it comes to medicating people. But they wore me down, the Grown-ups With Their Concern. So I relented. And just look at me now: Little Miss Sunshine, radiating good vibes and positive energy everywhere I go!
But truly, it does tamp down the memories of the accident—not so much hiding them as slowing down their instant replays. Except for last night. Thanks a lot, deer.
Mom gives me the official I Am Concerned About You look, frowning at the band-aid above my eyebrow. She picks lint off my sweater. “Monkey. You’re wearing black again.”
“Haven’t you heard? Black is the new black.”
She makes a face. To Mom, wearing black means you’re depressed and thinking Deep, Dark Thoughts—even though I wore just as much black BJD. She bought me a bright green sweater last week. Bright. Green.
I wash my Zoloft down with gulps of juice. “You know I’m taking that sweater back. Drive me to the mall this weekend? I’m not down with the secondary colors.”
Jeremy looks up from his pancakes. His eyes flick to my forehead. “Dork. Secondary disaster and malfeasance is what you’re down with.” He shovels more food into his mouth. How he manages to simultaneously make no sense and sound vaguely Shakespearean is a mystery.
“Jeremy, your sister’s not a…” but Mom trails off, like maybe she can’t really disagree with the assessment. She switches tack. “She’s been through enough.”
Wow, Mom. Your defense of me is overwhelming. Truly.
And then Dad appears, cowboy boots clunking on the linoleum. He grabs a pancake from my plate. “These boots are made for walking, Sarah.”
I’m supposed to say, “And that’s just what they’ll do.” It’s this thing of Dad’s. He wants to be able to count on me saying it, no matter what else happens. Reassurance through repetition.
And I kind of want to. I want to say it and see him smile, but my snark box swallows it up.
Dad waits.
I slide my pancake through syrup. I do feel sorry for him, but I just can’t get the words out. Dad looks at Mom; she shakes her head sadly.
“God, Dork, what is your problem?” Count on Jeremy to make things worse. He takes his plate to the dishwasher, stopping to check the thermometer outside the kitchen window. Ruby lifts her head off my feet to watch him. “Brr…twenty-five degrees.” Jeremy reaches into his pocket and tosses the car keys at me. “You’ll probably need to scrape the windshield, too.”
I snatch the keys out of the air. Damn, if only Ruby was allowed to bite people. Let a girl sic her dog on her brother, already.
The car is nice and warm for the ride to school, thanks to me.
Jeremy steers with his knees while he fiddles with the music. The roads are deserted this early.
In September he started playing water polo before school with a bunch of Ninjas. Which means I get to
1. Take the bus (hells no) or
2. Walk to school in the freezing cold or
3. Get a toasty warm ride, but arrive one whole hour before first period.
Option #3 brought to you by Mom and Dad’s No Drive-y The Sister, No Borrow-y The Car rule.
Jeremy squints at the controls and turns the volume up. Loud. It’s his tactic to avoid chitchat. It’s amazing how we live in the same house, have the same parents, and yet barely know anything about each other. We’ve never been über close, but this? This is practically Stranger Danger.
Whatever. Whatever whatever. I stare out the window, try to think good thoughts: Stenn coming home today. Hanging out with him all weekend. Fooling around.
Jeremy turns down the music. “I waited for you yesterday, by the way. After school.”
Wait. What happened to You Snooze, You Lose?
“Sorry. There was a…an accident…” I don’t really know how much to go into it. I mean, does he care? He didn’t last night.
“It must have been quite a scene. Kind of Kafka-esque?”
My brother is actually initiating a conversation? With me? And referencing Kafka?
“Um, yeah. It was definitely freaky,” I venture. How does he know what happened? “Why? What did you hear?”
“I heard Mom and Dad talking about it.”
“Oh.”
“You know, it would be best to keep that little incident to yourself.”
“Really.” Snark box, activate. “You think so?”
“Yes, really. Because everyone already thinks you’re peculiar.”
I stare at the road. Everyone? Everyone thinks I’m peculiar? Well That’s Fantastic. “Thanks for sticking up for me.”
He rolls his eyes. “Don’t blame me.”
“Right… Who should I blame?”
“Yourself, Dork. You’re the one who acts all depressive.” His voice is 2 percent sympathy, 98 percent irritation. He continues, “Mom and Dad don’t know what to do with you.”
“And you’re telling me this because you care so much about me?”
“Actually, I’m telling you this because I’m sick of driving a total bitch around, instead of just the usual annoying kid sister. And I’m telling you because Stenn’s a decent guy. And because Ruby’s an awesome dog.”
“What does all that have to do with…?” My stomach twists. I don’t know where this conversation is headed, but I don’t like Jeremy listing two of the most important things in my life like that. “What are you talking about?”
He sighs, annoyed. “Mom and Dad were talking about how you’re becoming such a deadbeat in school. You don’t care about anything anymore, so they don’t have any leverage.”
“Leverage?” What does that mean?
“Anything to bargain with. Convince you to turn your crap around.”
“You mean like, to threaten me with?”
“I guess you could call it that.” He shrugs.
“But Ruby, and Stenn…” My heart freezes. “And driving. They wouldn’t take them away from me? They can’t.”
“Calm down, Freak Show. I don’t think they’re planning on it tomorrow. And I bet they’d start with driver’s ed before moving on to the big guns.”
Driver’s ed is a big gun. It’s my freedom to visit Stenn, to drive to the mall or the movies, to stop being subject to Jeremy’s lectures. But it’s not as heavy artillery as Stenn himself. Or Ruby.
“If I were you,” he says, “I would tread very carefully.”
I groan. I can’t believe this. Your daughter having a hard time? I know: take away the things that are most important to her. Awesome parenting, guys!
Jeremy doesn’t turn the music back up. There’s a little clunk when he steps on the clutch and a quiet thud when he shoves the gearshift into place.
“You really think they would stop me from seeing Stenn? Or—or take Ruby away?”
The blinker clicks while he waits for the light to turn green. “I think they’re getting desperate.”
Cue music. End of conversation.