“Poor you,” I crack my neck and walk away, towards my Calculus class.
School is a blur, my brain barely soaking in any information. Tests come and go, homework comes and goes, people smiling at me or whispering about me barely register. It’s not me I hear. It’s Bee. When her name comes up on someone’s lips I can narrow in on it in less than a second, sharp and ready for every word that comes after.
“- what did the scholarship girl do, anyway?”
“ – at some party. She passed out and almost drowned in the pool –”
“ – gave her CPR right there. We were so freaked out, he was the only one who moved at all –”
“ – dating?”
“ – they hated each other –”
“ – he got her kicked out –”
“ – she was sort of stuck up, huh –”
They know so little. They know nothing, and yet they love pretending they do. That’s what humans do best. Pretend. I learned that all thanks to Bee.
A wave of sickness washes through me, and I spin my ring frantically. Let it pass. Dear God, please let it pass. I can’t lose control in school. Not in front of everyone. My shoulders are shaking so badly I can feel it radiating to my jaw.
I let myself trust again.
I trusted a liar, again.
I loved a liar, again.
She never hit me. Not once were her motions violent towards me. And yet somehow, this wound of hers burns hotter in me than any of Mark’s ever did.
That one dead poet was right when he said gentleness can kill, too.
Dad is smug about it, at home. He asks me if I’m ‘doing alright’, as if he genuinely cares. Today after school, I catch him sitting at the kitchen table, pouring over brochures of some kind.
“There you are,” He smiles up at me, that special snake smile he gets when he’s planning something awful. “Sit with me?”
He motions to the open chair, and suddenly exhausted by school, by the whispers, by all of it, I sit.
It takes me a minute to realize what the brochures he’s reading are about. My eyes focus – all of them are ‘rehabilitation centers’. For drug addictions. Dad sees me reading their headlines, and smiles again.
“I think it’s far overdue for Fitz to get some real help with his problem, don’t you?”
“Problem?” I whisper, hoarse. “He takes drugs at parties. And when he’s stressed, sometimes. But he hasn’t done a single one in two weeks –”
“You don’t know that. We can’t trust him, Wolf. It’s harsh but true. He might be your brother, but you can’t trust an addict’s word.”
“He didn’t tell me that,” I growl. “I know that. He gave me his stash. And I flushed it down the toilet.”
“You can’t know that he gave you all of it.”
“Haven’t you noticed? He isn’t himself, lately. He’s snappish and irritable. He’s having withdrawals.”
“And what reason,” Dad sneers. “Would your addict brother have for going cold turkey, hm? A change of heart? I don’t think so.”
“He nearly got B – ” I freeze. “He gave drugs to a girl. A girl who wasn’t used to them. And she almost – she almost got hurt.”
Dad watches me carefully, with eyes of a hawk. “And this girl – she was important to him?”
“She was important to all of us.” A low voice says. I look up to see Burn standing in the doorway of the kitchen, his fists balled. Things are never going to go well when his fists are balled.
“Ah, Burn,” Dad smiles. “Please, sit down. We were just having a discussion about what we should do to help your brother get clean.”
“He’s getting clean. On his own.” Burn insists, not moving from his spot.
“He’ll relapse without proper help. You’re the oldest brother,” Dad insists. “You need to do what’s best for them. Fitz is going to a rehab, and if I hear one word –”
Dad doesn’t hear a word from Burn. He hears Burn’s fist as it slams into the wall. Dad and I jump in our skins. Burn glowers at Dad, and this time it’s pure anger. Dark lightning and unbridled fury dances across his face.
I haven’t seen him get mad, truly mad, in years. Until now.
“He’s not going.”
Dad’s quiet, then he chuckles. “I see. Suddenly you’ve decided to take charge. Years of running away from the responsibility of this family, and now you expect me to take you seriously?”
Burn clenches his jaw, and for the first time in my life, I feel fear. I’m afraid of him, of what he could do to Dad. To me. To anyone. He’s so huge and so strong, it would be so simple for him to reach across the counter and – “You’re the one who was supposed to inherit everything, Burn,” Dad says. Reminds him, really, like the thought of money will ease his anger.
“I don’t give a damn,” Burn says, his voice shaking. “Fitz isn’t going anywhere.”
“If you fight me on this, I will change my mind. And if you fight hard, you can be sure I’ll write you out of my assets and will completely. You’ll get nothing from me upon graduating in six months. No college tuition, no trust fund. Nothing. You will be penniless and destitute on the streets of this town, and let me assure you – the streets are never kind.”
“I don’t. Need. Your money.” Burn grits his teeth. “I don’t need any help from you to live my life the way I want to.”
“I’m sure you’ll do just fine,” Dad sneers. “With a high school degree and no contacts, or training, or references.”
Burn doesn’t so much as flinch. He holds up his fist, and for a second I’m sure he’s about to hit something else, but he dangles something from it instead. Something shiny and plastic.
“It took me a long time,” He says. “It’s true. I ran away, that’s true too. It was my fault. I wasn’t there for anyone. And that’s something I have to make up for.”
He throws the plastic thing on the counter, over the brochures. It’s a keychain, I can see that now. Detailed bubble letters, drawn and colored in with care, read BE SAFE. Dad wrinkles his nose.
“And what is this….filthy piece of garbage supposed to relay to me?”
“It’s a gift,” Burn corrects him. “From someone I care about. I found it at the old place we used to hang out together.”