It wasn’t strictly true—there’s a headstone with his name on it, but my brother isn’t buried anywhere.
We didn’t unpack his box. Mum taped it up good and proper so nothing could fall out. I think about his belongings in the loft sometimes: a gray furry dolphin called Gordon that my father bought for him after he’d had a tantrum at the Dolphin and Seal Centre; a wooden xylophone; a Toy Story 3 Etch A Sketch with his name on it in wonky black lines—he would cry if it got scrubbed off; handfuls of pine needles that he’d collected, the dead ones because they were softer than the spiky green ones. They’ve probably turned into compost now. I try not to think of his clothes, all folded up, damp and creased. It just reminds me that he’s not in them. Instead, I imagine my own clothes all folded up. One day, I suppose, someone else will have to try not to think about that.
2
ON SUNDAY MORNING, DILLON IS HOGGING THE BATHROOM. The tap’s running, but I can still hear the disgusting noises. He’s always been a bathroom hogger, but he spends even more time in there now he’s got a girlfriend.
I pound on the door and give it a kick for good measure.
“Just a minute!” he yells.
He sounds as though he’s holding candy inside his cheek, his voice strained and muffled.
“Hurry up, Dillon. I need to pee!” I shout through the door.
Mum leans on the banister at the end of the landing, glancing down the stairs, watching out for my father coming home from yet another “work trip.”
She asks me if I’ve done my homework and I lie and say I did it all yesterday. If I don’t do my homework, she often tells me, I won’t pass my exams and I’ll end up being a receptionist like her.
“Think of your exams, Elsie. Dillon will get all As for his Advanced Highers,” she says.
Dillon’s got two years on me and he’s a complete brainbox, so it’s not really fair to compare us. I’m already a school year behind because of my Laryngitis Year, and I’m only taking half the exams I’m meant to be taking—the school thought I “needed more time.” Dillon’s a year behind too because he also lost his voice, but he’s making up for it by taking extra exams. He likes to be the best at everything, whereas I take pride in being the worst.
Dillon eventually emerges from the bathroom with bloodshot eyes.
“What were you doing in there?” I hiss.
He ignores me and disappears into his bedroom.
There’s something that looks like a piece of spaghetti in the toilet. Mum calls to Dillon, but he doesn’t answer. I flush the toilet to drown out his silence, then turn to the mirror.
Unfortunately, my father didn’t pass his good looks on to me. I got my mother’s dark, wild curly hair and green eyes, which I don’t mind too much, but I didn’t get her petite figure, dainty nose, or perfect skin. My face is blotchy and my double chin grows by the day. I tried losing weight once, but the more my mum commented on what I was eating, the more I wanted to eat. I’m hungry just thinking about it.
Ruby Red is the color of my lipstick—stolen from Superdrug along with a packet of condoms that I might put in Dillon’s pocket as a joke, and some hair spray. The lipstick feels silky smooth on my lips as I apply it, and it glues the chapped bits of skin back down. I don’t blot with a tissue like Mum does. I like it when the red comes off on my cigarettes.
When I come out of the bathroom, Mum is sitting halfway down the stairs with her chin in her hands. I prod her shoulder, and she slowly turns around as though she has no idea who might be behind her.
“Your father is on his way. As soon as he’s back, we’re all going to the supermarket.”
She doesn’t move, so I climb over her to get downstairs.
No matter how carefully and quietly I try to open the fridge, it always makes a loud suction sound.
“Elsie!”
“I’m just getting a drink,” I call back, reaching for a Coke. I take a few slices of ham and throw them into my mouth before anyone comes in, careful not to wipe my lipstick off. Mum says I eat her out of house and home, but this isn’t true, because my father pays for the food, and Dillon eats like a baby sparrow, so I’m entitled to his share. Anyway, I do most of the cooking, so it’s fair payment.
“A watched door never opens,” I say as I climb back over her.
But then we hear the keys jangling. Neither of us goes to open the door, so my father is surprised to find us staring at him from the stairs. He looks as though he’s been up for days.
“I’m back,” he says, as if for some reason we couldn’t see this.
3