and I sigh. I donât want her to pity me, but I do want her to know that I get what itâs like, coming home to a house you canât deal with, so I shrug and say, âTheyâve been like this since I was, like, ten. On and off. So I get . . . I hope your sister gets better. I hope you guys work it out. Because this shit drives you insane. You know?â
For a long moment, she doesnât say anything. Then her voice comes back, calm and slow. âYeah, I know,â she says. âI get done with school and everything and come home to this, like, hovering atmosphere ofâI donât know what I did, you know? Iâm goingcrazy trying to figure out what I did,â and I say, âYou probably didnât do anything,â and she says, âWhat?â and I say, âI mean,
my
parents are always angry because theyâre miserable.â
Silence. I feel as if the words should have been hard to say, but they slid out as easily as thin liquid, not an ounce of resistance. I stare at my bedroom wall, and my voice trails on without me, careless, thoughtless. âMy mom feels like sheâs wasting her fancy degree out here in bumfuck Kansas, and my dad gets all,
Why are you so ungrateful?
and nothing I do changes that. So, like, your sister? If I had to guess, sheâs probably going through something personal, and she needs to figure it out before sheâs ready to treat you like . . . I donât know. A person.â
Looking over at the windowsill, I realize my blunt has smoldered down on its plate. I stub it out, not even angry about having wasted half a joint, because, what the hell, when did this turn into an actual conversation? Iâm perched, tense, on the edge of my chair, waiting for her answer.
Olivia says, âWhereâd your mom go to school?â And I say, âYale. Sheâs a biologist.â
âHow do you deal with the fighting?â she asks.
âI donât know.â I rummage around for a better answer but come up empty-handed. âI donât deal with it. Iâm just here.â
âYou donât try to stop them?â she asks, and Iâm like, âNah. Last time I tried was freshman year. Now I only speak up when they get Russell involved,â and sheâs like, âYour little brother,â and I look over at him, his mouth cracked open in sleep. âYeah,â I say. âHeâs better than the rest of my family combined.â A breeze washes in through the window as I listen to her silence on the other end. I havenât talked like this in a long time, andsomething in my heart is waking up, lifting its drooping head.
âWhatâs, uh, whatâs going on with your sister?â I ask.
âSheâs missing classes, she never comes out of her room, and every time I, like, dare to seem worried, she snaps. Itâs like living with a . . . I donât know, a Venus flytrap. A large, deeply angry Venus flytrap.â Olivia chuckles, and it breaks, and sheâs quiet, and I rearrange my fingers on the hot plastic casing of my phone and wish I knew what to say.
âItâs frustrating,â she goes on, âââcause weâre both dealing with the same thing, you know? Sheâs the only one who would get it, but weâve never spoken about Mom, not once. I wish sheâd talk to me. Jesus, I never thought Iâd say this, but I miss middle school.â
âMakes sense wanting to rewind things, though.â
Her silent understanding rings through the phone. Me, Iâd go all the way back to elementary school, before permanent lines settled between my parentsâ eyebrows.
âBut also, fuck middle school,â I add, and she laughs.
Silence settles carefully, like ashes. âThis is weird,â she says after a minute, and I say, âYeah,â and she says, âI hate to, like, ruin your nightââ
âYouâre
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