before. That my little brother had grown into a popular, self-possessed, too-cool-for-you Teenager who didn’t need his dorky older sister for anything. He buckled his seat belt in one swift, angry motion, then dropped his forehead against the window and didn’t speak again. When Maritza pulled into our driveway a few minutes later, he raced out of the car without bothering to shut the door.
My friends and I sat with the car still running, the music still playing. I didn’t have anything to say, especially not to Maritza.
“I’ll see you later,” I said, getting out of the car. I didn’t bother to invite them in.
* * *
My brother’s room was the first off the upstairs landing. I stood in front of his door for a long minute, feeling the vibrations from his loud, blaring music. The hand-painted sign from my grandparents was still affixed to his door: a small wooden rectangle with footballs, trains, and Grant’s Room written in swirly, child-friendly lettering.
I did something I’d never done before and held up my middle finger to his door.
Alone in my bedroom, I looked around and took stock of my world. Maritza’s NASA sweatshirt that I’d stolen a month ago and kept forgetting to give back. A battered copy of a Doctor Who novel JaKory kept bugging me to read. Selfies of the three of us in my basement, in the school courtyard, in the Taco Bell drive-through.
No sign of a life any bigger than this. No wilted bouquets from the prom, no blurry photos from late nights I couldn’t remember, no movie ticket stubs from a date with a pretty girl. The burning embarrassment I’d felt in the car was gone, but now there was a furtive pit of shame in my stomach, threatening every idea I had about myself.
My brother was becoming a real Teenager. He’d met up with a girl at the movies tonight, had probably paid for her ticket and bought her candy from the concession stand and held her hand in the dark space of the theater, and after the movie he’d spun her away from his sea of friends and come so, so close to kissing her, and I had watched from my spot in my best friend’s car, fresh off an evening of playing with kids’ toys at the pharmacy.
How had I gotten to be seventeen years old without anything happening? Surely my dad had enjoyed his share of wild adventures by the time he was my age. And surely Mom had kissed a few boys by the time she was crowned homecoming queen. They always talked about high school with that wistful tone in their voices, with that mischievous gleam in their eyes. What had their high school summers been like? What had they gotten up to on those late nights, in those fast cars? And what had their friends been like? Were they anything like mine?
Maritza and JaKory. They’d always been the center of my life, but suddenly my life felt so small. How much of that had to do with them, and how much of it had to do with me?
3
I woke early the next morning. It was raining again, and for a while I lay there listening to it, letting the feelings from last night wash over me. My parents had come home late from their gala, speaking in low rumbles, their dress shoes clacking on the kitchen floor. I’d pretended to be asleep when my mom had poked her head into my room.
When I finally came downstairs, the rain had let up and the sun was reaching through the windows, pearly white and timid as it stretched across our family room. Grant was in the kitchen, eating Froot Loops. He made a show of clanging his spoon around the bowl and keeping his eyes on the kitchen TV. I ignored him and poured my own bowl of cereal, but when I opened the fridge, something was missing.
“Are we out of milk?”
Grant said nothing, but when I looked at his bowl, I saw he’d poured way more milk than he needed. His Froot Loops were practically drowning in it. The empty milk gallon was on the stool next to him. I shoved the refrigerator door closed and grabbed a banana instead.
JaKory called around noon, asking if I wanted to get coffee.
“Is this because you wanna talk about last night?” I asked.
JaKory sighed, long and pained. “Don’t you?”
The small pit of shame still hummed in my stomach. “Maybe,” I admitted.