Dish 6

I get home a while later after taking some injera bread to-go. I don't feel like waiting around for Adem like I'm his sad little puppy. He can come home and think about whether that ride with Susannah was worth it. I can disappoint people too, you know. My parents know that very well. 


The one good thing that perked me up on the walk home was seeing that someone had stolen the 'e' of our neighborhood sign again, making the words read Red Butt. This was a routine vandalism that bugged Mrs. Peterson so much that she personally would go out and replace the 'e' herself, a lot of times the very next day. She must have some kind of personal collection of e's in her house. I don't know where she gets them from.


"What are you doing, Mom?" I say, dropping my backpack by the umbrella stand. I walk into the kitchen. There are spice bottles and cans all over the counters.


"Hi, honey! How was school?" she says, standing on a stepping stool to reach up to a shelf in the cabinet. 


"Mom, are you organizing the spice shelf again?"


She sighs. "Well, I'm not the one who put oregano after paprika! Who's gonna keep this family together, huh?"


"School was great. Here's some injera from Mrs. Y," I say, placing the plastic bag on the table. My mom is slightly OCD about organizing things as well as blowing everything out of proportion. She works as a secretary at a dental office and I don't think she knows how to leave work at work. So I try to allow her unusual tendencies slide. I'm kinda hoping those skills will rub off on me and make my school binder magically tidy.


"Can I have some more of that Berry Berry Crush drink?" That would be the yell of my 12 year old brother Broden.


"Berry Berry Crush, you only get that for him when he's sick? Is Broden sick?" I ask.


My mom steps down and folds her arms together.


"Broden had a rough day at school today. Some kids fought him at recess, so I brought him home early. Be nice to him, Zac."


"I'm always nice! He's the one that gets in fights all the time," I say, shaking my head. "I bet you he started it."


"Zachariah, you take that back! He's your brother and you need to support him. Those kids at school are out to get him, I swear. Just because he's different they decide to pick on him. And that arrogant vice principal is no better," My mom exclaims, opening the fridge door. 


Poor Mom, she is so delusional that she believes Broden is this angelic kid that gets ganged up on. He might be slow in the classroom, but he sure isn't slow in taking kids down that annoy him.  She won't admit it, but Broden is her favorite child. This has completely blurred her sense of judgment. My father is always too tired from his construction jobs to even notice Broden's behavior problems, so I'm the only rational one left. Broden's pictures and quizzes are all over the fridge door under colorful alphabet magnets. To be fair, Mom did put some pictures of me up before, but they were all really unflattering ones, so I ended up just taking them down.


"It's not my fault you don't like taking proper pictures," she said.


 If I ever ask her about her not so subtle favoritism, she always says, "Could I ask you to choose between your left and right eye, which one is better? I could never!"


Actually I could, because my left eye is weaker by .75 degrees than my right, so I'd have no moral qualms about that one.


"Here, go pour some more juice for your brother and ask him how he's doing. Your father will be home soon and I need to start preparing dinner," my mom says, handing me a blue jug.


I take the jug with a groan and walk down the hallway to Jungle Boy's room. I push open the door and a waft of strong minty-ness invades my nose.


"Gross! What did you do roll in Vicks?" I say, pinching my nose shut. Broden is slouched under the covers of his bed, his thumbs rapidly punching buttons on his PSP. I step over a box of cookies and a skateboard wheel.


"It makes me think faster and play better. My personal secret," he says. "Did you bring me Berry Berry Crush? I'm playing the boss level. I need to refuel now. "


Refuel with a sugary blue drink that says "with real berry flavor!" but has 0% juice on the label? Berry Berry Crush is probably one of the worst drinks Mom could buy Broden, but he's loved it since he was little and got the chicken pox. He was part of the last bunch to get it when the vaccine came out, so Mom thought he was some kind of hero and babied him the whole time.


I poured the drink in his cup to the halfway mark. 
"So you got in a fight at school?"


"Yep."


"Why?"


"None of your beeswax."


"Oh that's fine, Broden. Would you like me to pour your drink on this?"
I pulled out one of his Spiderman comics from his pillow.


"No idiot! Stop it!" he says, finally making eye contact with me. He has a bruise on the side of his right cheek. "Go away!"


"Tell me what happened at school," I say. "I thought bullies were supposed to enjoy sharing their exploits or is that just the stereotype?"


Broden smirked.
"I thought nerds were supposed to be skinny or is that just the stereotype?"


Why did he have to turn 13? I miss when he didn't know how to talk and pooped in a diaper. 


"I can't talk about it. That's the rule," he says, picking up his cup.


"What? That's the rule?" I say.


"Rule number 1."


 "Says who...Oh no, Broden. You didn't!"


He shrugs and takes a sip. 


"I'll take that," I say.


"Hey!"


 I grab his cup, the jug and march angrily out of Broden's room. I bump into my dad and his giant lunchbox, as he walks in from the garage door.


"Whoa hello there, Zac. What's the rush, son?" He says, patting me on the shoulder with his tanned, rough hand. "What were you doing in your brother's room?"


"Nothing. Everything's fine."


He tilts his head and scratches his beard.
"You're holding a jug of Berry Berry Crush? Wait, is Broden sick?"


"You could say that."


"Aw man, poor kid. I just brought him that new game he's been asking for. One of my buddies from work said his son doesn't want it, so he told me Broden could have it. Isn't that nice?"
My dad pulls out a black box from his jacket zipper pocket.


"But-"


"Here, take my stuff to the living room. I wanna check in on my little guy."


Great.  Just great. My brother just admitted to starting a junior high version of Fight Club and was being rewarded with free video games. I can't believe I'm even related to these people. They're crazy. It's no wonder I have issues.