They laughed, and then DJ said, “Your brother’s kinda weird, though. He’s a total dork. I think his hair weighs more than the rest of him. There’s a reason he doesn’t have friends.” They high-fived each other, chuckling.
“Don’t talk shit about him. He’s cool.” I didn’t really know him super well yet, but he was nice, and he was my brother now. We hadn’t sat together at night again the way we did the day our parents got married, and he didn’t bring it up. And DJ and Johnny were right. Lane was different—and also messy, which was annoying—but I didn’t like people talking about him.
They could tell I was serious and let the Lane conversation go, but Johnny added, “Must be weird, though. Does it make you sad? Having them live here? Does it make you miss your mom more? She was awesome.”
His words felt like he’d punched through my chest, then grabbed my heart and squeezed it in a fist. I’d known Johnny most of my life. His mom had been friends with mine. I opened my mouth to say something, but at first nothing came out. The second time I tried, I was able to say, “It was four years ago.”
I waited, wondered if they’d dig deeper, if they’d ask more, but they didn’t.
“I should get my homework done,” I finally said, and DJ and Johnny left.
Dad and Helena brought pizza home for dinner, which we all ate at the table together, laughing and talking about our day, but Lane was quieter than usual. I felt his eyes on me, yet every time I looked at him, he turned away. And every once in a while, when I looked, he’d be spacing off, staring into his plate.
Afterward, I went upstairs and did my homework, played some video games, and took a shower. When there was a knock at my door, I said, “Come in,” and was surprised to see Lane there. His hair was wet like he’d just gotten out of the shower after me. “Oh, um…hey.” I tossed the football I’d been holding to the floor and sat up in bed.
“Hey.” He came in and sat on the mattress like he had that first night.
The realization hit me. “You heard them, huh?” The windows had been open, and he’d acted strangely after they left.
“Is that why you told them I’m cool and not to talk shit? Because you knew I heard?”
“No. You’re my brother now. I figure we should have each other’s backs.”
Lane looked at me and gave me a toothy smile. “I always wanted a brother.”
I hadn’t really thought about it, but still I said, “Me too.”
We were quiet again, both of us just sitting there, not knowing what to say. A few minutes passed, and then Lane said, “It’s okay, ya know.”
“What is?”
“If you’re sad. It seems like you are, but you never talk about it. Whenever someone mentions your mom, you change the subject.” My hands started shaking, but he continued, not noticing. “You look down sometimes, when you don’t think anyone’s watching. I’ve heard you again…having a nightmare and… It’s stupid, I guess, but I wanted to make sure you know it’s okay to be sad, to miss her, and if it’s weird that Mom and I are here. You don’t have to be strong all the time, Isaac. If you ever want to talk to someone, I’m here. We’re brothers, after all.”
I couldn’t make any words come out. While I knew it was normal to be sad, no one had told me it was okay, not to my face. No one had pushed me on it when I said I was fine. They didn’t tell me I didn’t have to be strong.
But that wasn’t the only thought in my head. Lane wasn’t like anyone I’d ever met. None of my friends talked like him, not really. They didn’t make me feel like maybe it really was safe to talk to them and they wouldn’t laugh or make me feel stupid about it. Lane made me want to let the strength take a break. “What do you do in that notebook?” I asked instead of replying.
“Draw. I can paint too.” Oh yeah. Helena had talked about him being an artist, but he never showed anyone what was in his books. “Wanna see?”
Part of me felt like I should say no, but I replied with, “Yeah.” The crazy part was, it was the truth.
“Come on. I’ll show you.” Lane went into his room, and I followed. There were clothes all over the floor.
“You’re such a mess.”
“What do you mean?” he asked, making me chuckle.
Lane showed me his drawings. We talked late into the night, then fell asleep together, right there on his bed.
Lane
Sixteen years old
Last year, Isaac, Timothy, and I finished remodeling the attic, turning it into my art room. I wasn’t as good at that sort of stuff as they were. Timothy did a lot with his hands, and he’d taught Isaac to do the same. My dad hadn’t been that way. He’d been more into books and literature—all the arts, really. I inherited my talents from him, though he’d told me I was better than him. I didn’t know if I believed him, but it used to make me feel good.