“Well, I’m here if you need tips or tricks. I’m a wealth of knowledge on a wide variety of topics, you know,” Toni offers sweetly. I can almost picture her, curled up in the chair in her room, her school laptop in front of her and her phone pressed to her ear. By now, she’ll have kicked off her favorite boots, pulled her long, dark hair into some magical self-supporting twist on top of her head that shows off huge earrings, and be sipping on flavored water from her favorite insulated cup that’s covered with stickers from whatever she’s decided is a must-have this week.
“I’m sure,” I tell her dryly. “And if you don’t know, you’ve got Siri on demand.”
“Shh, I’ll never tell my secrets.” She laughs, the sound replacing the bitter pit in my stomach after my conversation with Dad.
It’s not long before I’m laughing along. “Thanks, Toni. I think I needed that.”
“Don’t tell me . . . I’m getting an image . . .” She’s impersonating a late-night infomercial fortuneteller, and without seeing her, I know she’s pressing her hand to her forehead. “Mom and Dad are giving you shit.”
It’s not a question. She knows as well as I do that Izzy and Dad are one of the things that pull us together. But there’s more too. Despite whatever drama made us family, I care for Toni and truly like her, both as a person and as my sister.
“You know it. But I’m supposed to ask you what’s up? Izzy says there’s something going on with you.” There’s no reason to sidestep or tiptoe up to it with her.
She huffs a sigh, somehow eye rolling audibly. “Of course she did.”
“Yeah, moms can be so annoying. Oh, wait,” I joke darkly, thinking of my own absentee one. “And I noticed you didn’t deny that something is going on. Out with it.”
“Not comparing moms. Just bitching about mine,” she explains. “And I’m fine.”
I let the silence drag, waiting her out.
“You suck,” she snaps. “Fine. It’s nothing, just some guy . . .”
She trails off, and I want to give her the same lightness she gives me, but I’m more violence and glowering brooding than Chuckles the Clown. “Is he munching your butt? I’ll kill him, so start pulling bail money together.”
She sniffles, and I realize she’s started to cry about whoever this guy is. I was kidding, but I might actually kill him if he’s hurt Toni.
“No, he’s just stupid,” she confesses.
“Stupid like . . . doesn’t appreciate how amazing you are and is a normal teenage expression of male testosterone fueled ignorance, or stupid like . . . he hurt you?” My voice is even and careful, but the distinction is important. One means he lives and I talk Toni through ditching the dead wood over ice cream. The other means I really might need that bail money if I get caught beating the shit out of this guy.
“You can stop with the protective brother act. Topper doesn’t need to be ‘taught a lesson’ or whatever you’re contemplating. I’ve got it handled, but I’m allowed to be bitchy about it while I cope and don’t need Mom or you trying to sort my shit for me.”
She’s a force to be reckoned with. At only eighteen, she is more world weary, independent, and bold than most adults with years of life under their belt. You never doubt where you stand with her, which is probably what this guy couldn’t handle. Toni calls it like she sees it, whether you want to hear it or not.
I stare out the window, watching the roller coasters go up, down, and around, with everyone screaming at the twists and turns. It feels a lot like life, and I wish I could do something to help Toni, figure out some way to make her path a little straighter and easier. But I understand wanting to solve your own problems. It’s my preference too. But someone recently told me that it’s okay to reach out for help when you need it.
“I’m here if you need me, okay? To listen, to plot revenge, to provide an alibi, or to drive the getaway car. I’ll even buy the eggs and toilet paper or pay the hitman through an untraceable Caribbean account. You just let me know and I’ll make it happen.”
It works the way I hoped it would, and Toni lets out a muffled laugh at my list of possible ways to handle things. “You’re the worst, Carson.”
“You mispronounced ‘best brother ever’. And for no reason in particular, what’s Topper’s first name?” I ask.
“Topper is his first name, and I’m not stupid enough to give you his last name.”
I feign choking, tapping my chest with a palm for good measure as I repeat, “Topper is his first name? Holy shit, Toni. That’s a bad enough last name, or a God-awful and questionable nickname, but who names their kid ‘Topper’? I don’t even know him and I know you can do better . . . way better. Topper. What the fuck?”