My Sweet Bully

I’m quiet for a moment, a second too long for my brother. “You hear me, Max? The bitch doesn’t feel bad about any of this. For me, for you, she doesn’t give a shit. She’s the enemy.”

“Yeah,” I say, shaking my head. “I know, I know what she is.”

But my heart is fighting my brain. It’s speaking in a different rhythm, using a new beat. I almost kissed that girl, I felt her inside my lungs, in my chest, in the same damn muscle I use to hate her.

She’s the enemy. The enemy. Look at him! Look where she put him!

My back stiffens as I sit taller. “You’re right, she’s the enemy. Don’t worry, I agree with you one hundred percent.”

Slamming a finger on the table, he clenches his jaw. “We only have each other, we’ve always only had each other. Brother to brother, no one else is looking out for us, and no one ever will. I have your back, and you have mine, that’s what we do for each other. Blood is thicker than water, you can’t forget that.”

“Yeah, I know.”

My eyes show a level of submission and understanding. I know what he’s telling me. I know what he means. And he’s right, he’s always been right. Harlow has always looked out for me, and right now, he needs me to do the same for him—and for us.

Harlow smiles as if he’s reading my mind. He sees it, he knows it too. Relaxing his shoulders, he lays his hand down flat. “How’s everything else?”

“I’m still playing ball. They haven’t kicked me off the team yet.”

“Why the hell do you still even bother with that shit? You’re not going to go anywhere with it. No school wants someone like you on their team. They want rich, they want money, they don’t want kids with a record.”

Opening my eyes wide, I switch the phone to my other ear. “I know, I don’t have any expectations. I just like playing ball, that’s it.”

“Good. I don’t want you to get your hopes and then get pissed when you get shot down. I’m being realistic with you and you need to see it too.” Harlow smiles, a fatherly smile. “We’ll be fine though, we’ll come out of this stronger than before. Ramons always do,” he says, pointing his finger at me. “Besides, I’ve got things planned for us when I get out. Big plans, Max.”

“Like what?” I ask, but I don’t get an answer.

“Time!” The guard calls out, and the phone goes dead with a click.

Harlow hangs up the phone, but I keep mine against my ear a little longer. He rises from his seat, and presses his knuckles against the glass, before turning and getting led out by the guard.

He has plans. I don’t know what he’s talking about, but I know when my brother gets an idea, he runs with it. There’s weight and meaning to his cryptic message. His smile was coy, full of hidden meanings.

And I’ll be there to help. He deserves my loyalty to the end.

I watch the buildings pass in a blur as I ride the bus home. The sun is trying to break through, peeking out between a cluster of broken clouds.

The bus stops a few blocks from my house, and I walk the rest of the way home. Standing outside, I don’t go in right away. I can already hear yelling and screaming. Glass breaks against something inside, which is followed by more yelling.

Taking in a deep breath, I go around the rear of the house to the back door. It’s partially open, the yelling is coming out louder and more forceful. There’s a second crash, and the sound of more glass breaking.

Poking my head inside the door, I don’t see my father, so I step up into the kitchen, and feel glass crunch under my boots. Looking down, there’s broken beer bottles speckling the floor like sharp glitter.

“Motherfucker!” His voice rings out from the living room.

Side stepping, I move as quietly as possible through the kitchen, dodging large pools of glass. Reaching the hallway, I avoid the two wood planks that squeak like a dying cat, and gently shut my bedroom door once I’m inside.

It’s just easier to avoid that fucking mess of a man all together. If I’m not seen, then as far as my father’s concerned, I’m not home.

Invisible is best, especially when he’s wasted. Glancing at my clock, I’m actually surprised he’s even home.

It’s Saturday, and most weekends—actually, all weekends—he’s at the bar.

He lost a fucking bet.

He probably bet on some horse race, or football game, and now he’s fucking losing.

My father yells again, throwing another beer bottle across the kitchen.

Laying on my bed, I pull my headphones over my ears and turn the volume up on my radio. Music and basketball are the only escapes I have from this fucking place.