little brother
untitled short story i read in class today, current revision.
July’s blazing heat wilted trees and August’s cracking dry spell made it hard to breathe. The summer my brother and I moved in with Dad into the Edmonton suburbs stretched out forever. Without the confines of school, Matt and I were slow to make new friends. Entertaining ourselves for two months seemed easy enough at first. Water fights with each other got boring after the first twin set of peeling sunburns. I retreated indoors, went about the painstaking business of gluing window shutters and roof shingles on a model Victorian farmhouse, one matchstick at a time.
“I wanna be an Airborne ranger, blood and guts and a life of danger…” Matt’s voice wafted in through an open window. Glancing out, I saw an entire squadron of green plastic army men on border patrol around the shade of the may tree and juniper. Matt was dropped in a low crouch alongside his troops, cowlicked sandy hair and cutoff shorts just barely visible through the shrubs in the yard.
I exhausted the local library’s collection of junior novels. The handful of Ray Bradbury and friends gave way to blander stacks of Fear Street, Sweet Valley High and The Babysitters Club. Starfished across the livingroom rug, I read through several at a time. The carpet fibres left imprints on my knees and elbows, swirling red tattoos.
“Boom! Te-te-te-te-te-te-te-te! Take that, you bagguys.” Matt sounded like he’d turned into a green army man, sniping invisible enemies with a broken elm branch rifle in front of the house. I migrated to Sassy, Seventeen and National Geographic magazines and to the white wicker rocking chair near my bedroom window. The same day I started reading the dictionary, Matt tore up a pink peony bush. I didn’t even hear it happen.
I managed to read halfway through the B section in my chair while ignoring Matt, who muttered to himself just outside my window. I couldn’t quite make out the words and he didn’t notice me there, pretending not to notice him. The rocking chair was positioned so that I barely had to look up from my book to squint between slats in the blinds. My room was on the side of the house, a stretch of grass twice as wide as the hallway rug between the wall and the fence which separated our yard from the neighbours’, whose house came right up to the fence. I smelled something sharp and sweet coming from outside. Then, very quietly,
“Oh shit.”
I looked outside. A growing patch of grass below my bedroom window glowed a dull orange. Matt frantically tried to stomp out the ankle-high flames that licked at his sneakers. I took my ratty old swimming towel from the hook on my door and tripped over it on my way up the stairs and outside. As I raced around the corner of the house, I grabbed the end of the hose. What had been closely cropped, dry grass below my window was now bits of papery white ash and black earth. I flung the towel at Matt and aimed the hose at the fire closest to the fence. It hissed out, smoke curled above steaming earth. I hosed it all down for good measure, right back to the window.
That’s when I saw it. An empty book of matches, there on my windowsill. Matt’s face fell. He lunged for the matchbook cover at the same time I turned the hose on him. He shrieked with shock at the cold water. My brother stood there shaking, water dripping from his nose and chin, hair plastered over his eyes as I slipped the matchbook in my pocket.
“Go dry off, then go to your room. I swear, if you come out before Dad gets home, I’m bringing the hose inside.”
“But -“ He started wringing out the towel, streaming more water over the blackened, muddy mess at our feet.
“No buts. You are not explaining your way out of this one. You were right outside my window! What were you thinking? I don’t even want to know.”
“I -“
“No! If you were trying to be an only child, I don’t want to hear about it.”
When Dad got home, I didn’t even wait for his shoes to come off.
“You need to see this,” I led him around the side of the house to where the singed grass ringed a patch of drying mud as big as our bathtub. He looked mildly confused until I dug into my pocket and handed him the empty matchbook. It had come from the brass bowl of souvenir matches Dad liked to collect whenever he went away on business trips, even though he had quit smoking six years before. Dad’s face darkened to red, then purple. His mouth formed a straight line across his face. His lips disappeared.
“You might want to wait here for about ten minutes. I’m going to get loud inside.”
No one spoke at dinner, not even to pass the salt. My father chewed in silence, slicing into his chicken with an air of determination. Matt just pushed his vegetables around on his plate, sinking lower and lower into his seat. After we had cleared the dishes, a red fire truck pulled up outside the house. Matt’s eyes widened. He looked as though the floor had fallen out from underneath him.
I set the coffee maker. Two firefighters came in, asking to speak with my brother. They sat us all down in the living room and played a video of what happens to a house on fire. It was a mock up, a controlled burn, but it showed how fire can spread from a candle to the curtains to the ceiling and through to a bedroom upstairs in minutes. They warned Matt that setting fires was a very serious offence even if no one was hurt. There was property damage and lawsuits to consider as well as personal injury. The smaller of the firemen, the one with a small scar over his left eyebrow saw a stray green army man on the table.
“The police are involved with arson cases too, you know. If you’re charged and end up with a criminal record, you will not be allowed to join the Army, if that’s something you want to do.” He handed the plastic soldier back to Matt, whose lower lip quivered. He clutched the figurine and said nothing.
I did not read the next day, or the day after that. I abandoned my library books and the dictionary long enough to completely disassemble the coffee maker and toaster, plastic panels and screws strewn across the kitchen table with heating coils, spring switches and levers. The coffee maker was successfully put back together. I sacrificed a month’s allowance for a new toaster. Dad rolled his eyes. This was a comparatively minor offence.
“I would strongly prefer if you showed some more respect for my things.”
“I’m sorry about your toaster, Dad.”
“You may be bored here by yourself all day, but if you want to cannibalize household appliances for mad science projects, please go to either of the thrift stores down the street. Can you promise me that?”
“Yes, Dad. I promise.”
A blender and an electric can opener followed, both rescued from the Salvation Army’s “AS IS” bin. It took some of the heat off of my brother.
I gave Matt my Philips head screwdriver, hoping to avoid more arson. He unbolted all of the light switch plates and electrical outlet covers, and lined them up in perfect rows along the coffee table.
---
the end is in sight, two weeks to go. fending off burnout, so close to the end. normal sleeping patterns don't exist and i've been taking multivitamins again until my eating habits aren't quite so atrocious.
a brief vacation hovers on the horizon, a brilliant evening star. i'll try not to spend it all asleep.
July’s blazing heat wilted trees and August’s cracking dry spell made it hard to breathe. The summer my brother and I moved in with Dad into the Edmonton suburbs stretched out forever. Without the confines of school, Matt and I were slow to make new friends. Entertaining ourselves for two months seemed easy enough at first. Water fights with each other got boring after the first twin set of peeling sunburns. I retreated indoors, went about the painstaking business of gluing window shutters and roof shingles on a model Victorian farmhouse, one matchstick at a time.
“I wanna be an Airborne ranger, blood and guts and a life of danger…” Matt’s voice wafted in through an open window. Glancing out, I saw an entire squadron of green plastic army men on border patrol around the shade of the may tree and juniper. Matt was dropped in a low crouch alongside his troops, cowlicked sandy hair and cutoff shorts just barely visible through the shrubs in the yard.
I exhausted the local library’s collection of junior novels. The handful of Ray Bradbury and friends gave way to blander stacks of Fear Street, Sweet Valley High and The Babysitters Club. Starfished across the livingroom rug, I read through several at a time. The carpet fibres left imprints on my knees and elbows, swirling red tattoos.
“Boom! Te-te-te-te-te-te-te-te! Take that, you bagguys.” Matt sounded like he’d turned into a green army man, sniping invisible enemies with a broken elm branch rifle in front of the house. I migrated to Sassy, Seventeen and National Geographic magazines and to the white wicker rocking chair near my bedroom window. The same day I started reading the dictionary, Matt tore up a pink peony bush. I didn’t even hear it happen.
I managed to read halfway through the B section in my chair while ignoring Matt, who muttered to himself just outside my window. I couldn’t quite make out the words and he didn’t notice me there, pretending not to notice him. The rocking chair was positioned so that I barely had to look up from my book to squint between slats in the blinds. My room was on the side of the house, a stretch of grass twice as wide as the hallway rug between the wall and the fence which separated our yard from the neighbours’, whose house came right up to the fence. I smelled something sharp and sweet coming from outside. Then, very quietly,
“Oh shit.”
I looked outside. A growing patch of grass below my bedroom window glowed a dull orange. Matt frantically tried to stomp out the ankle-high flames that licked at his sneakers. I took my ratty old swimming towel from the hook on my door and tripped over it on my way up the stairs and outside. As I raced around the corner of the house, I grabbed the end of the hose. What had been closely cropped, dry grass below my window was now bits of papery white ash and black earth. I flung the towel at Matt and aimed the hose at the fire closest to the fence. It hissed out, smoke curled above steaming earth. I hosed it all down for good measure, right back to the window.
That’s when I saw it. An empty book of matches, there on my windowsill. Matt’s face fell. He lunged for the matchbook cover at the same time I turned the hose on him. He shrieked with shock at the cold water. My brother stood there shaking, water dripping from his nose and chin, hair plastered over his eyes as I slipped the matchbook in my pocket.
“Go dry off, then go to your room. I swear, if you come out before Dad gets home, I’m bringing the hose inside.”
“But -“ He started wringing out the towel, streaming more water over the blackened, muddy mess at our feet.
“No buts. You are not explaining your way out of this one. You were right outside my window! What were you thinking? I don’t even want to know.”
“I -“
“No! If you were trying to be an only child, I don’t want to hear about it.”
When Dad got home, I didn’t even wait for his shoes to come off.
“You need to see this,” I led him around the side of the house to where the singed grass ringed a patch of drying mud as big as our bathtub. He looked mildly confused until I dug into my pocket and handed him the empty matchbook. It had come from the brass bowl of souvenir matches Dad liked to collect whenever he went away on business trips, even though he had quit smoking six years before. Dad’s face darkened to red, then purple. His mouth formed a straight line across his face. His lips disappeared.
“You might want to wait here for about ten minutes. I’m going to get loud inside.”
No one spoke at dinner, not even to pass the salt. My father chewed in silence, slicing into his chicken with an air of determination. Matt just pushed his vegetables around on his plate, sinking lower and lower into his seat. After we had cleared the dishes, a red fire truck pulled up outside the house. Matt’s eyes widened. He looked as though the floor had fallen out from underneath him.
I set the coffee maker. Two firefighters came in, asking to speak with my brother. They sat us all down in the living room and played a video of what happens to a house on fire. It was a mock up, a controlled burn, but it showed how fire can spread from a candle to the curtains to the ceiling and through to a bedroom upstairs in minutes. They warned Matt that setting fires was a very serious offence even if no one was hurt. There was property damage and lawsuits to consider as well as personal injury. The smaller of the firemen, the one with a small scar over his left eyebrow saw a stray green army man on the table.
“The police are involved with arson cases too, you know. If you’re charged and end up with a criminal record, you will not be allowed to join the Army, if that’s something you want to do.” He handed the plastic soldier back to Matt, whose lower lip quivered. He clutched the figurine and said nothing.
I did not read the next day, or the day after that. I abandoned my library books and the dictionary long enough to completely disassemble the coffee maker and toaster, plastic panels and screws strewn across the kitchen table with heating coils, spring switches and levers. The coffee maker was successfully put back together. I sacrificed a month’s allowance for a new toaster. Dad rolled his eyes. This was a comparatively minor offence.
“I would strongly prefer if you showed some more respect for my things.”
“I’m sorry about your toaster, Dad.”
“You may be bored here by yourself all day, but if you want to cannibalize household appliances for mad science projects, please go to either of the thrift stores down the street. Can you promise me that?”
“Yes, Dad. I promise.”
A blender and an electric can opener followed, both rescued from the Salvation Army’s “AS IS” bin. It took some of the heat off of my brother.
I gave Matt my Philips head screwdriver, hoping to avoid more arson. He unbolted all of the light switch plates and electrical outlet covers, and lined them up in perfect rows along the coffee table.
---
the end is in sight, two weeks to go. fending off burnout, so close to the end. normal sleeping patterns don't exist and i've been taking multivitamins again until my eating habits aren't quite so atrocious.
a brief vacation hovers on the horizon, a brilliant evening star. i'll try not to spend it all asleep.